Page 22 of Sin With Me

So after they take his prints and mugshot, he’ll be released from custody without having to post bail, with the promise he’ll appear in court. The sheriff doesn’t like keeping people over the weekend, especially if he knows they’re not a flight risk.

But I’m sure there are other reasons, too.

“Sure ya wanna wait that long? It’s gonna take a while since it’s the weekend and now I have to deal with a deputy in the hospital.” His aggravated tone and glare move toward Wilder.

“Yeah, I’m in charge of gettin’ him home in one piece.”

He shrugs. “Alright.”

I return to my truck and start the engine. I’m already exhausted, but the adrenaline keeps me awake long enough to follow him to the station.

Once I arrive at the sheriff’s office, I sit in the waiting room with a few other people and doze off against someone’s shoulder. By the time I wake up, Wilder’s carrying me bridal style.

“What’re you doin’?” I ask, yawning.

“Figured you didn’t wanna have a sleepover with the sheriff or the random guy you were snorin’ on, so I’m takin’ ya to my house.”

He manages to open the passenger side door and then places me gently in the seat.

“I’m supposed to driveyou,” I complain, another yawn escaping me.

“I’d rather make it home in one piece, so I’m gonna take you to my place to sleep.”

“I am not havin’ sex with you!”

He laughs, reaches for my buckle, and then slides it across my body to click it in. “Don’t recall askin’ you. In fact, you’re the one who was askin’ me for a condom. Remember?”

I squeeze my eyes, mortified because for a few moments, I forgot about that.

After he closes my door, he hops into the driver’s seat and takes us toward the ranch.

“You ever consider goin’ to anger management for all the fights you get into?” I ask to break the silence but also curious. I know he suffers from depression, but he uses fighting as a resolution instead of walking away from the conflict, which has been an issue for longer than I’ve known him.

“Yeah, my therapist mentioned it a time or two.” He scratches his cheek and his tongue pokes against it. “But I figure it’s better than self-harmin’, right? Fightin’ releases adrenaline, endorphins, and dopamine—similar to what I feel when I cut and get relief from the pain.”

I hate that for him—that in order to relieve himself from his inner turmoil and depressive episodes, he has to physically hurt himself. Waylon told me about his twin brother while we were dating, but I’ve noticed how Wilder tries to cover it up. He pretends he’s fine or does whatever he can to repress it—drinking, one-night stands, fighting.

I was relieved when he admitted he was going to therapy. It won’t “fix” his depression, but I can tell he’s also trying to find healthier ways to cope.

But as someone who’s been going to grief counseling for several months, not every week or even day is a good one, and sometimes all that progress goes out the window.

“Maybe you should join a gym. Do some kickboxin’? I heard that’s a good outlet.”

He glances at me, grinning. “Maybe I will. If you go with me?”

“Me?”

“Yeah…I think you need an outlet, too.”

I sigh because he’s right. After Dad died, I took the season off from trick riding, which usually kept my mind occupied. Now the only thing that keeps me busy is my store management job at Lacey’s Lingerie. I enjoy it for the most part, but it doesn’t compare to the rush I’d get from hanging upside down from a saddle or doing flips on Jasmine’s back.

But I lost that passion I once felt about it—honestly, I lost my spark about most things in my life.

“Only if you teach me how to kick your ass,” I retort.

He barks out a laugh. “Deal.”

Chapter Three