Page 20 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

It’s just a quick stop. ??

Yep, that’s what I told myself. I was supposed to be heading to the doctor for my annual check-up—a responsible, grown-up thing to do. Something I never used to bother with, but I’m twenty-nine now, and I haven’t seen a proper doctor since getting out of prison.

Not that I’d call the ones in there “proper.” They were there to dole out meds, patch us up between fights, and keep us alive—barely.

Cheap labor only works if you’re breathing, after all.

So, yeah, I decided it was time to get a real check-up, make sure all the parts are still working as they should.

Plus, it’s one of the few allowed travel reasons I can use without restrictions.

And while I’ve been making solid progress on my place at Whitewood Creek, I needed a reason to get off the farmstead, out of the distillery and back into the wild while I try to feel normal again.

See some of the world beyond the rolling fields of cornstalks and oak barrels aging in the sun.

The truth? I’m still desperate to feeling something, anything .

It’s been three days since I reluctantly agreed to hit up Krissy’s Bar with Molly after my required volunteering hours.

Three days since I’d told myself I was only going because I didn’t want her going there alone, looking that damn good, surrounded by the reckless and rowdy group of volunteers that her and Lydia had dragged along.

Three days since she got way drunker than I thought was possible for someone her size. Since we ended up in that dimly lit hallway, my hands wrapped around her delicate throat. Since her scent—sweet and warm—wrapped around me, seeping into my skin.

She felt so damn good against me, soft and pliant, like she belonged there. And her eyes—wide, a little glassy—locked on mine like I was the only thing keeping her upright. Like I was the one keeping her steady.

And maybe, for that moment, I was but she was the thing steadying me too.

And for the first time in four years, I’d felt something .

Not just the usual numbness. Not just anger. Something I think was real .

And fuck me, I liked it.

If I had to guess, it probably fell somewhere on my therapist Liv’s little list of emotions.

Desire. Passion. Curiosity . Because, yeah, I’m damn curious now.

Curious about what a girl like Molly would look like naked.

Curious about how she’d sound right before a man brings her to the edge of an orgasm.

Curious how that’d feel if that man were me.

And the craziest part? It all happened at Krissy’s Bar—back in the place where everything went to hell. The scene of the crime that changed my life.

I’ve always prided myself on never being the kind of guy who’d take advantage of a woman. The idea of Molly questioning my intentions—or worse, our friendship—made my stomach churn. That’s why, the second I got her home, I called my twin sister, Regan.

We might’ve been on rocky ground lately, but we’d talked, made amends.

She’d told me why she never visited me in prison, why she stayed away.

She’d apologized, and I forgave her without hesitation.

It hurt, but I understood—everyone dealt with my sentence in their own way.

I couldn’t blame her for struggling with it, not when I knew she had her own demons to fight.

So, when I called and told her I had a very drunk Molly tucked into bed and needed her to come check on her, she didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t ask why I was with Molly, why I carried her drunk ass inside, or why she was sprawled across the bed in camo booty shorts, with vomit on her pillow and drool on her cheek.

Regan just plopped onto the couch, shot me a pointed look, and then fell asleep like it was nothing. Despite the distance and sadness that I’d harbored for years, this was the moment I knew: no matter what happens in life, Regan and I will always have each other’s backs.

And now, here I am, fresh out of my doctor’s appointment with a clean bill of health.

The doc took one look at me and declared, “Twenty pounds heavier than last time and built like a damn freight train.” I decided to take it as a compliment.

Apparently, I’ve got adrenaline and testosterone to spare—not to mention a cock that hasn’t been touched in years.

I kept that last part to myself, though he still ran the full panel of STD tests just in case.

So, I figured I’d take a little detour. Still within my ten-mile parole radius—just barely—but enough to enjoy something simple.

Something I haven’t done in years. Walk through a damn grocery store.

It’s one of those small-town places that seems to carry a bit of everything and just large enough for no one to recognize me.

I head down the soda aisle, grab a random red bottle, and toss it into my basket.

Next, I swing by the snacks and snag a bag of flaming hot Cheetos.

It feels oddly satisfying, throwing everyday things into my basket like I’m a normal guy on a regular day even though I’m still being watched by the state.

Then I round the corner to aisle sixteen—I call this the chaos aisle.

You know the one. It’s a bizarre mix of shampoo, conditioner, hair dye, diapers, formula, nail polish, batteries, and…

condoms. Basically, anything they couldn’t find a place to put, they stick it here.

It’s like a catch-all of randomness for people brave enough to dig through it.

I haven’t had sex since before prison, and I meant every word I’d told Molly the other day—and I don’t plan on changing that anytime soon.

For one, I don’t trust women anymore. And two, I’m not interested in meaningless hookups.

The man I was in my early twenties, the one who got locked up, might’ve been reckless and willing to sleep with whoever caught his eye, but I’ve changed.

I can see myself getting married now, settling down with someone someday. Maybe not right now, but for me to sleep with a woman, I want there to be a deeper connection. Something real.

Not to mention, I’m not even sure if I can feel that kind of desire anymore.

That red-hot, all-consuming need to take a woman in my hands, make her melt with pleasure, and lose myself in her softness.

To enjoy it—not just go through the motions.

For years, the idea had felt empty, like something I couldn’t reach anymore.

Something that wouldn’t bring me any satisfaction.

Until yesterday.

Until Molly.

Until I felt the slender column of her throat in my hand, her pulse fluttering beneath my palm.

Until her lips parted, and she pulled my thumb into her mouth, her tongue brushing against me as her cheeks hollowed out.

It was like a fucking fever dream imagining the way I know she could take my cock—one I haven’t been able to shake since.

As I stand there in the grocery store aisle, debating whether or not to toss a box of condoms into my basket, my mind is stuck on her .

On all the ways that she’s changed—how she’s grown into this confident, stunning woman who no longer feels like the kid I once knew.

Maverick’s little sister. The girl I used to protect.

The one who always seemed a little bit too fragile and wounded to handle me.

Now, she’s something else entirely. Something that makes my body react in ways I thought I’d lost for good.

I can’t stop wondering how she’d feel. How she’d sound on top of me.

I wonder if she’d be loud or quiet. I wonder how her tits would look palmed in both of my hands.

They look like they’ve grown into more than a handful now.

I wonder how it’d feel to take her ass that’s always stuffed in those tight, cargo pants.

I wonder if she could make me feel alive again, even just for a little while.

I shake my head and decide against the condoms, I’m getting ahead of myself, and then move to the check-out lane.

I know I should be focused on getting out of here without anyone recognizing me but as I hand the cashier my card, I get the sense that someone’s watching me.

It’s a sense that I’ve honed over the past five years, always feeling like I needed to have eyes on the front and back of my head to be sure I’m not going to be caught off guard.

My eyes lift as I scan the store, searching for who might be the cause only to find the most unlikely person I ever expected to see here – Jenni Sutton.

She’s standing just a few feet away, the same baggy cargo jeans she had on three days ago paired with an oversized sweatshirt featuring Pac-Man , fitting her perfectly quirky vibe.

Nearby, two older people—her foster parents, I’m guessing—are locked in an intense argument over a box of cereal.

Meanwhile, a kid who looks about sixteen is leaning against a soup display, his eyes fixed on her in a way that makes my stomach churn.

She catches sight of me and flashes a small, hesitant smile before giving me a wave.

I nod back, keeping my expression neutral, though there’s a knot forming in my chest right over my heart.

Before I can do anything else, one of the older foster parents grabs her arm and tugs her away.

The smile vanishes from her face as quickly as it appeared, and all I can do is watch as she disappears into the crowd.

The cashier slides my purchases across the counter, shattering my focus, and I pay without a word.

The entire scene gnaws at me, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

I don’t like anything about what I just saw—her foster family, how their son was looking at her, or the guarded, resigned look in her eyes as she was pulled away.

Something’s not right.

I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do, but I’ve never been the type to stand by and let shit happen, not when I know in my gut that something’s wrong.

And right now?

The unfamiliar weight building inside me feels a lot like the emotion rage .