Rekindling the Flame (Smoky Heights #1)

Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

WYATT

Downshifting gears as I coast down the foothills in the heart of the Heights as the leaves start to change colors is something that’s just hard to beat, objectively.

The crisp fall air, the caramelization of the trees—the oaks, maples, beech, and birch—signaling the cooler weather to come, the changing of the climate guards. It’s the perfect temperature, the perfect weather, the perfect scenery, just as good as it gets in the Smokies.

Something that tops it?

Making Rory come.

Feeling her legs shake.

Watching those cheeks flush, her nipples taut and begging for things her mouth refuses to.

The rare deep reds, the occasional golden orange, those pops of bright yellow amid the ever-present dark greens of the hectares of forest as far as the eye can see give me something else to focus on for a change.

A rare moment where my fingers don’t recall the way they gripped her thigh, her thick hair, dying to slip inside of her and make her fall apart from the inside out.

Lord knows that’s all that’s been playing on repeat in my mind in the six days that have passed since.

I mean, truthfully? She’s always been easy to get off, but maybe that’s just because hers is the body I learned all my tricks on. She was my teacher and the altar I prayed to in one.

Rory wasn’t just the whetstone that sharpened my knife, she was the smithy where it was forged in the first place.

But for her to come that quickly, without even a single touch from me … That tells me at least one part of her misses me the way I can never outrun missing her.

Was it temporary insanity on my part, or was this supposed to happen between us? If she missed me the way I was so certain of, would I have had nearly a week of radio silence?

My phone buzzes and I break a law or two to check it, stupidly thinking maybe it’s her . Breaking the silence between us, what’s becoming a pattern since her return.

We hang out.

Nothing for weeks.

Hang out again.

More silence.

Maybe I should learn to take a damn hint?

She couldn’t have been much clearer when she up and fucking left you. What do you want from her this time? To tell you to fuck off to your face?

So, no. Of course the text isn’t from her.

Does that stop the glimmer of disappointment from settling in my gut at that knowledge?

Of course not. Because clearly, I don’t learn.

But it’s just my mom responding to my text from three hours ago.

Mom

No. We don’t need you to bring anything. Just yourself. Please hurry but be safe.

Something else that’s likely to give my newest homemade mental porno a break before I burn out the tape is where I’m headed. Who I’m headed to see.

I heave a weighted sigh as I take a hairpin turn around the base of the mountain we ATVed on the other day, the one that’s very definitely on the long way to get to my parents’ house. Well, my mom and stepdad’s, Daniel.

This could’ve been a ten-minute drive, but I’ve turned into a twenty-minute one.

I’d make it even longer if I could get away with it.

I’m already pushing the six o’clock start time of the family dinner-slash-reunion as it is, and not looking for a dressing down from my mama over it.

But as little time I spend with Weston tonight is in everyone’s best interest.

Not sure why the wind blew him into town this time. A handful of callous suggestions roll through my head, like one of those cages that spits out the balls with the numbers down at the rec center on bingo night. I don’t let any of those bitter ideas past the filter that keeps me from being a complete and total asshole. But I can’t promise that’ll hold all night.

Shit, it’ll probably vanish the second I see his happy-go-lucky face, like he’s living the best life in the whole world, hopping from place to place, not a trouble in sight.

Smug isn’t the word I’d use for him, but it always feels like he’s rubbing his happiness in my face, no matter how humble or charming others might think he is.

To me, he’ll always be the smarmy little teenage shit who was more concerned with sneaking out and getting his dick wet than whether or not Mom would be able to put food on the table for the three of us that week.

By the end of my mental tirade, I’ve rolled up to the house we grew up in. Dusk is hours away yet, it’s still full daylight, but the front porch light is on just the same, a welcoming beacon to her favorite boys in the world.

Grabbing the six-pack of Coors by the cardboard handle, the bottles clink in my right hand a bit as I hop down from my 2018 Ram and close the door with my left.

I treat this thing better than my imaginary wife since I’ll be stuck with it for the rest of my damn life. Don’t get me started on how they discontinued making these in manual transmissions. The fact that it was done at the same time the truck spiked in popularity thanks to a little show called Yellowstone isn’t lost on me. Folks wanna look like they walk the walk of the country life, but put ’em in the mountains for a few days, put ’em to work on a farm and let’s see how long that lasts.

Sure, we’ve got unbeatable views out here, but it comes with a price. Lack of convenience or proximity to just about anything you’d find in a big city. A tiny community that is your only resource for the things you might need. Reliance on that tight-knit network to get you through the tough times. A hard day’s work just to make ends meet, every day, for the rest of your life.

It’s not for everyone.

But it’s for me.

Who it appears it isn’t for? Weston.

Despite our mother’s numerous attempts throughout the evening thus far—seven at my latest count, in the past hour and a half since I arrived—he doesn’t seem to be budging on coming back home for good.

“Life’s good.”

“I’m good for now.”

“Thanks, but things are good.”

What I have lost count of is all the ways he’s made my blood pressure surge so far tonight, all the ways he’s contrasted our existences without even trying.

He’s the golden boy, our green eyes the only thing the same about us. Where I’ve got dark hair, he’s got light. Where I’ve spent the last twelve years as a grumpy, lonely bastard, he flies by the seat of his pants, following his heart or some shit, wherever the hell it takes him, chasing his latest whim.

Good ?

Can’t remember the last time I used that word to describe my life, or me.

As good as it gets, sure. Not as bad as it could be, also fair.

But just good ? Nah.

He can take his good and shove it up his?—

“Right, Wyatt?” My mother’s sugar and honey voice breaks through my mental tirade.

“Yeah, Ma,” I grunt, agreeing to whatever she’s asking rather than admitting I wasn’t listening, and she looks pleased as peach pie.

“See, Weston, we’d all love it if you were around more.” Her soft beam of a grin turns back toward the child that can do no wrong, despite all his wrong decisions, a never-ending stream of them over the course of his life.

I take another swig of my longneck rather than open my mouth for something less productive. I doubt that self-control will hold for much longer, but I hope I at least get brownie points for trying.

It’d be hard to miss the pointed ring in her voice on how we all want him back.

Weston’s eyes meet mine briefly, so similar to my own, but softer, friendlier, less poisoned than mine. But something catches my attention when he does. There’s a glint of something there I’ve never noticed before. Pain, possibly? Regret?

Maybe we’re more similar than I give us credit for. Or maybe these beers are adding up.

“Yeah, Wes,” I tease, knowing he hates that shortened version of his name. “We’re all just dying for you to stick around.” My tone couldn’t sound further from sincere or genuine. “Please, come break my shit on the regular instead of once in a while.”

“What did I do now?” Credit where it’s due, he sounds more amused than affronted.

“Oh, I dunno,” I start sarcastically, “do you remember taking out one of my ATVs last time you were in town?”

“Yeah, and I didn’t take your precious Grizzly, I took the bitch mobile. Ronnie’s ride.” The side of his mouth pops up into a smirk at the dig, and fuck it, mine does too. That shit’s funny.

“And did anything happen to the Honda when you were out?”

He rolls his eyes while taking another bite of dessert, washing it down with sip of beer, like he’s got all the time in the world to answer me, as usual, not a care in the fucking world.

“Yeah, and I fucking told you about it when I got back. Said I’d work on it next time I was in town.”

If I try really hard, I might remember him buzzing like a gnat I couldn’t get rid of next to one ear, but nothing distinguishable came out of his mouth. Huh, weird.

“Like I’d fucking let you near one of my vehicles.”

“Oh please, you know as well as I do that up to 450 CCs, I’m better than your crotchety ass.” He waves me off with a careless hand and my eyes narrow at him.

Our mom shakes her head at us and gathers up a few plates to join our stepdad in the kitchen while we do something a lot more sophisticated than bicker.

“Is that why my Honda broke down on the trail last weekend then? Because you took such good care of it? Because you’re some fucking engine whisperer? That’s why the fuel tank was held together with damn duct tape and the thing died on Rory an hour away from the trailer?”

I realize my slip but it’s too late to take the words back. This. This is why I don’t usually say more than six words at a time. I can’t be sure what comes out is what should be said.

A golden-brown brow raises. “Rory?”

He gets something close to a harrumph from me before I turn away to glare at the wall.

“ Rory Rory?”

My stony silence doesn’t dissuade him.

“Your Rory?”

“She’s not my Rory,” I seethe, turning back to him. “But yes, that Rory—Aurora—was on the bike and she got stranded, thanks to you.”

Weston fills his cheeks with air and lets it out in a whoosh , wide eyes on me, but I refuse to find anything about this situation comical, even the way he looks right now.

“Well, now I get it,” he finally says, like it’s some sort of epiphany.

“Now you get what?” I snap irritably.

“You’re jumping down my throat ’cause you clearly aren’t getting down hers.” Weston barely keeps a straight face, finishing the line with a small hoot, and he jumps back away from me before I can get my hands on him.

“Get fucked,” I growl out.

“You clearly need to,” he quips back.

“Fuck. Off.” My eyes dart to the kitchen, hoping our mom isn’t hearing the arguing between us. She’d probably threaten to whoop my ass with the wooden spoon for upsetting her dear son while he visits.

“I’m just saying. You were way less miserable of a prick when you were getting inside of her on the reg—” His words get cut off, suspended midair like he is, flush against the wall, my forearms against his chest, his toes an inch from the ground.

“Watch what you say about her.” I don’t need to lace my words with anything but the truth for him to get the threat, the promise behind them.

His body slides back down to the floor slowly as I back off of him and he raises his hands in self-defense. “Whoa, bro. I was just messing around. Point taken.”

I force back the impulse to bare my teeth at him. “Next time don’t touch my shit if you’re just gonna leave it broken when you’re done with it.”

Weston mumbles something under his breath in a singsong tone, and I might not hear him correctly, but I’m pretty sure he says, “Sounds like you should tell Rory that,” and somehow I don’t think he’s talking about my ATV, but just then, our mom comes back into the room and glances between us, almost nervously.

When she sees the expression on my face, she does her two signature moves in one: try to play peacekeeper between us and try to get my brother to come back, all in one. “Now Weston, you got any pretty girls in your life to bring home to us?”

“Please,” I scoff. “The day Weston settles down’s the day I’m done working on cars. He will be hopping bed to bed, town to town, until he’s in a nursing home.”

My mom covers her mouth from my view and whispers loudly to Weston. “It might be time to think about a long-term future with one of your lady friends before you end up an old, hopeless pessimist like this one here. Crotchety was a good word for it.” She jerks her head toward me in a super subtle nod, and I pull a sarcastic face at her in response that doesn’t do much but prove her point.

“Hey,” I bark out with a modicum of offense. “I’m not that old and hopeless. Ask Hallie.” Throw a smirk at my mother just to drive my point home. I’ve still got moves where it counts, even if I’m not a golden fucking retriever who shits rainbows and uses my tail to paint with them like her other child.

“Oh please,” my mom says with a roll of her eyes. “You’re one bottle of Tums away from sitting on your porch all day just to yell at kids to get off your lawn.”

Something hot and unsteady runs through my internal organs at the thought of my home, the porch and lawn in question, in relation to Aurora’s renewed presence (or lack thereof) in my life. The same sensation I get regularly since she walked into Suds that first night.

But I do what I can to help my mama out and lighten the mood, since it seems Weston has moved past talking about Rory and I can too. “Oh, so now my life goals are problematic?”

Weston lets out another hoot, and my mom joins him, hunching over the table in laughter, leaning on West for support. Pretty sure they’re laughing with me not at me, which means another Grady family night is in the books.