Chasing The Wild (Crimson Ridge Book 1)

Straight to voicemail. Again.

I huff out a frustrated breath and drop my forehead against the steering wheel.

For fuck’s sake, let my douchebag ex-boyfriend answer his phone for once in his goddamn charmed life.

Keeping my head rested against the baking hot plastic, I put the phone to my ear, trying his number for the fifth time. My eyes squeeze tight, already knowing the outcome, but for whatever reason I persist anyway. It doesn’t even ring, just goes straight to his non-personalized voicemail service.

He’s either lost his phone, lost his charger, or is lost at the bottom of a bottle somewhere.

Maybe all of the above.

Kayce Wilder was all blue eyes, dimples, and cowboy charm… until he wasn’t.

I’m just thankful to every fucking star in the sky that it was a six-month fling. By the time we might have even considered ourselves to be dating, our relationship—if you could even call our situationship that—was already over.

While I never did find him face-first in some other pair of tits, I had my suspicions. Kayce wasn’t intentionally mean, or hurtful, or abusive. In fact, he’s the type of happy drunk liable to pass out in the corner anywhere, but that is his problem. He’s a waster and a drinker who is coasting through life on his good looks while busy getting black-out drunk at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday.

Making all his rodeo talent and big dreams that he dazzled me with that night we first met seem laughable in comparison to the reality that is Kayce. Underneath that facade, when I finally met the scared little boy, I realized just how much of a waste of time he allowed himself to be.

Chalk that life experience up to being one of the greatest blessings of my life. I’m relieved it only took me six months of giving parts of my life to him, rather than six years.

Or worse.

I shudder, despite the sweat dripping down my spine in the stifling heat.

Imagine if I’d accidentally gotten myself pregnant by a guy like that.

The horror.

And if anything, that was the foundation of our relationship. Sex. Not that it was anything to write home about, mind you. He was ok, and I was ok, and that seemed to be enough for me to tolerate some mediocre fucking. Now that I think about it, we didn’t exactly talk much at all.

Between my hours working at the bar and picking up as many overtime shifts as I could around my studies, there wasn’t a lot of time for dating or hanging out. But when we did find the time, it was easy to fall into bed with him. Kayce was a good time. He made me laugh. And for someone like me, who desperately wanted to forget the difficulties in my life that stifle my laughter, all he had to do was hit me with that cheeky blue-eyed expression, and I’d fold. Promising myself that I’d tell him to sort his shit out, or clean out the trash, or do his own fucking dishes in the morning.

God, I’m so glad I don’t have to come home to a sink stacked full of dirty dishes anymore.

But guess who’s the sucker sitting in a sweltering car with a backseat full of boxes that contain his crap he left behind at my house?

Kayce had been ‘in-between’ places to live, so I foolishly said it would be fine for him to store a few things until he had a new address. His stuff has been in a closet for the past couple of months while I’ve been finishing my latest vet apprentice placement, but now I’m on my way to the next job, a new town, and I really need to cut cords with this guy once and for all.

My first instinct was to chuck them all in the dumpster behind my apartment when he didn’t return my calls, or emails, or messages on Instagram. Fucking useless little shit. But when I rifled through them, I found his childhood photo albums, and school awards, and cute ribbons from junior horse events. All things from his time living in the Midwest with his mom.

From what I know, she’s a pretty shitty parent, and I know all about those. But something tells me there might be a time in his life when he’ll want to have these memories. The greatest love of Kayce’s life right now comes in a bottle, but perhaps in the future, he’ll regret not taking care of these things.

Even if he can’t appreciate them right now.

I bang the phone against my forehead. Think. Goddammit.

All I have is his address scribbled down on a Post-it note from when he gave it to me ages ago, sometime around when we decided to go our separate ways. I don’t even know if that’s his exact address anymore in this tiny little middle-of-nowhere-Montana town. He’s even more transient than I am, and that’s saying something. What I do know for certain is that he’s here somewhere in this quaint little mountain village and it’s the only reason I’m sitting parked on the side of the road.

Crimson Ridge is on my way to my next job, and surprise-surprise, I’m once again being Layla Birch, eternal good girl and pushover, by calling in here to do my ex a favor because it is kind of on my way.

He knows money is tight for me—story of my goddamn life—until I get to this next job for my placement, but I have to pay for this tank of gas anyway. I’ll need it to get me over to the next town where I’m due to start work on Monday.

So, while I sit here sweating like a pig, with my copper curls turned to frizz around my face, I can’t help but notice the lazy summer afternoon unfolding all around me. Like I’m somehow not part of the world that belongs to young women my age. I watch as girls with their tiny shorts and bikini tops lounge in the park across the road. They’re lying propped on their elbows in the cool grass, laughing and giggling behind their hands. Each of them eye-fucking the parade of cowboys hopping out of their big trucks as they pull up and park in the wide main street.

Days like today, I feel a thousand years old, not twenty-five.

I flip through the same sequence on my phone, refreshing notifications to see if, just on the off chance, Kayce has replied within the last two minutes to either my emails or my texts. Just a simple reply is all I’m after, to let me know that he’ll be here in town to meet me, like I’d asked.

For fuck’s sake. Still nothing.

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I dig around in my purse for the address. Hoping to god it hasn’t got rubbed off, or torn somehow. The yellow Post-it is a bit faded, covered in crumbs I have to brush off, and more crumpled than the last time I looked at it. Fortunately, it’s legible.

Kayce’s pigeon scratch handwriting scrawls over the page in blue ballpoint.

3488 Devil’s Peak Road, Crimson Ridge.

It sounds like something out of a slasher movie. One where the girl gets chased through the woods by a guy in overalls and a hockey mask wielding a chainsaw.

Looks like I’m going to have to take a drive out into hillbilly territory. Because there is no way in hell I am leaving here with these boxes still in my possession. I don’t care if I have to dump them on the front porch for him to find whenever he gets back from his latest bender.

“Fuck this shit.” Cursing out loud, I throw the car into drive. There’s minimal traffic and I pull out, searching for the gas station I know I passed earlier on my way in. This tiny, one-horse town vibe is cute enough, though, and I kind of wish I could eventually find a job in a place like this when I’m qualified and graduated. Tall trees line the middle of the long, straight road, with quaint Victorian-era wooden storefronts along each side of the wide boulevard.

This place has a Stars Hollow feel about it, where they probably have regular community gatherings. Annual pumpkin growing contests, cider festivals in the autumn, summer hoedowns under the twinkling night sky complete with couples slow dancing to a live band beneath strings of fairy lights.

The big red and white ‘Crimson Ridge Fuels’ logo looms up ahead, and as I turn in, bumping over the rough curb, my little car looks like an ant compared to the cowboy-sized wagons and Chevy’s rolling around this place.

I pull up next to the pump and unstick my thighs from my seat one by one as I climb out the driver’s side. Ew. The cotton of my tee clings to my lower back, and I have to discreetly readjust where my denim shorts dig into my inner thighs.

This is one of those rare blink-and-you’ll-miss-it towns where they still allow customers to fill up prior to paying at the checkout. Cute.

Punching the Fill option, I start pumping the gas and take the chance to sort my hair out. Tugging on the tie, I shake the mess of pale copper curls around my shoulders before I pile it back up in a loose top knot again. It is way too fucking hot today to be bothered with wearing my hair down. Sure, my white tee and faded denim cut-offs would look great with my hair all nice and hanging over one shoulder—but today is about being a practical bitch and getting shit done, which means I’m not out here dressing to impress anybody. Especially not Kayce, if I ever do track the bastard down.

Behind me, an impressive black truck pulls in. One of those really big Dodge’s. Racehorse sleek, practical as an ox, absolutely enormous. As it pulls up on the other side of the pumps, it dwarfs me and my Honda runabout. Immediately, my stomach does a little swoon over how guys with trucks like that are just effortlessly hot.

I’m subtly trying to check just how wild my hair is in the reflection of my car windows, which is ridiculous when my only agenda here is to fill up with gas, offload these damn boxes, then carry on my way out of this town. But even so, I sneak a peek at the vehicle pulled up alongside mine. All I see when the door opens on the far side is the brim of a black cowboy hat and some messy dark curls.

The pump clunks to a sudden halt, jolting me back to earth before I can catch a proper glimpse, and I quickly hang the nozzle up.

Christ, Layla, get it together.

Before darting off inside, I glance at the dial to double check the total. The numbers are broken—of course they are, fucking typical—but I know what it costs on average to fill my car’s tank up, and the eighty-nine dollars left in my bank account will easily cover that, plus some Ramen for dinner until my next payday.

I push through the heavy metal door and hear the metallic chime go off. A fan hits me with a momentary breeze, but it’s just hot air being blown as an unwelcome greeting straight into my face. The floor is in desperate need of a mop, and the place gives off a funky smell of gasoline and grease.

There’s a bulldog-looking man in a stained undershirt behind the counter, who rings up the register as I walk towards him.

“Just the fuel today?” He’s scowling, with slicked-back gray hair and a faded tattoo wrapping his bicep—something military. This guy looks like he eats Jack for breakfast and Jim for lunch.

“Yes, please,” I chirp. Trying my best to plaster on a smile in the face of his dour customer service, and wave my debit card. He points a stubby finger at the grimy card reader and the screen lights up.

I hold my card over it until it beeps, and am already walking away when he clears his throat with a little more aggression than is really necessary.

“Says declined.” When I turn around, his glare is unnerving.

Jesus. What would he do if I actually tried to steal something? Probably hurdle the counter and kneecap me with a baseball bat. So much for the friendly, small-town vibe. Why does this asshole allow customers to pump first if this is his response when something like this happens?

“Oh.” My cheeks heat, and I let out a little flustered laugh. I know there’s enough money in my account. But in scenarios like these, I can’t help but feel a tinge of shame. There’s nothing worse than feeling like I’ve been called out or have failed in some way.

Which is stupid, I know, but it is what it is.

“Let me try again.” Smiling through a grimace, I hold the card out again.

Ogre-man grunts something and jabs at some buttons on his register, before the terminal lights up. The way he’s studying me makes my neck prickle, my hand is now far less steady than it was a moment ago, as I carefully hold the card flat against the screen this time. Trying to make sure it wasn’t a contact error or something stupid like that.

Again, it beeps. Lifting the card, words I absolutely do not want to see are stamped in bold black capitals across the screen.

DECLINED.

“You got another way to pay?” His tone is accusatory, and as he exhales sharply the guy slaps the counter.

What a grade-A asshole.

“Um. Just give me a second.”

A tightness forms in my throat as I grab my purse and start making a show of rummaging through it for the alternative payment method that I know fully well doesn’t exist. I’m so certain there was enough money in my account, having checked only this morning to make sure before I drove out here. But now I’m panicking and doubting myself all because this asshole is being such an over-the-top wanker about it.

As I’m searching, I hear him make a dismissive noise. “You people are all the same. Turn up here from out of town and think you can rip off businesses like mine. If you can’t pay, lady, you’re going to have to siphon that fuel out of your tank.”

I’m stammering in the face of his brash rudeness and feeling clammy from head to toe. If I can’t fuel up today, and get to my placement in time to start work tomorrow I’ll undoubtedly risk losing this job. My next three months of bills and expenses and Evaline’s payments start going up in smoke in my mind’s eye.

“Please… if you can just give me a moment.”

Over my shoulder, I hear the door bang open and the screech of the chime. Oh, god, now there’s a queue forming behind me to enjoy my humiliation first-hand.

“Just… could I try the card one more time, please?” I try forming a smile while a sting pricks behind my eyes. “I know there’s enough money there to cover the gas.”

Although, now I’m actually sweating. Doubt has crept in. Maybe there was an unexpected bill I forgot to take into account?

But the man is shaking his head and growling something at me about siphoning and the nerve of fucking him around and my cheeks are flaming hot.

“Silly air-headed girls like you have no idea how to be responsible. Always coming in here running up bills you can’t pay for. That’s you parked at pump three? The Honda?” He sneers at me and looks me up and down, before jabbing a finger in my direction. “Stand right there and don’t fucking move. I’ll deal with you in a second.”

I’m stunned. My hands are shaking. This prick has no idea about me, or my life, and thinks he can talk to me like a chauvinistic, condescending asshole. I feel like he’s slapped me, the tirade is so unexpected.

My step falters backward as I step aside, making way for the next person in line. What the fuck am I going to do?

As I’m spiraling in the middle of this shitty gas station in the middle of nowhere, a low, smooth voice cuts in.

“Christ, Kurt. Take your heart pills already. I’ll cover it.”