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CHAPTER THREE

“Your sister was hot tonight!” An idiot exclaimed at Jordan’s elbow.

The sudden hush didn’t penetrate the drunken’s fog because he continued, “Man, I could’ve tapped her tonight. Holy—she’s your step, right? Have you thought—you must’ve thought about it a million times? Have you? I would’ve if I had that ass—”

Jordan moved in a blur. His hand snaked out, wrapped around the guy’s neck and slammed him against the bar.

His green eyes blazed as the drunken realized his foolhardy.

“Henry, everyone knows what not to say.” Eric Bellfellow whistled with a smug grin.

Jordan didn’t have to say it because Eric said it for him. “You don’t talk about Cheyenne Emerson like that.”

The drunken was named Derrick Henry and he nodded, choking under Jordan’s cemented fingers.

“Jordan.” Laila Cook, the Dancing StillLeg’s manager, moved to the counter with a towel over her shoulder. “Let him go.”

And Jordan did, but with a warning glint in his eyes.

Henry coughed and rubbed against his throat. “Man—holy shit, man!”

“Seriously, Henry.” Eric rolled his eyes. “Have you not learned?”

“Get out, Henry.” Laila called, authoritatively.

“You can’t—” He sputtered, swaying on his feet.

“I can kick out anyone I want. It’s closed anyway, so get gone and sleep the liquor off.” She said patiently and filled a cup of water. “Drink that on your way out.”

“Why don’t you kick him out? He assaulted me.”

Jordan stood, but Eric moved first. He grabbed Henry’s arm and dragged him out of the bar. The two disappeared outside the door.

Laila chuckled, coarsely, and murmured, “How’s she doing, by the way, Jordan?”

Jordan lifted steel eyes up, but said nothing.

Laila wasn’t supposed to know who Cheyenne was. That was how the world worked. Or that’s how he wanted the world to work, but everyone knew who his stepsister was. She mystified everyone, him the most of all, but he’d never been asked how she was doing—not by someone like Laila, who owned a low-rate bar and who knew the backdoor of every drugdealer’s home in their small town of Mountain Creig. And yet, here she was, someone like her asking how someone like Cheyenne was.

“What do you care?” Jordan asked in return.

Laila backed off. She surrendered both hands and straightened her pristine ponytail as if it were loose and needed to be fixed. Her ponytail never needed to be fixed. Laila was the professional in that joint. Her past was left at the door whenever she walked inside and no matter how her clothes might’ve fell off in her home, they were tucked and ironed to perfection in her place of business.

“Nothing.” She muttered. “But it’s all over town. Cody Phillips left—thought he and Cheyenne were real tight. She must be hurting or something…right? That’s all. Friendly conversation.”

“More like nosy conversation.” Jordan retorted. He hadn’t known about Cody Phillips. He’d known Cheyenne was close with the horse trainer, but he hadn’t known he was gone.

It explained a lot.

It explained the look in her eyes that night and the way she left for the wilderness.

It was as if she was leaving again, slowly and slowly, as if she was just…ceasing to not be at home anymore.

Eric walked back inside and announced with a smile, “Henry felt so bad that he insisted on paying for another round. Really.”

He slapped the money on the counter as Laila replied, dryly, “I’m sure he did.”

“He did.” Eric said, jovial, and took the seat next to Jordan’s. “What happened with you and Powers?”

“Gone long enough.” Craig Heldership added with a knowing wink.

Jordan straightened from his stool and dished out some money. “Thanks, Laila.” He only said and left.

“What?” Eric called after him. “What’d I say?”

The door answered back as it slammed shut behind Jordan’s back.

Outside, Jordan leaned against his truck, ignorant of the cold air, as he tipped his head back and searched the stars above. For what—he didn’t know. But maybe anything, something, or maybe even the ability to search for something—to believe in something.

“It’s a mighty pensive look you got there on your face.”

Jordan smile, briefly, before he turned and acknowledged the rake of a girl.

Bella Cook. Laila’s nineteen year old daughter and the most worshipful of his followers.

“Go back to bed, Bella.” Jordan said shortly.

“I will if you come with.” She smiled, hoping for seduction, but Jordan only saw a lost girl within her.

“Go away.” He said again and watched her steadily. “I’m not that guy, whether you want me to be or not.”

She swayed closer. “And what guy would that be?”

“I’m not the monster everyone says I am and I’m sure as hell not going to be the one who rides you roughshod.”

Bella sparked at that comment. Her hazel eyes flashed in irritation, but she said, smartly, “You think you’d be my first? How dense are you?”

“Not as dense as you might want to not notice how close your momma watches you. Or how scared some of those boys are of her.”

She rolled her eyes, “Laila thinks they’re scared of her, but there’s plenty who sneak over when my mum’s busy at the counter. Trust you me.”

“I don’t need to, but you ain’t got the look. Not yet.” Jordan grinned, but barely. His thoughts were elsewhere and he kept the conversation lightly, on the backburner.

“And what look is that?”

Bella, on the other hand, was concentrating fully and completely. There was no backburner, not when it came to Jordan Emerson. She’d been after him since she knew what boys were. And she’d known about boys for a long time, longer than her momma had hoped.

“The burned look.” Jordan sighed and straightened from his truck. He reached for the handle. Bella moved first and planted herself in front of it, bringing their bodies in close proximity.

Jordan moved just as quick and deftly lifted her to place her on the other side.

“Stay.” He commanded and climbed inside.

“I’m not a dog, Jordan.” Bella pouted.

“Then don’t act like you’re in heat half the goddamn time.”

He started the engine and the radio filled the air.

It was three in the morning. The streets were empty with the Dancing StillLeg’s lights still on. The neon sign had been shut down, but laughter was heard from within it’s faded painted walls.

“I’m only in heat for you.” Bella trailed a finger down his arm. He’d had it perched on the door, but moved it now.

“I mean it.” Jordan warned. “You’re too young and it won’t be me who runs you dry. I won’t be that guy.”

“Who says that’s how it’d go?” She pressed against the cold metallic and smiled winsomely.

Jordan smiled back, dryly, and said, “That’s how it ever goes with me. You need to learn that, little girl.”

“I can name half a dozen guys who don’t call me ‘little girl.’ Bella retaliated, now annoyed.

“They do, but it probably works for their sick perverted fantasies.” Jordan smiled smoothly and saluted her, mockingly, “See you around, ‘little girl.’”

He reversed as Bella was forced to move or get run over.

He glanced in his rearview mirror, momentarily, as he drove back home. Bella stood in the street, alone and skinny. For the conflict between herself and Laila, Bella was in perfect accord to follow her mother’s footsteps. Laila knew it, in a deep gut, but she ignored it, hoping her baby girl would forever be her baby girl.

Jordan hadn’t ever given the girl much thought, but she was right. He knew some of those guys would steer clear, but there were plenty of others to replace them and slip away to Bella’s inviting bedsheets while Laila was hard at work, trying to repent for all her sins with the Dancing StillLeg.

Jordan didn’t stay away out of respect for Laila, although it was as good a reason as any.

He stayed away because Bella held no interest for him. In his mind, she was a child. She was a child that was trying to prove how she wasn’t a child. Jordan wasn’t the type of guy who wanted to help destroy any innocence she still held within herself.

There were some boundaries he adhered, but not many.

Bella just happened to be one of them.

It wasn’t long before he arrived back at home, at his home.

It was five miles from his father’s home, though theirs stood empty, his was rarely in solitude.

His loft, on the other hand, was another matter.

He or Cheyenne never needed to work for a living. Both had hardy trust funds from his father’s work as a CEO for a multimillion dollar company, Bordleys Inc. They were a chain of bookstores. Payton Emerson the III traveled all over the world, sometimes with his wife and other times without.

Cheyenne and Jordan were the only Emersons in the Mountain Creig area, but both were the youngest two alive with four elderly brothers. One, Matthew, was Cheyenne’s older brother while the other three were all Emerson blood, born and raised by Payton and Sheila Emerson.

None considered Grace Scott, now Emerson, as their mother.

They’d been raised by their mother, no one else could replace her, although Grace had accepted a friendly companion role for their father. It was only Jordan who she wished to help raise, because her new husband had needed all the help he could muster.

Momma and Papa Emerson weren’t around and they had rarely been around in the first place.

Jordan hadn’t been stupid. As soon as his mother died, Payton Emerson the III was actively searching for her replacement. He’d gotten lucky with Grace and had actually fallen in love.

Jordan didn’t hold that against his father. Not that, at least, but there was so much else. And his grudges didn’t stop short with his father. He held a few against Grace too.

Jordan knew who Cheyenne was throughout high school. And he made it a point to know who she was after his father started dating her mother, but what he learned infuriated him.

He didn’t need to hold a graduate diploma to know that Grace Scott blamed her daughter for her youngest son’s death.

Andrew Scott, age four, died in a fire while Cheyenne, who babysat when she was nine, barely escaped alive.

Jordan read the newspaper article on his laptop, upstairs in his bedroom, as his father wined and dined the neglectful said mother below. They laughed as he realized who, truly, Cheyenne Scott was.

The story went on to articulate how the nine year old, sobbing and hysterical, needed to be held back by two firefighters so she wouldn’t race back inside to find her baby brother. She’d been found first and carried, kicking and screaming, out the door.

They found her brother later, after the fire had died down. He’d hidden and fallen asleep in a closet when the fire broke out.

Andrew never woke up while his sister had frantically searched for him.

The heating system had been too old and started the fire.

Cheyenne had been helpless, in both accords.

Jordan glanced at the stable and the loft above. They were dark, but the stable was usually dark.

His father owned a ranch as did Jordan, but neither held the horses that everyone else owned.

Their money came from another source and it was because of this luxury that enabled Cheyenne to leave for as long as she wanted, but Jordan worked. He had to. He needed something to do, a purpose to be given.

Jordan designed cars, but it wasn’t until recently that he’d started to show a profit from his hobby.

His garage stood to his right as he got out of his truck, but it wasn’t where he headed. He crossed the yard and silently walked up the loft’s stairs. He pushed through as always. He never knocked, he just entered, but for some reason—he wasn’t surprised as he saw a small bag packed by the door.

Cheyenne walked from the bedroom wearing black pants and a tight black thermal shirt.

Her eyes met his briefly, but she wasn’t surprised.

“You going to go ride off into the sunset?” Jordan asked, unable to keep the bite from his tone.

Cheyenne stopped in her tracks. She studied him, now cautious, and then asked, “What’s this about?”

Jordan held her gaze, neither flinched away from the electricity.

“Where are you going?” He asked in a low voice.

“Where does it matter?”

“Did he fuck you?”

And now Cheyenne saw why he was there, just rattling for a fight, barely able to contain what was within him.

He knew about Cody. She didn’t ask where or how, but said, “Does it matter how long I go away for?”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“You’ve asked three, not one.”

“This isn’t game time, Cheyenne.” Jordan bit out.

“And I’m not treating it as if it were.” She replied, but couldn’t contain the glance out her window. The same wistfulness settled over her, like it always did when something was going on in a room that she didn’t want to be a part of.

Jordan sat it and recognized it. “You’re just running away, like always, Cheyenne. You can’t run away from Phillips.”

“Phillips,” Cheyenne said clearly and swung her eyes back. “Is gone.”

“Did he fuck you?”

“Can you not be crude?”

He didn’t flinch, but he reworded, “Did he screw you?”

“That’s just as crude.”

“I’m a crude kind of guy.”

Cheyenne drew up short. She stared at him, would’ve stared him down if it had been anyone besides Jordan, but it wasn’t. And then she said, “You’re not that kind of guy.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No.” Cheyenne shook her head, strongly. “You want to be that kind of guy, but it’s beneath you, like it’s beneath me to stand here and tell you who ‘fucked’ or ‘screwed’ me and why it’s your business. That’s beneath both of us.”

Jordan said nothing.

“And before you even think it,” Cheyenne added, “You leave him alone just like you’ll leave someone else alone.”

Jordan stepped aside as she walked past to grab her bag. She slung it over her shoulder and turned for the door.

“It had nothing to do with your buddy.” Jordan said to her back.

She turned swiftly, just before him, with only an inch of space between them, but unperturbed, Cheyenne countered, “That’s where you’re wrong, Jordan. Everything you do touches people. It does have to do with him. It’s his wife.”

“I didn’t think you liked them together.”

“That’s a lie. What you did had nothing to do with what I wanted and, by the way, it really sucks to know that my stepbrother might be the ruin of my best friend’s marriage. If I have to choose, Jordan, you know what I’ll choose.”

The door slammed shut behind her, but not by her choice.

Cheyenne wasn’t one to slam doors. She left and didn’t think twice about the force of her retreat.

That was what Jordan did to her.

He affected her differently than Cody.

Jordan sent the world away while Cody made everything 3D.

And right now, she wanted nothing to do with either of them.

Jordan called after her, from her open doorway, “What about Matt? His party is on Wednesday. Are you coming back for that?”

Cheyenne ignored him and walked through the field.

She’d rather not be there for her brother’s Recognition Party.

Matthew was the family’s golden star. He was twenty eight and his latest movie had gotten global recognition. The party was a small gathering of family and Matthew’s most influential friends to celebrate the success. He was a shoo-in for an Academy and he was who her mother loved.

Jordan asked, but both knew the dynamics of their family. If none raised her name, her absence wouldn’t be noticed.

Matt would notice, but he wouldn’t say anything.

Will and Greg might notice too, but her mother’s lack of attention was the silent wall in their family.

The only person who had dared try to break it down was Jordan, but for reasons that Cheyenne couldn’t want to understand.

She crossed the field as Jordan stayed in her loft.

He went to the kitchen window and watched her trek, a shadow among so much of the darkness. After awhile, as she melted among the terrain and was now longer visible to his eye, he sighed and opened the fridge.

Cheyenne kept his beer. She never drank so he knew they were there for him.

Uncapping one, he took a sip, but didn’t taste the beer.

He’d started to not taste a lot these days.

Sighing, he turned, left the loft, and swung over to his place. Enough came to his home and couldn’t understand why Cheyenne preferred the small one bedroom loft to his eight bedroom log home.

It had a wrap-around porch with another patio that extended into his backyard. The front door opened to a woodsy living room. A fireplace was the wall between the living room and the kitchen so both sides could enjoy the toasty atmosphere of dancing flames.

Jordan bypassed the living room, fireplace, kitchen, and walked into a glass-enclosed sitting room.

It’s view opened onto the mountain that surrounded his home. The stables laid to the east of the house with the glass sitting room on the west side.

As he sat, with the beer before him, Jordan couldn’t see anything outside except the stars.

They were bright and a stark contrast to the black sky around them.

Jordan loved sitting in that room, able to see the stars above. Most would enjoy watching the outside from their warm interior, but Jordan just liked to see the sky. He didn’t care about being warm or cold and because of that, he opened the door and strolled out onto his back porch.

He stood there, breathing in the fresh air, and watched upwards.

Cheyenne didn’t care as much for the sky. She just yearned for the mountain terrain, but to Jordan—the sky was what it was all about.

For whatever he searched for, it was up there. Somewhere.

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