“Well, that’s not happening,” I say with a growl as I lean forward in my chair. “No fucking way.”
I don’t miss both Bridger and Woolf’s eyebrows rising as they shoot each other a smirking look. Ignoring them, I ask, “Any bright ideas on what I should do? I’m letting her crash at my place until I can get her on her feet.”
“Taking up her cause, huh?” Bridger asks slyly.
“Something like that,” I mutter, but then I get distracted as my phone starts ringing to the tune of Maroon 5’s Wake Up Call. I roll my eyes without bothering to look at caller ID as that song tells me all I need to know. I press the decline button, sending Tarryn to voice mail.
“Seems to me you still have your hands full,” Woolf says with a sly grin, looking down at my phone gripped in my hands.
“I’ve got Tarryn handled,” I assure him. Because the only thing to do with her is ignore her. She’ll eventually get bored and move on.
Temporarily at least.
“I’ll give Cat a job off the books as a Fantasy Maker,” Bridger says. “Under the table, of course.”
My head immediately shakes back and forth in denial. “She’s taking a break from The Silo. She needs a job far away from that shit.”
“Come on, dude,” Woolf says as he swings his feet off his desk and sits up in his chair. “Catherine was born to be a Fantasy Maker.”
Maybe my personal fantasy, I think for a brief moment before anger over Woolf’s innocently callous words overtakes me.
“That shit’s off the table,” I snap at him, and he blinks at me in surprise. “And clearly you two don’t have any helpful advice.”
I surge up out of the chair and mutter to Bridger, “Catch you later.”
I storm out of the Double J office but even as my own feet hit the dirt outside, I can hear Bridger saying, “Wait up.”
Turning, I see him trotting down the steps toward me. “Cut Woolf some slack,” he says gruffly. “He doesn’t know.”
“Know what?” I ask him, confused and slightly skeptical.
Bridger’s head turns slightly, and he gazes out over the open range that stretches for miles with the Teton Mountains standing tall on the horizon. When he looks back at me, he scratches at his chin. “Cat… she forced by her husband to go to The Silo?”
He worded it as a question, but I can tell he’s actually laying it out as a statement he wants verified.
“Yeah.”
“That motherfucker,” Bridger snarls, aiming his cowboy booted foot at Woolf’s front tire. It slams into the tread and bounces off as he curses under his breath.
“Not your fault,” I tell him just loud enough to penetrate his curses. I know what he’s feeling right now and it’s guilt, plain and simple. That Cat was forced to do something she didn’t want to do. “And her experience isn’t all bad there. It’s complicated.”
So fucking complicated.
“She want a job at The Wicked Horse?” Bridger asks.
I shake my head. “Still too close.”
“Let me think on it,” Bridger says. “And I’ll also check into this attorney, but I’m betting he was just paid to enforce a document that may or may not be legit. Now, can I front Cat some money?”
“I’ve got her covered,” I tell him, because fuck if I’m going to allow him to ride in and save the day for Cat. I’m not sure why I have this overwhelming need to protect her and help her. I mean, I feel for her. I really do. And she’s a great fuck, and it’s been awesome to have her right there in my apartment… but still, I can’t figure out why I have this strong of a connection to her cause.
Bridger nods in understanding. “Alright, man. But I’ll help in any way I can.”
“Appreciate it,” I tell him and turn toward my Suburban. While I might not want Bridger being Cat’s personal champion, I’ll gladly take any help he and Woolf can give me until we can figure out what’s best for her future.
Chapter 8
Cat
Opening the oven, I take a quick peek at the meatloaf I have baking and then glance at the timer on the microwave I had set. Another ten minutes and it should be done.
Rand had texted me a few hours ago letting me know he’d be home from work by seven. We had our first minor disagreement after I responded back to him that’d I’d cook dinner.
His response was almost immediate. I’ll pick up pizza.
I wasn’t sure whether to be offended that he was perhaps distrustful of my cooking or he was being an overly gracious host, but I sent him back a firm response. I insist. I want to do something nice for you.
No need, he wrote back quite succinctly.
I wasn’t so succinct. I’m cooking dinner and not arguing about it. I’ll have it on the table and ready to go at 7PM. If you can’t let me do something to show my gratefulness for your generosity, then I’m going to have to make alternative plans to stay somewhere else.