Rough Love Read online

  Rough Love

  Lauren Landish

  Edited by

  Valorie Clifton

  Edited by

  Staci Etheridge

  Contents

  Also by Lauren Landish

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: Buck Wild

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Landish.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design © 2019 by Eileen Carey.

  Photography by James Critchley.

  Model Marshall Arkley

  Edited by Valorie Clifton & Staci Etheridge.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  Also by Lauren Landish

  Bennett Boys Ranch:

  Buck Wild || Riding Hard || Racing Hearts

  Standalones

  My Big Fat Fake Wedding || Filthy Riches || Scorpio

  Dirty Fairy Tales:

  Beauty and the Billionaire || Not So Prince Charming || Happily Never After

  Get Dirty:

  Dirty Talk || Dirty Laundry || Dirty Deeds || Dirty Secrets

  Irresistible Bachelors:

  Anaconda || Mr. Fiance || Heartstopper

  Stud Muffin || Mr. Fixit || Matchmaker

  Motorhead || Baby Daddy || Untamed

  Chapter 1

  Bruce

  “Fuck, it’s hot!” I bark to no one as the screen door slams behind me, blocking out at least a portion of the August heat. The sweat rag I’m using to wipe my face down is about as useless as tits on a bull, already soaked through, wrung out, and soaked again.

  But as I open my eyes to the coolness of the kitchen, it’s not the heat from outside that stops me in my tracks. It’s the one raised eyebrow and glaring eyes on the face of the otherwise sweet woman in front of me. “Language, son.”

  Busted in my own damn house. How’s that even happen? “Uh, hey there, Mama Louise. Didn’t expect to see you over here.”

  There’s a question in there somewhere, something along the lines of ‘what the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?’ but I don’t dare voice it out loud.

  She ain’t my mama, and I damn sure ain’t her son, but as we’ve learned lately, sometimes, family is what you make of it, not what nature gives you. Mama Louise is the woman who has taken us Tannens on as fixer-upper projects. Me and my two brothers, Brody and Bobby, might as well be condemned buildings for all the work we need, but my little sister, Shayanne, seems to be doing okay with Mama Louise’s motherly influence.

  Regardless, everyone in town and out of town and the globe over calls this tiny blonde woman who could intimidate the sun itself to bend to her will ‘Mama Louise’. She won’t have it any other way, unless you feel fit to drop the Louise and just call her Mama, which makes her cheeks pink up in joy. So I don’t do it. It doesn’t feel right to do that to my own mom, may she rest in peace.

  The other eyebrow raises to match its partner and I realize my misstep. “Sorry,” I say simply, not really meaning it but willing to say it to keep her happy. It don’t take much, and it’s no skin off my back, so why not give her the little things? That way, she doesn’t dig too hard for the big ones.

  Shayanne grins from Mama Louise’s side, enjoying seeing me put in my place, but she doesn’t dare let those giggles that are shaking her shoulders free or Mama Louise will get after her too. Mama Louise dips her chin once in acknowledgement of my apology and then goes on as if I didn’t just perform like some trained seal. Hell, if I’m doing tricks, where’s my treat? Shouldn’t I get a cookie or something?

  I peek over Mama Louise’s shoulder, hoping that maybe she is actually making cookies, even though I know she’s neck deep in helping Shayanne. My sister is a force to be reckoned with, and one day, she’s going to grow up to be just like Mama Louise, who keeps a household full of mannerless cowboys from going feral.

  Of course, Shayanne helps with that, as do the other Bennett boys’ wives. So maybe their work mostly consists of keeping us three Tannen boys in line. That’s a full-time job that requires overtime on the regular, so Shay could probably use the backup because she’s been doing it way too long on her own, even when she was barely a pipsqueak to us near-grown boys.

  “What’s next?” I say, giving up on my cookie dreams.

  “Shayanne has one more round of deliveries for you today. Think you’ve got time before dinner?”

  Mama Louise eyes the sun, which is sitting midway down the western sky. The ball of fire’s position seems to light new urgency in her hands, and she pours the pink-tinted water through a strainer and into a big plastic jug.

  They’re working on Shayanne’s latest creation . . . watermelon agua fresca. I’d teased her last spring that instead of people looking out for the milkman, they were going to be watching out their windows for the watermelon water woman. Which would be true, except that I swear I’m doing the bulk of her deliveries so she can keep up with the demand. At this point, I’m just glad she’s making something of the watermelons we grew in one of the fields out back. It’d seemed like a lot when we started harvesting, but summer’s not even two-thirds over and she’s damn near used every last one of them in her special concoction of watermelon, lime, and sugar water.

  “Yep, I’ve got time,” I assure Mama Louise, starting to pick up the jugs for my first trip to the truck. Shayanne abandons her post to help me carry the load. She’s got a spring to her step and as many jugs of pink drink in her tiny hands as I do in my big paws. Shay’s a worker, down to the bone.

  We step over Murphy, my old dog that doesn’t even move as I grumble at him, “Git, Murph.”

  Instead, he rolls over like I’m going to set down the jugs in favor of belly scratches for him. I’m not a total asshole, though, so I do run my boot over his too-big gut a couple of times before pushing the door open with a hip and then holding it for Shay to come out too.

  “Thanks, Bruce!” Shay’s voice is bright and bubbly, happier than she’s been in so long. Maybe ever. I guess I’ve got Luke Bennett to thank for that, not that I would ever thank him for fucking my sister’s grumpiness out of her. But maybe for loving her, putting a ring on her finger, and showing her a world beyond our little pile of dirt . . .

  Not that it’s ours anymore.

  Nope, thanks for that last knife in the back, Dad. He’d literally forced us to sell the farm when he died with his bad gambling debts, and we’
d lucked out that our neighbors, the Bennetts, had wanted the land and had taken our motley crew on as ranch hands and pseudo-family.

  The last seven months have been interesting, to say the least, but we’re all settled into our roles for the most part. I’ve even seen Brody smile a time or two, and that’s like winning the Mega Powerball Lotto for billions on a random, computer-drawn list of numbers . . . twice in two weeks. In other words, it doesn’t happen. Ever.

  But it did. I saw it with my own eyes, so maybe I’ll pick up a dollar scratch-off while I’m in town and see if my odds are any better than usual. I snort at my own ridiculousness and Shay looks at me questioningly.

  “Would you like to share with the class what’s got you giggling?”

  For the record, I don’t giggle. Or chuckle. Or laugh. I smile on occasion, but it damn near cracks my face from lack of use. Well, maybe it’s from turning that frown upside down. Hell, maybe Brody’s smiled more than me lately. I’ll have to consider that later.

  “I’m fine, Shay, “ I tell her, not answering her question in the slightest, but she lets me put her off. “Need to get going if I’m gonna get back by dinner. What’re you and Mama Louise making? Maybe I should just grab a bite at Hank’s instead?”

  She stomps her booted foot. “You’d better not, Bruce Tannen. Family dinner tonight, no excuses.” She purses her lips before tucking the bottom one behind her white teeth. “We’ve got some special news. You’ll be there, right?”

  I side-eye my little sister, dropping the not-that-heavy jugs onto my tailgate with a boom as if they weigh a ton. Her hair looks the same as always, brown with some streaks of blonde the sun puts there every summer. Her face is bare with a smattering of freckles across her nose and a bit too much sun on her cheeks from being outside every day. Her frayed shorts and watermelon-stained tank top are her usual work gear, and her boots are dusty and worn.

  Nothing’s out of place and nothing’s unusual except for that glint in her eye.

  “Are you fucking pregnant, Shayanne?” I grit out. I’m gonna kill Luke Bennett for sticking his dick in my sister. I mean, I know he does, and as much as it guts me, I guess she likes it, because she loves him and shit, but I don’t need proof of their fucking walking around and calling me ‘Uncle Bruce’. Or would a little Luke-Anne call me ‘Uncle Brutal’?

  Shit. Neither. Fucking neither is the correct answer.

  Like the firecracker she is, Shay doesn’t answer the damn question for two long seconds during which I figure out which field of dirt I can bury Luke’s body in.

  Not soon enough, she breaks and laughter rings out. Well, more like donkey guffaws because there ain’t a thing prissy about my sister. But through the hee-haws, I gather that she’s laughing at me.

  “Oh, my cheesus and crackers, you should’a seen your face, Bruce! Priceless! Shoot, I wish I’d gotten a picture of that!”

  I push closer to her, looming over her like only a threatening big brother can, but she’s not the least bit scared of me. Probably the only person who isn’t in this whole town.

  “Shayanne Tannen, are you or are you not pregnant?”

  She holds her hand up, admiring the way the sunlight catches her ring. “That’s Shayanne Bennett, and you know it. You were there when Luke and I said our vows about loving and honoring and cherishing and obeying each other. Oh, yeah, especially that last one. You know I love when he tells me what to do.”

  She’s being ornery and we both know it. There ain’t a soul on this planet who tells my sister what to do. Hell, Luke’s probably tried a time or two . . . again, not thinking of him railing my sister . . . and she’d probably still do whatever the fuck she wanted. I grind my teeth together, not sure if I want to strangle her neck or protect another generation of Tannens if she’s got one in her belly.

  “Shay,” I say dangerously low and quiet. It’s my line, letting her know that I’ve had enough.

  “Fine, fine. No, party pooper. I’m not pregnant, though that honeymoon was something else. Some. Thing. Else. Whoo, boy. I didn’t know reverse cowgirl was so much fun. Why didn’t you tell me, big brother?”

  I can’t headbutt my truck, so I skip the words I can’t handle and go for the important one. “You’re not pregnant? Then what’s the big news?” I say. Or growl. Same difference, mostly.

  She boops me on the nose with zero fear for her own life, the only person on Earth who can do that. “Guess you’ll have to show back up to find out.”

  And like that was an answer at all, she spins on her heel and skips, literally skips, back to the house, leaving me feeling like I just ran a marathon when all I did was walk from the kitchen to the driveway.

  On second thought, good for Luke. If he can handle all that, good for him. Less for me and my brothers to have to deal with. I try to convince myself that’s true and remind myself that I like Luke, that I was the one who knew Shay was sneaking out to go meet him long before anyone else did and even helped her cover her late-night proclivities. It works, a little bit.

  I take two more trips back and forth from the kitchen to the truck, stepping over Murphy and listening to Shayanne and Mama Louise chattering away, though about what I have no idea, and for now, I don’t care.

  That’s unlike me. I’m usually the silent sleeper who people somehow forget about, even though I’m the size of a barn and I listen intently to just about everything that goes on. I watch people, I listen to them, and I analyze them. I’m not particularly smart book-wise, but I’m observant, and sometimes, that’s even more important.

  But right now, I just want to check these deliveries off my to-do list, eat some dinner, and crash into bed.

  “Bye, ladies. I’ll be back for dinner,” I tell them with my last load, and they both toss an easy smile my way.

  Shay’s happy, and that makes me happy. Way deep down in my heart, beneath all the mud and muck this farm boy is known for these days.

  * * *

  I slam the door of my truck, damn near peeling out of the driveway of my last stop. Even though I’m ready to get the hell outta dodge, I glance up at Millicent Jenkinson, who’s standing in her doorway waving at me. She’s a nice old lady, but I really don’t need another grandma trying to set me up with her granddaughter, and she was the third just today. I don’t know why they think subjecting their beloved daughters and granddaughters to a bastard like me is a good idea. Maybe they’re just desperate and figure beggars can’t be choosers. Because nobody’s choosing me willingly. Too big, too gruff, too quiet.

  Little do they know, those are my best qualities.

  But I’m not a complete asshole, so I toss a two-fingered wave to Mrs. Jenkinson from the steering wheel and drive away without revving my engine. Much.

  The Chris Stapleton song on the radio is a good one, not as good as Bobby’s, but it’ll do for the drive back home. I’m in town but on the far west side from home, and with all the booming growth Great Falls has had the last few years, traffic will be piled up until I reach the city limits. We’re still not big by any stretch, but the roads haven’t quite caught up yet. This could take a while, but a look at the clock tells me I can still make dinner.

  Music and dinner are all that’s on my mind as I sit at the stoplight until I see a group of boys running around a field at the park beside me. In the three rounds of green, yellow, red, I haven’t even made it to the light’s white line, but my heart’s already beating just a little too hard.

  It looks like a football practice, or what’s supposed to be one. There are probably twelve boys out there, around eight or nine years old, I’d guess, not that I’m good at judging kids’ ages. But they’re goofing around with a pigskin, playing more keep-away than running plays.

  I remember being that small, just learning the ropes and enjoying every minute of it. Coaches yelling advice, Dad proudly clapping me on the back when I did well, and Mom cheering from the sidelines. We were so little, there weren’t even bleachers, just foldable camping chairs the parents would set
out to watch us play. It was picturesque and easy, and the bulk of my childhood centers around those happy memories.

  I learned a lot on those fields in the early days, lessons that carried me through puberty and later, through high school in ways both good and bad. Football gave me a focus, a drive, and made me who I am. I hope for the same for those random boys.

  A sentimental smile crosses my face, two in one day, which is probably a record for me. But it’s premature because in the next instant, I see two of the bigger boys tackle one of the smaller guys. He goes down hard, and it was definitely not a clean hit or a good fall. To add insult to injury, I see one of the tackling boys, a blonde-haired lanky kid, dig a toe into the other kid’s side.

  Not just dirty but mean.

  It shouldn’t be like that. Not at that age, not ever. If you’re not good enough to earn the win, take the L and do the work to deserve it next time.

  I blink, and I’m pulling into the parking lot of the park, marching across the field. “Hey! You! What the hell are you doing?”

  Who said that?

  Well, shit. Guess that was my grumbling voice calling out Mr. Kicks-A-Lot. The kid looks like he’s about to piss himself, which would serve him right.