Laird's Choice by Remmy Duchene (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

and watched Laird shoving some toiletries into a carry on.

"You know."

Laird turned around. "You lied to me."

"No. I didn't lie to you, Laird. I told you there were things you should know but I just couldn't tell you."

"You're a coward."

Race swallowed the lump in his throat. He rooted

himself into the spot where he was standing and wrapped his arms around himself. "I see. Do you think I did it?"

Laird said nothing. He simply slipped to his knees and reached under the bed.

"Laird."

"What?"

"Do you think I did it?"

"It doesn't matter."

Race groaned and moved across the room before he

could stop himself. He took Laird by the shoulder and pulled him to stand. Tilting his head, he stared into the man's beautiful eyes. "Tell me. Do you think I did it?"

"Yes."

The strength in his body left him and Race's hands fell from Laird's shoulder. He smiled and nodded his head.

"Put the offer in on the house. If we get it…" Race reached into his pocket and pulled out a check. "I've been walking around with this in my pocket—here. There's no need to call. If you have… If you need more money or if there is anything I need to know, call Winston."

Stepping back, he turned on his heels and left the room. He stopped long enough to grab his hat, then stuffed it over his head and exited the house, closing the door behind him. He didn't want to be anywhere near the ranch when Laird left—he just couldn't watch Laird leave.

Somewhere along the way he'd fallen for the real estate mogul. He knew it wouldn't end well—he knew with his history no one could love him back. But it was good to know he could still feel tenderness toward a lover. He walked through the woods behind Winston's ranch. He kept on walking until it was dark and he was exhausted. He slumped to a large rock, buried his face into his hands and, for the first time in a long while, he cried. For the first time since the day he was arrested for murdering his brother, he allowed tears to flow down his face because the situation warranted it. He was losing something he cared about again.

But he didn't sob for losing Laird—at that moment years of frustration, loss, and anger bubbled to the brim and overflowed. He cried for the brother he didn't get a chance to mourn for. He cried for the conviction that stole his life from him even with the acquittal. He cried because of how foolish he was for thinking the acquittal meant anything and finally, he cried for his broken heart. When he felt drained of tears, Race rose from where he was and leaned his back against a nearby tree.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there

before his back pocket began vibrating. Arching a brow, he reached for the cell phone he still wasn't sure how to operate and pressed the button with the green phone on it.

"What?"

"Race, where are you?" Winston questioned.

"I don't know. I just started walking."

"What? Are you still on my land?"

Race looked around. "Probably. I just can't be there right now."

"What happened? Come home and let's talk. Or tell me where you are and I'll come to you."

"You can't drive here, Winston. He found out. He thinks I did it—he thinks I killed Shane. I just need some time to be by myself."

"Son of a bitch…"

At that moment Race could see the veins at the side of Winston's head throbbing even though he was far away from his friend. "Winston, breathe… it was bound to happen, right?"

"And you two didn't talk this through?"

"He was packing, Winston. There's nothing I could have said to make him stay. And why would I want him to?

He thinks I'm capable of murder. I can't hold it against him though, it's my fault. I should have known better."

"Race…"

"It's all right. I'll be home soon."

Before Winston could continue the argument, Race

hung up.

* * * *

Time passed like a dark cloud taking its sweet time passing before the sun. The days melded into one, leaving Laird with a feeling of foreboding he never thought possible. After a while, it was like he was working through a daze—doing things not because he was paying particular attention, but because they came naturally.

Laird sat in his office staring out the window. Each time his phone rang, he would yank it off the cradle, hoping it was Race. It wasn't. It had been close to three months since he'd packed up and left. True to his words, every business dealing Laird had regarding Race's house was done through Winston. Reaching for the phone on his desk, he dialed Winston's number.

"Hello?"

"Winston, it's Laird."

"Hey."

"How is he?"

"I don't know, Laird. His house is finished. He moved in. He calls once a week to check on me and that's about it. I try figuring out what's happening to him—how he's doing but he doesn't want to talk about that. I'm worried, Laird."

Laird took a breath.

"What happened with you two?" Winston pushed.

"Everything and nothing."

"Shit. You're just as bad as Race with the fucking riddles. For once, could someone give me a goddamn straight answer?"

"He asked me if I thought he did it."

Winston groaned. "And?"

"I told him yes."

"I can't talk to you right now, Laird… that was a fucking asshole thing to do!"

"Winston, I…" Before he could say anything, all he heard was the dial tone. Laird slammed the phone into his desk a few times until it snapped in half in his hand. He dropped the pieces, letting them clatter to the ground, and pushed from his seat. He'd just gotten to his window when a knock sounded, riling him even more. "This place is getting on my damn nerves," he muttered. "What!"

The door eased opened and Xavier stuck his head

in. "Your brother wanted me to pick you up for lunch—is this a bad time?"

Laird tilted his head to one side, desperately trying to kill the hurt he was feeling inside.