Not Until I Finish This
980 Words
It was late afternoon when Harley heard the gravel crunch outside her house.
She peered through the window, heart already thumping—and there it was:
Beau’s truck.
Trailer hitched.
Window down.
Blue roan loaded and pawing in the stall like he was just as impatient as his rider.
She opened the door before he knocked.
He was halfway up her steps, in worn jeans and a white tee stretched across his chest like sin, ball cap turned backward, one hand resting on his belt.
She didn’t speak.
He didn’t smile.
He just nodded toward the drive.
“Get your boots.”
She blinked. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Picking you up.”
“For what?”
“The rodeo in Bakersfield. You’ve got the 7:30 slot.”
Her jaw dropped. “Beau—”
“Don’t fight me on this,” he said, stepping closer. “You ran the fastest time of the slack. You’re still registered. I’m not letting you sit home with your arms crossed like the last one didn’t count.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“No,” he said. “But you showed up last time. And I saw the look on your face when you came off that pattern.”
She looked away.
He dipped his head to catch her eyes.
“You miss it.”
Silence.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of her t-shirt sleeve.
“I’m not just dragging you out there to prove something,” he said. “I’m taking you because you’re already in it. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
Her throat tightened.
She looked past him to the trailer.
Then back to the man who had slowly, relentlessly unraveled her over the last few weeks—and still wouldn’t let her fall.
“You going to stand there all day?” he asked. “Or are you gonna ride like you’ve got something to burn off?”
She stared at him.
And then—
She turned, went back inside, and grabbed her boots.
The cab of Beau’s truck was silent for the first twenty minutes.
Too silent.
Harley stared out the passenger window, boots on the floor, hands folded in her lap like she hadn’t broken apart in his hands a few nights ago. Like she hadn’t nearly kissed him in a bathroom. Like he hadn’t watched her run barrels like she was chasing something she lost.
She could feel him beside her.
The quiet tension.
The way his knuckles flexed on the wheel.
The way he glanced at her at every mile marker like he was waiting for her to breathe wrong.
She hadn’t said a word since she climbed in.
Neither had he.
Until the turnoff came.
And instead of passing it, he slowed.
Turned off the main road.
And pulled onto a narrow gravel turnout, the kind with faded tire tracks and wild sunflowers leaning into the wind.
Then he killed the engine.
The sudden stillness made her heartbeat spike.
She looked over.
He didn’t move.
Just kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on his thigh, thumb tapping once before going still.
“I can’t keep driving with you like this,” he said quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re pretending I didn’t already ruin you.”
Her breath hitched.
He turned to her.
Slow. Steady. Devastating.
“This isn’t just about a ride to the rodeo,” he said. “And it’s not about finishing what I started in that evidence room.”
“Then what is it?” she whispered.
“It’s me,” he said, voice dropping. “Wanting more than the pieces.”
She looked away. “I don’t know how to give that.”
“I’m not asking for easy,” he said. “I’m asking for real.”
Harley swallowed hard.
“I’m not soft.”
Beau leaned in slightly, forearm resting on the wheel, eyes locked on her.
“I don’t want soft,” he said. “I want you. Sharp edges. Bad habits. That fire in your gut when someone tries to control you.”
“You don’t want to control me?” she asked, voice unsteady.
He smiled—slow. Dark.
“No,” he said. “I want to hold you still long enough to make sure you don’t burn yourself down before you realize you’re already mine.”
She stared at him, heart pounding.
And in that silence?
In that tight, humid cab full of heat and breath and everything they weren’t saying…
She stopped pretending.
Beau’s confession hung in the cab like smoke.
Still. Heavy. Flammable.
Harley didn’t look away.
She didn’t soften.
She sat there, jaw clenched, eyes locked on his.
And then, after a long beat, she said the one word that made his knuckles flex against the wheel.
“Drive.”
Beau didn’t ask if she was sure.
Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t gloat.
He just nodded once.
Turned the key.
And pulled them back onto the road with dust curling behind the tires like a fuse lit and burning.
The silence returned—but this time, it was a loaded, aching silence.
Her thigh brushed his every time he shifted.
His jaw was tight. Breath even.
But Harley could feel it.
The way his control was cracking beneath the surface.
The way every mile closer to that rodeo was a countdown to something inevitable.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t touch him.
But she didn’t pull away either.
She sat in that passenger seat, pulse thudding between her legs, fingers curled against her thigh like she could stop what was coming.
She couldn’t.
And when they pulled into the rodeo grounds?
When the lights from the barns hit the windshield?
He cut the engine.
Turned to her.
And said—
“Trailer. Five minutes.”
- Writer
