Page 94 of Free Agent

Tam groaned. “Tatum is going to be so fucking mad at me.”

“What? What did I do?”

Tam just shook her head. “Nothing, baby. There’s your man,” she said, and I had zero urge to correct her as I turned back around to look for Tatum.

Lord, there he was, in all his offensive-lineman-sized glory, peeling off his shirt.

Solid and fine.

And clearly a crowd favorite.

“Okay, you thirsty bitches can relax a little, damn, have some respect!” I yelled, and Tatum actually heard me, approaching the barrier laughing.

“What y’all done did to her?” he asked across the rope barrier, grabbing my wrist and pulling me closer.

“We overserved her a tiny bit. Sorry, Tater,” Geneva said.

“I’m grown,” I countered, still too loud, and Tatum laughed.

“Overserved her with what? These lil beers?” He gave me a look that was simultaneously impressed and confused. “How many did you drink?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. He just laughed again, pulling me fully against him with no regard for the crisp white top, jeans, and cognac-toned cowgirl boots that completed my look.

I didn’t care either, actually.

He felt good, and the envy radiating off the women around me was delicious, especially when he positioned his mouth over mine, giving me a deep, nasty-ass kiss that was much more appropriate for behind closed doors.

Actually, from the amused look on his face when he pulled back… I might have been the one to give him the nasty-ass kiss.

But, whatever.

Semantics.

“Please keep her out of trouble,” Tatum asked Tam and Geneva, who laughingly promised to do exactly that.

And they did.

They practically force-fed me water to sober me up, which meant a bunch of trips to the bathroom line, which was sobering in and of itself.

Between pee breaks, though, we line-danced, watched some trick riders, and Geneva and I watched while Tam rode a mechanical bull like she had Olympic-level stripper training.

It was the most impressive thing I’d ever seen, and she climbed off with a smile like she hadn’t just accomplished a feat that had the audience envious and desirous at the same damn time.

“I am pretty sure I’d need a chiropractor if I attempted even a twentieth of what you just did on that damn bull,” I told her, bringing her a freshly cracked bottle of water. She accepted it, taking a long swig before she shook her head and smiled.

“Girl, there was a nigga in the audience I want real bad. Had to put on a little show,” she told me with a wink.

“And he was surely watching you hard as shit,” Geneva laughed. “I peeped him out.”

“He already has your number?” I asked.

She laughed. “He does. He does.”

“Girl, go ahead and start stretching then. ’Cause he’ll surely be calling you.”

It was that time of night, where everything was starting to feel a little romantic. Between the fairy lights all over the place, the shift in the music, and the switch from beers in the cooler to drinks at the bar tents, it was club closing vibes all around.

There was a space for camping out, which it seemed like a large amount of people were doing, and then also an area I’d thought was some type of photo op but turned out to be a little single room cabin setups inside of oversized bourbon barrels.

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