Page 1 of Just Say When

1

Essie

If there was one thing Braxton Hale excelled at, it was ruining a good time.

Specifically,mygood time.

I took a casual sip of my club soda with lime and pretended I didn’t see Brax glaring at my reflection in the oily mirror from two barstools down. He’d probably already tattled to my twin brother, Jack. Later tonight I’d get an email from somewhere in the world—Jack rarely gave me an exact location, preferring to keep it vague, like “the Middle East” or “Africa”—demanding to know why I was at the Painted Cat, flirting with Alan Gaffney, a man a decade older who had a reputation for being a mean drunk.

Because of course Brax thought I was flirting. That was what I wanted him to think—thehimbeing Alan Gaffney, of course. I didn’t give a hotdamn in hell what Brax thought, so long as he didn’t think I was here to get the man good and drunk so I could steal his horse.

Which was exactly what I was there to do.

A good time if ever there was one, and I was not about to let Brax Hale ruin it for me.

Pretending Brax didn’t exist, I angled my body toward Alan and swung my leg, letting the short skirt I was wearing creep up my thigh another inch, because I wasn’t above such things.

Alan was whining about something because, in addition to being a mean drunk, he was a man-baby.

I cupped my chin in my hands and stared at him like I found it all super fascinating. “Tell me more about that.”

It was something I’d heard my friend, Chloe Adams, say and it never failed to get someone talking. Of course, Chloe was working on her doctorate in psychology in addition to being a barista at the local coffee shop, and she actually cared about the answer. Whereas I only cared about hearing whether Alan was slurring his words yet.

“It’s like this,” he said, each syllable perfectly crisp.

I sighed and rubbed my temple. That was the problem with getting a drunk drunk. It took a lot more alcohol to get them there. Reluctantly, I pushed my empty glass across the bar toward Janie, who took it with a raised eyebrow.

“Another round?” she asked.

I nodded. I was drinking a gin gimlet, hold the gin, but that was a secret between me and Janie. She hadn’t asked why and I liked that about her. A splash of something stronger to get me through this tedious conversation with Alan would have been nice, but that wasn’t a good idea. Rule Number One of horse rustling was don’t get drunk on the job. Probably, anyway. This was my first go at it, but I already suspected I was a natural.

“And another beer for my friend,” I added as Alan tipped the last of his ale down his throat.

His grin was lascivious as he swayed toward me. “Thank you,friend.”

I didn’t like anything about that, but I managed to swallow my vomit and smile back. “How about a shot of whiskey to wash it down?” I suggested to speed things along. “You could use it after such a rough day.”

“Top shelf.” His eyes glinted.

The audacity. What, exactly, did he think he was offering me in return? Sloppy sex? He couldn’t honestly believe he was worth top shelf. I could do better for myself with both hands tied behind my back.

Janie looked at me, waiting. Masking my wince, I nodded. “Top shelf.”

Goddamn, stealing a horse was an expensive thing. Paying in liquor might cost me more than paying in cash—which I had already tried, to no avail. If there was one universal truth of abusers, it was that they liked to keepthe object of their abuse close, whether they were beating a woman or beating an animal.

Alan had been guilty of both at one time or another. His wife had had the good sense to leave his sorry ass years ago, but Pirate never had that option. Alan had won him as a leggy yearling in a poker game with a rich kid who had more money than sense. In the two years since, he’d kept him locked in his backyard that was barely big enough for a dog, forgetting to feed him more often than not.

I might never have known about it, but Alan liked to brag. There wasn’t a single person in Aspen Springs, Colorado, who hadn’t heard how Alan Gaffney had won Gee Whizz’s colt with a straight flush and someday he’d be rich from stud fees.

Unlikely, considering Pirate spent every day standing cannon deep in his own shit, thrush evident in both hind hooves.

It made my blood boil thinking about it now. Boiled my blood and steeled my resolve.

Getting Pirate out of there was worth every cent of that whiskey. More. Not because the blood of a champion ran through his veins, but because the heart of a champion beat in his chest. I had taken one look at his mismatched eyes—one blue, one brown—and promptly fallen in love.

I had to save him.

“Hellion.”

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