Page 24 of Forty

“Because Cristanevergoes out. Scrap Allenbach is gonna hear about it, he’ll show up, and boom! Fireworks!”

Scrap is the one who killed the Rebel Raider who attacked Crista. He recently finished his sentence. According to Lou, it’s been awkward. It was supposed to be this romantic reunion, but Crista wasn’t having it.

“Okay. I’m down. But this does not seem like Harper Ruth-caliber shenanigans.”

Back in the day, during the first wave of clubhouse renovations, Harper finagled it so the brothers demolished a wall at the exact moment Creech was getting a blowjob from Pam, Cue’s grandmother. The logistics alone boggle the mind.

“Keep up, Nevaeh. Scrap is gonna show up with his boys. No one’ll want to miss this show. Forty’ll be there, and he’ll see you, and boom! More fireworks!”

“Won’t Dizzy get pissed at you?”

“Yup, and boom! Orgasms!”

There are a lot of ways this could end in disaster.

“You’re in, right?” she asks.

“Oh, yeah.”

I haven’t been in a bar brawl in a few years. And I haven’t been country line dancing since I was seventeen and polishing off five-dollar pitchers at Sawdust.

A few hours later, I’ve learned a few things. First, Crista’s dog Frances is ah-flippin’-dorable. He’s a bloodhound with ears like an elephant. I want to snack on him at midnight.

Second, Crista’s in a bad way. She’s even twitchier than I am, always looking over her shoulder. I can identify. I’m fairly sure Carlo and the Renellis are in my rearview—if they were seriously looking, with their resources, they would have found me by now—but I’ve still been waking up in a cold sweat. I kind of wish I didn’t get a new number when I left town. As it is, I don’t know if they’re looking for me or not.

I deleted my social media, the whole shebang. I know they can find me if they want to, but I wanted to send a message that I’m gone, and I’ve got no intention of being a problem.

And the final thing I’ve learned in the past hour or so? When push comes to shove, after all this time? I haven’t learned a thing.

It’s all Forty’s fault. An hour ago, he strolled in with some of the brothers—Heavy, Dizzy, Creech, Wall, Scrap, and a couple prospects—and now, I’ve gone stupid.

He’s sitting at a table, his back to the wall, surveying the room and ignoring me. I’m dancing, and yeah, I put a little more shake in my booty than strictly necessary, but I’m playing it cool.

And then Scrap convinces Crista to dance. It’s so damn cute. She doesn’t know how to move her feet, and he’s way more confident than he should be. He’s smiling just for her, and her lips are finally curling up, the first hint she’s having fun I’ve seen all night.

I feel a little glow in my chest, and my feet really find the rhythm—point-cross, rock-back, heel-dig—as the man in a black shirt and silver bolo tie calls out the steps from a low stage along the far wall.

I’m sweating, my breath’s coming quick, and all my limbs are loose. I get that dancing high. Life is good.

Maybe Forty and I aren’t meant to be civil, but it’s a small town, and maybe there’s room for us all. I can put down roots. I can make friends.

Fay-Lee’s nowhere to be seen. Dizzy hauled her off as soon as he spotted her. She’ll be back, though. We’re gonna have a great time, and everyone’ll get over themselves, and she’ll be my bestie.

Maybe this thing with Shirlene will pan out. Become a full-time gig.

With the fiddle singing, the boots stomping, and the hoots and yelps, everything seems bright and happy and possible. My body’s buzzing just from Forty being in the same room. Also, the beers.

My hair’s sticking to my damp forehead, so I shake it out and accidentally make eye contact with a man dancing near me. I grin ‘cause it’s ridiculous. It must have looked like a stripper hair flip.

The guy’s about my age, built, with a red beard and freckles. He grins back and dips his head, cowboy-style. This is fun. I hope they play Garth Brooks next. Do they take requests? I scoot and stomp, and then I make the mistake of glancing at the table where Steel Bones are sitting.

Shit.

Shivers shoot down my spine like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.

There are at least seven huge-ass bikers glaring daggers at me as if they’re seconds from flipping the table and throwing me out on my ass. Heavy, Nickel, Creech, all of them except Forty who’s purposefully staring over at the bar. People have cleared out of the tables nearest them, and everyone in the vicinity is shooting them wary looks.

Ah, crap. Back in the day, Steel Bones wasn’t down with attacking women. But like Lou says, a lot has changed. My heart kicks into gear, and adrenaline shoots through my veins. Fight or flight. This isn’t for show. These aren’t the hard faces the guys put on with their cuts and wallet chains. There’s hate in their eyes. Banked violence. Scorn.

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