Page 7 of Rope Me In

Jake’s eyes bounce between us, and he stays silent for a moment before he says, “Sure thing. Presley, you can scope out the place for a few minutes. If you want, hop out back to get a little fresh air. It’s going to be a long night.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m going to have to work hard tonight to make a better and less-awkward impression on my new boss if I want to keep this job.

Jake continues, “Once Gav and I are done, I’ll send him out to show you the ropes.”

I nod. “Sounds good.”

Both men smile warmly at me before they walk toward the door Kade stormed through a few minutes before. I take a brief moment to look around the bar and expel a tense breath.

In the silence, my thoughts and anxiety become louder, like pots and pans clanging around in my brain. It leaves me wondering if coming here was a good idea.

You can do this, Presley. You can do this.

Chapter 3

Kade

I press my headagainst the brick wall. The October sun is still bright, but soon, the sun will start to set, and people will trickle in for happy hour. Which is a funny concept if you think about it. The implication is that you only get to be happy for an hour, or in some cases, a few hours. And that happiness is supplied to you by half-priced alcohol and deep-fried bar food. Or my favorite: all-you-can-eat chips and salsa.

And why is that even more funny to a man like me? Because people wonder why we have so many cases of alcoholism in the United States. We’re born and bred to believe our lives should consist of hard work and only hours of happiness. Happiness that is then supplied by alcohol.

I laugh at myself. I’m not even old enough to rent a car yet; I should be thinking about more interesting things. Or happier things, though my thoughts are a product of living in Randall my whole life. I often think that if I hadn’t been born here, maybe I’d be fresh out of college or working in corporate America—not that those options are better than shoveling cow shit. In fact, most people around here would say it’s more fun to be knee-deep in muck rather than working for The Man as a suit monkey.

I pull my silver flask from my pocket and stare at it for a moment, tracing the engraved Montgomery monogram with my index finger. I carry it out of habit, but after last night, I found myself filling it for the first time since before the accident.

The flask is a family heirloom. Figures that Dad would leave a symbol of his love for alcohol to me while leaving our ranch, the only thing I wanted, to Gavin—the thing he promised me right before he died.

I unscrew the cap and bring the whiskey to my lips.

As I tip it back to take a swig, the back door opens, and I see a flash of blonde. This must be the new hire that was standing with Jake when I walked in. I’m not sure, though, because I didn’t get a good look. I was too busy being annoyed with my brother. He’d been upset with me about coming home this morning smelling like alcohol and sex then even more upset I agreed to teach line dancing tonight.

No matter how many times I told him I was fine, that he didn’t need to worry, he wouldn’t stop pestering me. He wanted to know what happened after my doctor’s appointment, where I went, how much I drank, who I was with. None of which is his business—and never will be his business. I’m a grown adult. He doesn’t have control over what I choose to do with my life orwhoI choose to do, even though he thinks he does.

“Sorry, I can leave.” The velvety sound of my guest’s voice has the hair on my arms standing on end. The lush resonance of it reminds me of how a woman’s voice sounds when she first wakes up in the morning, thoroughly sated. It grabs my attention in more ways than one.

Ignoring the effect a simple voice has on my groin, I shift my body to look at the girl, or should I say woman, from beneath the brim of my hat.

The first thing I notice is that her hair isn’t fully blonde. It’s wavy, framing her diamond-shaped face, but what makes it unique is the purple. There are different shades of it, starting lighter near her cheekbones and moving into darker, violet tones at the bottom. The color makes her skin look ivory, as if she hasn’t seen the sun in months.

When I meet her eyes, unsure sapphire irises stare back at me. After a brief second, she looks down at her feet then back up.When she does that a few more times, it becomes clear she’s unable to hold my stare for long, as if my eye contact makes her nervous.

“Right, I’ll—” She points to the door, turning to head back in. I get a flash of her generous ass in a pair of form-fitting black jeans, which doesn’t help the tight-pants situation I’ve got going on. You’d think I’d be sated after the fun I had last night, but honestly, while the release felt good, it only provided me with a few moments of fleeting pleasure, leaving me emptier than before—like a black void of nothingness. I want to chuckle to myself, because maybe I was wrong and I already have gone numb without the use of my vices.

As the woman is about to open the door, I manage to speak up. “You can stay. This is a free country, after all.”

She turns, her eyes moving to my flask before her shoulders slouch and she slips her hands in her pockets. She starts fishing awkwardly for something, her gaze trained on the ground while she pats her jeans and apron pockets.

While she’s distracted, I let my eyes wander her pear-shaped body. Besides the unique shade of her hair—that I know is going to garner her quite a bit of attention from the people in this town—she’s got a bunch of tattoos inked down her left arm. That’s something I never see in Randall. A few of the guys get ‘em, but I can’t think of any woman I know who has any. If they do, they’re hidden. But I like the way the black-and-gray flowers look against her skin. I have the urge to ask her why she chose the flowers that she did. Maybe she has a thing for violets since her hair is violet, too.

When she hikes up her jeans that have slid down her wide hips and puts what looks like a vape pen to her mouth, I stop my perusal.

“You smoke?” I ask, surprised. Sure, she has colored hair and tattoos, but she doesn’t strike me as a smoker. But maybe that’s why her voice sounds like sex.

Her cheeks blush a delicious pink color, and she pulls the pen from between her lips. “I did for a few years when I was in college. A nasty habit. I quit a few years back.”

“Then what is that?”

She eyes the thing in her hand. “It’s an inhaler that has peppermint, valerian root, and chamomile in it. It’s supposed to calm you.”

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