Page 15 of Wild Horses

“Nope. Want to tell me what you mean behind the corporate double-speak?”

Do I want to tell her? Tell her how I betrayed my sister for years and only just grew brave enough to stick up for her and myself? How I’ve been railroaded and bullied into a career I didn’t want, a life I’d never have chosen for myself?

When I don’t answer, her hand drops from the steering wheel and squeezes my thigh. “No pressure. You don’t owe meany answers. If you’re happy with where you’re headed, that’s all that matters anyway.” She slows the truck as we pull up in front of a building that more closely resembles a shack than any sort of business. “You ready?”

“This is the place?” The bar sits catty-corner to a questionable motel and nothing else. It’s as if the two buildings sprang out of the earth in the middle of nowhere. Competing garish neon signs fritz in and out, and the pock-marked parking lot is full of worn gravel and pickups that look like Laramie’s.

“Yep.”

I consider snapping a selfie in front of this ramshackle bar and sending it to my parents to show them how far I am, physically and emotionally, from the man I’ve always been. Instead, I nod. “Let’s go.”

As we enter the smoky, crowded space, I’m thankful for my outfit. I blend in with everyone here. If I’d shown up in a suit, I would have stuck out like a sore thumb. I rest my hand on Laramie’s lower back and whisper, “Good call on the clothes.”

“I’ve got you.”

Those words settle over me, calming my nerves while stoking the embers of my want for her.She’s got me.In more ways than she even knows. Shaking my head, I try to ignore the unfamiliar feelings powering through me. I don’t do fast. Instant connections are for fairy tales and people who deserve them, like Tuesday.

“Hey, Noah, we’ll take two house shots, two waters, and two of whatever you’ve got on tap tonight.” Laramie is perfectly at ease, sliding up to the bar. And fucking hot in painted-on boot-cut jeans and a fitted button-up shirt. Her eyes glitter beneath the brim of her cowboy hat, and her long, shiny brown hair cascades down her back in waves. It isn’t a look I’m normally drawn to, but on Laramie, it’s got me hard as a rock.

“Sure thing, darlin’. You eating too?” I clench my jaw at his overly familiar pet name and press into Laramie’s side.

Without missing a beat, she slips her hand into my back pocket as she answers, “Hell, yes. Two specials. We’ll be in the corner.” Before I can process that she ordered for us, she’s leading me across a floor coated with sawdust and peanut shells. Twangy music plays over the speakers, and a handful of people dance off to the side of the bar. Others call out to her in greeting. Laramie waves but doesn’t pause on her trek.

When we reach the dimly lit back corner, Laramie tosses her hat onto the table and slides into a curved booth with worn vinyl, patting the seat. When I hesitate, her eyes soften. “You good? I promise I won’t bite—unless you’re into that.”

“Damn, I am so far out of my comfort zone.” Despite the boisterous crowd, Laramie hears my mumbled words.

“Hey, if you hate it, we can go. No hard feelings. I get this probably isn’t your usual scene.”

I huff and settle next to her, hooking my arm around her shoulder. Something about touching her feels so right. “No, it isn’t, but maybe that’s a good thing. What exactly did you order?”

“The house shots are just the worst, cheapest tequila you’ve ever tasted served with lime and salt. Tap will be something light and watered down. Tonight’s special is the previously promised steak fingers and water…” She grins. “Do I need to explain that one?”

“You’re such a smart ass.” Without thinking, I drop a kiss to her head and breathe in her subtle and surprisingly floral scent. I freeze, waiting for her reaction, but all Laramie does is snuggle into my chest. Clearing my throat, I say, “The bartender seemed to know you. Are you a regular?”

“Only when I’m in town. I travel a lot during the year, but when I’m at home, I stop here at least once a week.”

I’m about to ask her why she travels so much when an older waitress with a tired, kind smile drops a tray on our table. “Hey there, Laramie.”

“Hi, Dolores. How’s Mel?”

Our waitress—Dolores—snorts and waves a weathered hand. “You know that old SOB. He’s as ornery as ever.” Dolores leans in and pats Laramie’s hand. “We both think it’s a real damn shame about your arm. You’d have taken the title this year; I know it.”

Laramie’s entire body stiffens, her weight shifting slightly as tension pulls her shoulders toward her ears. “There’s always next year, right?” Her words are stilted and practiced, and I’m reminded of myself at shareholder meetings promising returns on investments regardless of the state of the economy.

Thanking Dolores, I snag the shots and pass one to Laramie. “How about you show me how this is done, Trouble?”

The relief in her body is instant, and she shifts her attention from Dolores’ retreating form back to me. “You’ve never done a tequila shot? Maybe instead of Pretty Boy, I should call you Sheltered Boy.”

A barking laugh rumbles out of me, and I lean into her, dropping to a whisper. “I have done shots before, but you looked like you needed an out. Want to talk about it?”

“Nope, but I do want to lick this salt off you and then suck this lime from your lips.”

My mouth drops open, and Laramie takes advantage, sliding the lime between my teeth.

“You okay with this?”

At my nod, my brazen cowgirl snags my arm and rolls up my sleeve. Keeping her eyes locked on mine, she licks the thin skin of my inner wrist. The warm wetness of her tongue hasme dropping my head against the warped padding of the booth.

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