Page 4 of The Oath We Take

I grab the guy by the scruff of his shirt and drag him so quickly to the exit, he trips and falls forward. His feet pedal against Whiskey Fever’s peanut-shell-covered floor, but I don’t let him stand.

The path to the exit parts like I’m Moses splitting the Dead Sea, or however that Bible story goes.

“Hey, let go of my friend,” someone shouts and tries to grab for my arm. One of the great joys of hard-earned rancher biceps is he can’t quite manage to get his hand around it to stop me.

“You got a death wish?” Catfish asks, holding the friend at bay. Our club treasurer got brushed with the pretty stick when he was born and likes to come out on the weekend and put those good looks to use. But people underestimate his easy-going nature when they fall on the wrong side of him or the club. “When a woman says no, she means no. Your friend needs a lesson to remember that.”

“You hear that?” I say to the blond-haired, blue-eyed college student I watched attempt to chat up a group of girls, then turn aggressive when they shot him down.

He fights the hold I have on him. I think the collar of his shirt might be choking him. “Let…me…go.”

The door is in sight, and when I get there, I toss him out into the street. He lands on the road with a thud, and I step over him, gripping his chin. “It’s cool to go say hello to a pretty girl in a bar, but as soon as she tells you any version of ‘go away,’ you go—the fuck—away. Next time I see you grab a woman in a bar, your momma will spend the rest of her life wondering what the fuck happened to you while you die slowly in a box six feet underground surrounded by your own shit and piss.”

Catfish slaps my shoulder as he glares down at the man on the street. “Lesson learned, right, kid?”

The guy nods. “I’m…sorry.”

I shove him back to the ground. “Go home.”

Catfish looks at me and begins to sing some old song about being someone’s hero.

“Fuck off,” I say, biting back a grin.

“Let’s get you a beer, big guy,” he says. “You earned it, doing your good deed for the day.”

“Can your good deed for the day be that we don’t have to go back inside?” I ask.

He shoves me toward the door. “You’ll thank me later when you’re buried balls deep in thoroughly consenting pussy.”

The truth is, as the enforcer of the Iron Outlaws, I’d rather be anywhere other than Whiskey Fever on a Saturday night. It’s an old-school honky-tonk. Round tables and wooden chairs surround a large wooden dance floor as loud country music with a beat for line dancing plays.

The scent of good cooking fills the place. Ribs and wings drenched in honey barbecue and chili.

It’s packed, as usual, on a weekend night. Too many people, too many fights, and too much noise for me. I’m a country boy who likes, well, wide-open spaces and the silence that comes along with them.

And it also contains horny bucks who think the girls in the bar owe them a good time.

Yet the biggest problem with Whiskey Fever, beyond the rule of no club colors worn inside? It’s run by Ember.

With her wild strawberry-blonde curls, generous smile, and a curvaceous Stevie Nicks vibe, she’s always been a looker. Over the years she’s grown into her looks. There are more rings on her fingers, and I’ve lost track of the number of ear piercings she now rocks.

But you can see her inner confidence in the effortlessly charming way she chats and laughs with customers, continuously drawing them to her bar. She remembers their names, has a knack for guessing what drinks people want, and runs a tight ship. Her employees love her because she pays them above minimum wage, lets them keep their tips, and gives them vacation.

She also has a baseball bat behind the bar that she’s been known to swing if shit gets too rowdy. And I’m pretty certain there is at least one Beretta hidden in a strategic place out of customers’ reach that she could grab if needed.

People know her now as an ebullient bar owner. But I still see her quiet love of the outdoors. The way she’ll ride her horse for days, and her love of camping out beneath the stars. She cooked the best campfire meals I ever tasted when we were younger and went on club campouts.

Like me, she chooses her chaos wisely.

All of which make it damn near impossible to keep my hands off her after all these years since I turned her down.

From that day, our relationship changed, both of us doing what we had to do to move past that painful afternoon. Dismissing her to keep her at arm’s length became my default. She vacillates between being that young girl who looked at me like I was her whole world and a jaded woman who can’t stand the sight of me.

And I switch between being the overbearing big brother she never had and an antagonist who lives to rile her.

Right now, she’s leaning over the bar, flirting with some dipshit in a shirt a size too small, jeans so tight that you can see his junk, and a pant hem that doesn’t properly meet his boot. I want to kill the fucker for violations against fashion alone.

Definitely an out-of-towner, because no cowboy would be seen dead in an outfit like that.

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