Page 37 of Eight Second Hearts

“That’s probably a bad idea,” I tell him, my fingers clenching tighter in his shirt.

“Maybe,” he chuckles, and I swear it makes my legs weak.

The song ends and the band launches into another upbeat tune, bringing everyone back to the dance floor in lines. I lean back, my cheeks flushed, and look up at the man that has me all twisted in knots.

The little crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes scrunch up, and I melt just a little bit more.

“Would you like another drink,periodista?” he asks.

I nod. “Please.”

“Coming right up.” He finally releases me and steps back, but it takes me a second to unscrunch my hands from his shirt and let him. He winks at me and cuts through the crowd, leaving me to stare after him in confusion.

Beau, I get. He’s a ladies’ man, always flirting, always teasing. There’s nothing that can bring him down. But Ram? What reason would he have to play this game?

My skin is flushed from the interaction, and I press a hand against my cheek. I need some fresh air. I glance over in the direction of the bar. Ram’s going to be there awhile. Since we’ve arrived, the tent has filled up and the lines are long. I have time to get some air.

I slip from the pole tent, immediately tilting my head back to enjoy the chill air that presses on my heated skin. I’m so focused on the feeling that I don’t immediately notice that I’m not alone. Not until he speaks.

“Too many people in there,” he says, and I jerk, searching for the source. I’m surprised to find Tripp sitting on top of a stack of hay bales someone clearly placed to give everything more of a western aesthetic. He’s sprawled out, his eyes hooded in a way that tells me he’s had plenty to drink already. He doesn’t hold a beer in his hand. Instead, he holds a plastic cup with some sort of amber-colored liquor.

“You don’t like crowds?” I ask, tilting my head.

“Never have,” he admits, his eyes watching me.

Something tells me if he tried to get up and walk right about now that he wouldn’t be able to in a straight line. I have no idea how Tripp Savage managed to get drunk so fast, but he’s clearly had experience doing it.

I move over to the haybale and climb up on top of it to reach him before taking a seat beside him. From here, the position overlooks the nice bull riding bronze statue and the small water fountain at the base of it. I notice Tripp’s gaze is on the statue, on the way the unknown bull rider throws his hand in the air.

“Are you okay?” I ask, feeling the dark cloud around him.

“Yep.” He doesn’t look at me. “Just a phone call with dear old dad.”

His words are mocking, almost bitter.

“I assume it wasn’t a good call.”

“It never is,” he laughs, but the sound lacks any real mirth. He finishes off the drink and sets it aside before reaching for another one I hadn’t even seen he’d set beside him. “What brings you out here? I assumed Beau and Ram would be falling over themselves to impress you.”

I study him carefully. “Ram went to get me another drink. Beau is dancing.” He hums under his breath but doesn’t reply. “You and your dad don’t have a good relationship?”

“Does anyone have a good relationship with their father?” he asks, leaning back on his elbows to look up at the stars. “Being a legacy ain’t everything it’s talked up to be.”

It’s the most Tripp Savage has ever spoken to me about personal matters, and I find myself fascinated by the sheer amount of anger in his words. I’ve never heard someone sound so. . . fiercely consumed with rage.

“I wouldn’t know,” I admit. “My own father-daughter relationship has its problems, too.” I’d ignored a handful of calls this week, trying my hardest to ignore the fact that my own father sits in jail for crimes he very much apparently committed. Ten years they’d given him, and apparently, he deserves it. I’d seen the evidence. They’d tried to use it to convince me I was part of it, too. When they realized I didn’t know anything, they’d tried to say I should forget all of it, but who forgets the evidence their father is a criminal. “At least you have a good legacy,” I whisper. “Some of us aren’t so lucky.”

He glances at me from the corner of his eyes. “Hard to believe someone like you has any sort of bad luck.”

I laugh. “Coming from someone who hates me, I’ll consider that a compliment.”

He turns fully to me, his eyes reflecting the night sky back to me. “Why exactly would you think I hate you?”

I shrug. “You don’t give any evidence otherwise. Seems kind of obvious you don’t like me.”

“You’re too pretty to hate,” he grumbles. “Too fuckin’ smart. It pisses me off, but I don’t hate you. Far from it.”

I snort. “Okay, now I know you’ve had too much to drink,” I say. “Tripp Savage paying me multiple compliments? The worlds must be off kilter.”

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