Page 4 of Dark Horse

She continues dolingout shots and ignoring me like I didn’t see her pick up her phone and read my message. I’m gripping the glass so tight I’m about to shatter it by the time she finally starts to saunter my way, a glass of whisky in hand. She was the one who summoned me here in the first place, complaining that there’s a maintenance issue in the apartment she lives in upstairs. I’d planned to have a drink while I waited for her to have a free moment, not watch a live show of her spitting down the throats of a half dozen college guys before she slapped and drenched them. I have work I need to return to at the Avarice.

“Your whisky.” She sets the drink down in front of me without any fanfare.

“Funny, I thought it was Speyside, not spit side,” I mutter, and she raises her eyebrow in return.

“Jealous? Because if you want it served that way, it can be arranged.” She’s always sassy, but it’s turned up a notch tonight.

“I think I might be too old to be impressed by that sort of thing.” I glance back at the college kids who are still shouting and cheering as one of their own chugs beer from a boot-shaped glass. Seven Sins and Dakota lean into all the kitsch of the country dive bar and then some.

“Oh, Cowboy, it’s okay. I know that big birthday’s just around the corner for you, but we don’t judge around here.” She speaks with a saccharine tone and points back at the glowing red neon sign behind the bar that says Sinners Welcome.

I narrow my eyes at her. I don’t need to be reminded that I’m closing in on forty; the gray hairs that keep popping up handle that daily reminder just fine.

“Not worried about my age as much as I’m worried about you not being able to handle the extra whiskey you’re swallowing and falling off this bar,” I taunt her. She nearly slipped the last time getting down, and I pictured her falling backward, a mess of limbs and shattered glass. I’d lose my fucking mind if I lost another Hartfield right in front of me.

“Hayley! Get me a water, please!” she calls over her shoulder before the false smile returns. “I think you’d be surprised what I can handle.” She looks me over in one slow rake before her blue-green eyes come back up to meet mine. “Unless you’re scared?”

“Scared of what?” I bluster because I’m fucking terrified when I watch her climb up on the bar in front of me. Not about her falling, at least not in this moment because she’s nimbly navigating the counter and already perched in front of me, but that this is only going to give the crowd and her moreencouragement. I can’t back down though. I’ll look like I cower from a twenty-something woman simply teasing me a little, and it’ll be hard to get anyone to take me seriously after that.

“That you might like it.” Her lips pull up at the corners as she spreads her legs in front of me. She studies my face for a moment, the sly smile growing as she reaches forward and grabs my tie. She wraps it around her fist once and tugs. “Come closer. I won’t bite.”

“You always fucking bite,” I mutter.

“At least not hard,” she says softer, and I’m starting to see why this works so well with the men in this bar. The proximity would knock me off guard if she wasn’t Jesse’s sister.

The college boys have their full attention on her, and they’re practically rabid. Screaming, hollering, and cheering her on. A low rumble erupts as I scoot forward on the seat, and her knees bump my shoulders. I look down at her long legs in front of me, studying the curve of her calves in her boots, and for one blackout second, I’m tempted to run my hands up the backs of them.

At least until I see her grab the expensive glass like it’s another shot of bottom-shelf liquor.

“That’s fifty dollars’ worth of alcohol,” I protest as she presses it to her lips.

“Then let’s try not to spill it.” She smirks as she knocks back the whisky. Despite her self-assured taunting, some of it dribbles down the corner of her chin, and she presses her fingers to her lips as she smiles.

“Fuck that’s hot! I want to be that fucking whisky!” one guy chimes in loudly.

The way I’m tempted to drag her upstairs to lecture her on how fucking stupid and risky this little routine is—how stupid it is to rile these guys up like this—but I don’t have time to think more. Her hand is under my jaw, pressing me to open mymouth wider, and I follow her lead. We’re in this now, whether I like it or not.

The rest is a lightning-fast blur. She spits in my mouth, and I barely have time to swallow it before her hand comes flying toward my face. She pulls the punch more than she would’ve with anyone else, but I can feel each and every ring on her finger as her open palm strikes against my skin, leaving a crisp burn of contact in its wake before it’s doused with ice-cold water.

I gasp, nearly choking on the last bit of whisky. I haven’t swallowed it all before I run my fingers through my wet hair and sweep it out of my face. When I look up, she looks surprised at her own work, just before it morphs into a smile so sweet, you’d almost think it was real instead of what it is—an act for everyone in this room.

It’s working too. The howls and hoots get even louder, and her college boys are chanting her name from the other side of the bar. In the midst of it all, we just stare at each other, like the first one to blink loses.

“You all right there, Cowboy? Don’t choke to death on me,” she teases, her eyes lighting with amusement as they fall over the water stains on my suit and the drips of whisky still caught in my beard.

“As I’ve ever been.” I glare back at her, swiping at the mess, but it’s hard to keep the malice in it when I see how delighted she is.

Hayley leans forward past her and hands me a napkin. I smile and thank her, losing Dakota’s eyes in the process. She takes it as a victory and swings her legs back over the counter, gathering the glasses and tucking them under the bar in the dirty bin before she grabs a rag to wipe down the last of the water. She tosses it back into the sterilizing solution and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear—drawing out everylittle motion, like she’s doing her best to avoid looking at me again.

But for a split second, as if time is frozen, I can’t stop looking at her; the way her blue-green eyes catch the neon, the way it halos around her highlighted dark brunette hair, how she rolls her lower lip between her teeth when she works, the way the sun has already colored her cheeks with freckles this season—it’s hard not to notice. If she were anyone else, I might tell her how gorgeous she is, but with her, I can’t. With her, I’ve only got the well-worn track the two of us travel side by side. She’s the reckless, wild-hearted one who won’t listen to reason or me—now or years ago when I was responsible for her. And I’m the sad fucking excuse for a replacement older brother—the one she lost thanks to me.

But I won’t stop trying to get her to rein in some of her worst impulses. Like this one.

“This isn’t smart, you know?” I toss my napkin up onto the bar next to a hundred-dollar bill and wait for her attention to return to me.

“Which part?” Her eyes meet mine in challenge.

“Any of it. The spitting. The climbing on the bar. The part where you slap your patrons. You’re asking for a lawsuit.” I keep my voice low. We’re alone at this end of the bar. All the college boys are crowded together at the other end for the moment, playing pool and hovering around a couple of pitchers of beer. But I don’t need to give anyone ideas.

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