Page 11 of The Cowboy's Off Limits Option

Laughter erupts from the men at the bar.

"Shut the fuck up, man, can't you see I'm trying to score here?"

The guy I've been playing pool is stretched over the table with his cue in place, but I don't think his comment refers to the shot he's about to take.

When I walked in, I was relieved at how dull the place looked. Just a big barn-style building with a lot of corrugated steel panels and rough-textured boards for walls. Neon signs for beer and various brands of hard alcohol hanging higher up. Pool tables, juke box, tables and chairs, plain concrete floor.

A few old men with beer guts in sagging jeans and leather vests covered in patches. A few younger guys at a table to themselves in the far corner.

When I walked in, every head turned to look at me, but no one made me feel threatened.

As soon as I sat down at the bar, this guy--Johnson, I think he said to call him-- came over and told the bartender he was buying whatever I was drinking.

He didn't crowd me or try to touch me or make any lewd comments. He looks older than my dad, but with a gray beard that hangs down to the center of his chest in a thin, scraggly point that ends right above his gut.

I accepted the beer he bought for me a smile and he asked if I wanted to play a game of pool.

I really thought he was being nice to me because I probably remind him of his granddaughter or something.

Then his buddy grabbed a cue from the rack on the wall and started making suggestive comments about me like I wasn't even in the room with them.

Things went south pretty quickly.

There are five of these guys and while they may look old and fat, they're also huge and it's pretty clear that there's plenty of muscle in their bulk.

What did I get myself into?

Looking around, I see the bartender making a genuine effort at not paying attention to anything happening.

There are only a couple of guys at the back table. They're younger and look like they're in way better shape, but they also don't look like they're interested in getting involved.

"Your shot, honey-breeches, what'da ya say you let Big Mel show you how to line that up."

The asshole that's been making the rude remarks licks his lips as he looks at me, then scuffles around to my side of the pool table.

It's pretty obvious what "Big Mel" means when he says he wants to show me how to line up my next shot.

The thought of this guy leaning over my back with me trapped against the table makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit. Especially when he gets close enough that I can see the telltale stains of chewing tobacco in the corners of the mustache that hangs to his chin like Yosemite Sam.

I thought bikers were supposed to have cool nicknames like "Blade" and "Wrath." What's with "BigMel?"

"Um, you can take my shot for me," I tell Big Mel, taking a step back from the table and doing my best not to look like prey. "I, uh, need to go to the ladies room anyway."

Mel steps forward, crowding me between the pool table and his buddy, Johnson, who seems to have run out of manners now.

Johnson doesn't move out of my way, and I back into his belly when I try to keep Mel from crowding my personal space.

"Cal!"

The deep voice booms from the doorway, filling up the mostly empty bar room and sounding like salvation.

At first, I don't even recognize the voice, all I know is that it knows my name and sounds like he's relieved to see me.

Then, I peek around the mountain of Big Mel to see the furious look on Archer Dean O'Leary's face and I'm sure I've jumped out of the frying pan just to land in the fire.

If Archer's here, my brother is probably with him, and I have zero way of explaining what I'm doing here.

"Callie, come on, let's go." Archer commands of me as he stalks my way, the heels of his cowboy boots clicking against the cement floor.

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