Page 1 of Easy Rider
Chapter One
Igrab my drink andcross through the dark bar area to the party room Boondocks has in back. My eyes adjust to the dim light. It’s wall-to-wall people back here. Mostly ranch hands in cowboy hats, and locals, as far as I can tell. They’re all huddled in groups around the dance floor and pool table.
I force myself not to look for Ryder West, but memories of the last time I was here flood my brain against my will. I can’t help it if he’s the sexiest, filthiest-talking, most well hung, built-to-come-all-over man to ever fuck my brains out.
Eight months ago, we played pool right there in the corner and danced on that same dinged-up floor. All night... Well, until we went back to his place.
He was supposed to be just a one and done. Someone to help me get back in the saddle, and become just Emma again. I was so thoroughly hurt after being left at the altar, I didn’t think I could ever look at a man again.
But Ryder is pretty much the ultimate cowboy fantasy. That’s a given. Every woman in this town has been creaming for him since high school. What sealed the deal for me—well, besides his obvious, big-girthy attributes—was that he was on the road constantly. And definitely not the kind of man who’d want a serious relationship. The perfect fling material, right?
Wrong.
Because after being in Ryder’s saddle, he was the only ride I wanted. And I’ll be damned if Ryder didn’t make me rethink everything I thought I knew about men and sex. Fact is, I didn’t know much.
Turns out my ex didn’t even know how to screw me properly. It didn’t help that he had a Vienna sausage dick and came in three seconds.
Holding my breath, I sweep the room again, on the lookout for that devilish smile, that thick dark hair, that thick dick. Shit. My brain went straight there again.
I let out a sigh. Nope. He’s not here.
I heard a rumor that Ryder quit the rodeo circuit and is back in town for good now. But Ryder’s like some sort of Greek god–like centaur, half-man, half horse. I can’t imagine him giving up rodeoing. He either won outright or placed in every tie-down roping event he entered. Ryder and Tweeter won fifty grand at the Calgary Stampede. That’s not the kind of money you just walk away from.
Some kind of scuffle in the far corner of the room catches my eye, and I move a little closer for a better look. I’m still not entirely clear on what’s going on. I focus on the wide back of a monster of a man in a blue button-down, who appears to be blocking someone from leaving. Now I see he has his big paws against the wall, and judging by his body language, all tense and hunched over, he has someone trapped.
I just get a good glimpse of what’s happening when he and his captive move a little to the left and end up under one of the overhead lights.
Fuck. Some things never change.
The blue-shirted bully is none other than that idiot Cletus Johnson.
I angle around a cluster of cowboys I don’t know for a better look. Two of the men make it super obvious they’re checking me out. I ignore them.
It’s not like I’m dressed up. I don’t have a scrap of makeup on, and I’m wearing the same jeans and tee I wore on the plane. But that’s not the point. Why aren’t those cowboys noticing what I’m seeing?
I scoot closer, anddamnit. Marguerite McCurdie is fighting like hell to get out of Cletus’s hold. He has his hands around her neck now.
What the fuck? Poor Marguerite. She’s always been shy, never spoke up for herself in high school. How the hell did she get in with the likes of Cletus? Everyone in town knows the Johnsons are the scum of the earth. They’ve got one of the biggest drug-dealing operations in the state.
The Johnsons are so dirty, everyone tries to stay out of their business and as far away from their farm as possible. But this isn’t happening on the Johnsons property, and there’s no chance in hell I can ignore what’s happening in front of my eyes.
“Hey, doofus!” I yell across the room. “Get your hands off her.” But the jukebox is blaring, the group around the pool table is fixated on the game, and no one is listening.
I edge closer. Cletus has to be six foot five at least, and weighs probably three hundred pounds. “Back off!” I yell again, elbowing my way to them.
Even through the semi-darkness and the thick haze of the testosterone pouring off the men around me, I see Cletus turn and snarl at me clear as day. The asshole. I haven’t been back in this Podunk town for more than an hour and I have to put up with this? Hot anger strikes like a match, heating my blood. I narrow my eyes at the oaf.
Not on my watch.
Daddy didn’t raise no fool. And Mama didn’t raise me not to help another woman in trouble. But there’s no way I can fight Cletus.
Marguerite screams; she tugs at his hands, trying to pull them off of her neck. But it’s dark where they are, and that dipshit Cletus is getting away with... what? Murder? Is he trying to kill her?
I set my glass down and grab the back of a small wooden chair, the closest thing to me. Seething, and not taking my eyes off him, I get a good grip.
Cletus knows I’m onto him. He gives me another filthy smirk before he goes back to torturing Marguerite.
The fury takes over me, and I pick up the chair, raising it to my eye level. If I aim just right and nail him, it might give Marguerite time to get away. “Get off her!” I hurl the chair at Cletus’s back with all my might.
