Page 14 of Never Stay Gone
There Dakota was, out on the dance floor, line dancingwaytoo close to Betty Monroe, the unofficial matron and mascot of Manuel’s. Betty came in every day at three in the afternoon, took her seat at the bar, and proceeded to drink damn near every cowboy and roughneck in the place under the table. She closed the place down nightly. She was somewhere between forty and sixty-five, widowed, and lived for lively nights and dancing until she was exhausted. She was the happiest woman Shane had ever met, especially at closing time, when she took her slingback heels in hand and walked barefoot down Main Street to the antique shop she owned and lived above.
Betty Monroe also liked men, the younger, juicer, and more muscled the better. New ranch hands in town all went through Betty’s front door at least once, every one of them whistling down Main to Jo’s Diner the morning after. Now here she was, wrapping one arm around Dakota’s waist as the current song came to a cymbal-crashing end, and the ragged line dance devolved into Dakota swinging Betty around, Betty laughing so loud everyone in the bar stopped to look their way.
Betty laid her hand on Dakota’s chest. He’d ditched his jacket somewhere and was in just a T-shirt that was now damp with sweat and clinging to his defined chest. A teen no longer, Dakota was all man, with axe-handle-wide shoulders that narrowed to perfect Wrangler-slim hips, saddle-bowed thighs, and long, lean legs encased in denim. He still had his weapon on his hip, and he kept it angled away from Betty, his right hand always near enough to draw.
Something turned over inside Shane. Something ugly, and raw, and hungry, all at the same time. He wanted to pull Betty away from Dakota, drag her out those swinging doors. Wanted to put his own hand in the center of Dakota’s sweaty chest, spread his own fingers to feel the swell of his pecs. Wanted to slide his other hand up under the hem of that thin shirt—
Dakota’s gaze rose and found Shane’s. Shane froze.
Dakota whispered something in Betty’s ear. He kissed her cheek, grinned at her—that same lopsided, single-dimpled grin, but it looked so different on a man than on a boy—and headed for the bar. There was a jacket thrown over a barstool in front of a plate holding the remnants of fries and a hamburger, an open beer bottle sweating beside it. Dakota grabbed the beer and took a long pull, his eyes never leaving Shane’s.
“’Scuse me,” Shane mumbled. He extricated himself from Shelly’s hold and crossed Manuel’s. Could everyone hear how his heart was pounding? His palms slicked with sweat, and he wiped them on his jeans. They came away gritty, covered in dust from the desert and the graves.
Dakota sauntered toward him, and they met in the middle of the long bar, halfway between the dance floor and where Shelly and her friends were watching. Dakota took another deep swallow from his beer, lips wrapped indecently around the rim of the longneck.
Shane’s eyes flicked from Dakota’s hazel gaze to the bottle and then back. “I thought you were eating and then going to bed.”
“Got to the eatin’ part. Not yet the bed part.” Dakota winked. A smirk curled up one side of his mouth, and he glanced away. “You still the most popular guy in town? I saw that hello you got a few minutes ago.”
Shane’s mouth was dryer than the sun. He wanted to grab Dakota’s beer and upend it down his throat. Swipe one of Shelly’s margaritas and suck it dry. Or better yet, walk away and pretend he’d never come over here. “No,” he croaked. “I’m not.”
“Who’s that, then?”
It was like someone had reached inside him and started scratching their fingernails through his intestines. “My girlfriend,” Shane breathed. “Shelly Atchinson.”
Dakota’s eyebrows slowly rose.
Shane stared at the bottles of booze on their mirrored shelves behind the bar. Neon beer signs made the liquor glow, cast strange shadows along the back wall and the bar top. “Her dad’s in the oil business. They came down to do some exploration drilling about five years ago. Shelly and I met rafting the river. We hit it off, and…” He dragged in a deep breath. “Been together a while now,” he finished.
“Mmm.” Dakota stared at him. A furrow appeared in the center of his forehead, creasing the skin between his eyebrows.
“You know Betty is a man-eater, right?” Shane nodded to where Betty was leaning up against the bar, eyeballing Dakota like he was a prime slab of beef.
“I kinda got that idea,” Dakota rumbled. He put his beer to his lips and drank, chugging the last third of the bottle in one go.
“Are you… Did you… I mean, I thought you were…” His tongue was too big for his mouth, and his lips wouldn’t move right, and his palms were slick again. Shane slid his hands into his back pockets and took a deep breath. Everything seemed too bright, the neon pulsating too strongly. The air was too thin, like it was cut with helium.
“Just havin’ a good time tonight.” Dakota began to turn away.
“But you’re not going to—” Shane reached for Dakota, almost got his hand on Dakota’s elbow. Almost touched him for the first time in thirteen years. He drew back like he’d brushed a naked flame, his palm scorched, fingers curling as he made a fist in front of his clenching stomach.
Dakota looked from his aborted reach to Shane’s face. His expression was blank, as lifeless and formless as those miles and miles of desert rock. Windswept, like anything he’d ever felt for Shane had blown right on out of him, like it was so long gone, all that was left behind were Shane’s memories.
“Was there somethin’ you wanted, Shane?” Dakota said. “You come on over here like you had somethin’ to say to me. You just wanna tell me about your girlfriend?” Dakota raised his empty beer bottle and pasted a no-fucks smile on his face. “Congrats. Hope you’re happy. Really.”
Before Shane could say another word, Dakota turned and strode back to Betty, who welcomed him with open arms and a beaming smile. He dropped his beer bottle on the bar top and let Betty drag him out to the dance floor for a roof-shaking rock-meets-line-dance rendition of “I Like It, I Love It.”
Shane watched Dakota slide in beside Betty, watched him grapevine and heel jack, toe brush, kick-ball-change.
Betty tipped her head back and laughed. Dakota’s smile was as big as the open sky, and he winked at her.
Shane limped back to Shelly, Danielle, and Misty, not seeing a single thing in the crowded bar. Someone bumped his shoulder, then ricocheted back into the crowd. He mumbled an apology and veered toward Shelly. He got one hand on Shelly’s shoulder and the other on the bar top before his knee buckled and he sagged forward, leaning against the bar to keep from collapsing.
Thirteen years, and he’d watched Dakota walk away.Again.
“How come you told that guy Shelly was only your girlfriend?” Danielle said. She arched an eyebrow at Shane as Shelly turned to him, her eyes a mix of hurt and match-strike anger.
“You didn’t tell him we were engaged?” Shelly’s chin dropped. “Why not?”
