Page 25 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
I head upstairs to grab a jacket, my keys, and put on shoes.
Beck has been impossible all day. I’m exhausted, yes, but I refuse to lose to him. My plan, everything I’ve worked for, depends on him. And I will find him and make him listen to me.
Like a woman on a mission, I drive out of Iron Stallion and into town, headed for the last place I want to be.
I push open the door, expecting smoke, loud music, and neon chaos—but the place is smaller than I imagined, dimly lit, and filled with a few rowdy men shouting obscenities at the dancerson stage. It’s the middle of the work week, so there aren’t that many people, allowing me to spot him easily.
My eyes lock onto him sitting at the bar, back straight, head tilted just slightly as he studies the drink in front of him. My stomach twists. He’s drinking? What the hell, Beck?! How can he be drinking when he’s fresh out of rehab?
I stride up to him, snatching the drink right out of his hands just before it makes contact with his lips. “Seriously?”
He looks shocked to see me, but only for a moment before turning to my brother, who is right next to him. “You backstabbing motherfucker.”
Landon doesn’t even bother denying it. “I’m sorry. She has dirt on me.”
“You’re drinking?” I attack him, ignoring his fight with my brother.
He stares back. “Taste it. I dare you.”
He’s too confident. I sniff the drink, and it’s sweet-smelling, but so are some cocktails. Taking a tentative sip, I’m relieved to realize that it’s just soda.
Instead of admitting defeat, I set the glass back down, facing him head-on. “All this running around, hiding, acting like a complete maniac, and you’re sitting here drinking Coke?”
“Would you rather have me drinking whiskey?” he retorts.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
I am not going to admit that I was wrong, accusing him of falling off the wagon, so I decide to strike elsewhere. “Didn’t you have enough strippers in Vegas?” I mock, looking around us.
“There is no such thing as too many strippers,” he smugly replies.
Of course he’d say that.
“Well, I hope you’ve had enough because we’re going home.”
“Yeah, not happening,” he chuckles, waving the bartender over and pointing at his glass.
He’s asking for another drink? I only took a sip, but he won’t drink it just because I have. What a baby!
“Beck, I’ve been looking all over for you. We need to talk, and this is not the place to have such a serious conversation.”
“I know. That’s why I came here. I needed a break from being tortured by you.”
I groan, sinking onto the barstool beside him, frustration and relief warping together. “Tortured by you? You’ve made it your personal goal to make my life miserable all day.”
“Not miserable enough if you’re still here.”
“Why are you being so difficult? It’s not like I want to be here either, so why don’t you at least try and work with me?” I plead.
“No.”
“Please, Beck,” I plead, shrinking myself to a level I didn’t think I’d sink to.
He looks taken aback by this. He falls silent for a moment, takes a sip of his new drink before facing me fully. “Tell you what—why don’t we settle this once and for all with a bet?”
“A bet?”
