Page 75 of Roulette Rodeo
She'd locked herself in the bathroom for an hour, emerging perfectly put together again but somehow smaller, like the rain had washed away part of her.
But Red...
Red's dancing.
Actually dancing in the rain like every cliché love story, except she's not doing it for me or anyone else. She's doing itbecause she wants to, because three years in a desert casino has left her starved for weather that isn't controlled and processed.
This is a moment that accentuates her freedom…
Her hair is plastered to her head, copper gone dark with water, strands clinging to her cheeks and neck. The silk shorts have ridden up, showing the curve of her ass, the long lines of her legs. Water runs down her skin in rivulets I want to trace with my tongue.
She catches Duke's paws, dancing with him like he's her partner, both of them slipping in the mud but not caring. When she falls—because of course she does in those ridiculous boots—she doesn't get upset. She just laughs harder, making mud angels like a child, like someone who's never been allowed to get dirty.
"This is amazing!" she shouts to the sky, to me, to no one. "I haven't felt rain in three years! Real rain!"
Duke licks her face, and she hugs him, not caring that he's muddy and soaked. They roll in the puddles together, and her laughter echoes through the clearing, bright and clear despite the storm.
I stand there, rain streaming down my own body, and watch this impossible woman turn a storm into celebration.
My chest feels too tight, too full of something I'm not ready to name. But looking at her—muddy, soaked, silk pajamas probably ruined beyond repair, happier than I've seen anyone in years—I think I understand what love at first sight means.
Not the first sight of her on stage, performing for alphas who didn't deserve to breathe her air.
Not even the first sight in that storage closet, though that had been close.
But this.
This first sight of who she really is when no one's watching, when she's not performing or surviving or fighting.
Just Red, playing in the rain with my dog, finding joy in something as simple as the weather.
She stands, slipping twice before finding her footing, and grins at me through the curtain of rain. Mud streaks her face, her clothes are destroyed, and she's never been more beautiful.
"You're just standing there!" she accuses, laughing. "Come play!"
Play.
When was the last time someone asked me to play? Not spar, not train, not strategize. Just...play.
Before I can respond, she's throwing mud at me. Her aim is terrible—it hits my chest instead of my face—but the gesture is so unexpected, so purely playful, that I find myself laughing again.
"Oh, you're going to regret that, little cherry."
"Promises, promises!" she taunts, already running—or trying to in those boots.
I let her get a head start, then give chase.
She shrieks when I catch her, spinning her around in the rain while Duke barks and jumps around us. She's laughing so hard she can barely breathe, clinging to me not out of fear but joy.
When I set her down, she immediately slips again, taking me with her this time.
We land in a puddle, her on top of me, both of us now thoroughly covered in mud.
She props herself up on my chest, looking down at me with those gold-flecked eyes, rain still pouring over us both.
"Thank you," she says, and I'm not sure what she's thanking me for.
For catching, chasing, buying, or saving her.
