Page 26 of Wait in the Truck
“Jesus,” I breathe, scanning the room without really seeing anyone. My thoughts are back on that chair, on Sage, and the shiver that grips me isn’t from the cold. I shove my hands deep into my pockets and start making my way across the room. With each step, I vow silently to myself and to her—whatever it takes, I’ll make sure she’s safe tonight. That’s a promise.
Tugging my hat lower, I let the shadow it casts hide the worry creasing my brow. My gaze sweeps over the room. I’m a hawk eyeing its territory—looking for any sign of trouble that might spill over. The usual suspects prop upthe bar, their rough voices blending in with the guitars and fiddles blaring from the speakers. These are faces I’ve watched age over years of hard living. It’s a familiar scene, but tonight, the air feels charged, tense as a loaded spring.
“Keep your shit together,” I grit under my breath, a silent mantra against the unease settling in my gut.
The crowd parts and there she is—Sage, moving with purpose through the sea of bodies. She’s a bolt of lightning in a storm cloud, all energy and raw power. Her outfit clings and reveals, the kind that’s standard issue around here for the waitresses, but damn, it’s tailor-made for her. Those short shorts, bikini top, and cowboy boots—they’re nothing but a tease of what lies beneath. Just thinking about those legs has heat coiling in my stomach.
I’ve had those limbs wrapped around me, felt the slick heat of her, heard her gasps. And fuck me, just remembering how she looked moaning and panting my name—it sends a jolt straight to my dick.
Her movements are hurried yet graceful as she flits from table to table. Her smile never wavers as she takes orders and offers up that country girl charm that these drunk fools lap up. But I see the tightness around her eyes, the way her shoulders bunch ever so slightly when some asshole gets too loud.
“Easy, Kade,” I breathe, trying to quell the urge to throw punches first and ask questions later. “She can handle herself.”
Butcan she? Really?
My knuckles whiten as I tighten my fist, every muscle coiled and ready. I remind myself why I’m here—to watch her back silently, to follow her home, to make sure she’s safe. To ensure that the chair under her bedroom door stays a precaution and not a necessity.
I keep my distance, let her do her job, but my eyes never leave her. Sage doesn’t need a knight in shining armor; she needs someone who understands the darkness and stands guard at the edge of it. And that’s what I’ll do—silent, steadfast, until the last light flickers out and we’re alone in the night.
I shuffle closer to the bar, my boots scuffing against the sawdust-strewn floor, each step deliberate and heavy. The familiar cacophony of Boozin’ Boots envelops me. It’s a symphony of sin and sweat I can’t seem to stay away from.
Sage scribbles on her notepad with an intensity that matches the way she lives—like every moment’s got to count for something more. Then she’s whirling around, the grace of her turning enough to make my chest tighten, and she hands off her order at the bartender’s service station. Billy’s absence hangs in the air, almost as tangible as the smoke that used to cloud this place before the laws changed. Instead, it’s Jeb manning the fort tonight, his eyes flickering up to greet me with a nod reserved for the regulars.
“Evening, Kade. How’s it going?” Jeb’s voice is assmooth as the whiskey he pours, but it’s just background noise to me now.
“Hey, Jeb.” My reply is terse, clipped even. I’m not here for small talk. “Just water, please.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sage’s gaze landing on me, quick and sharp as a predator spotting its prey. She knows I’m watching, always watching, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of locking eyes. Not yet. We’re playing a game only we know the rules of—a game of glances and tension you could cut with the knife Jeb uses to slice those damn lemons and limes.
I sink onto the barstool, my elbows resting on the cool surface of the bar, feeling the weight of her stare like a physical caress. But I’m stone, I’m the fucking mountain, immovable as I keep my attention fixed straight ahead. If she’s looking for some sign, some acknowledgment, she won’t find it yet. This cat and mouse shit between us, it’s a dance we’ve been perfecting since we were kids.
And goddamn if she doesn’t wear it well—the chase, the heat, the unspoken promise. It’s all there in the way she moves, the way she breathes, the way she pours herself into every godforsaken task in this dingy dive bar. She’s fire and ice, sweetness laced with venom, and part of me wants to be stung over and over again.
“Water,” I reiterate, just in case Jeb’s forgotten what I’m about. I’m not here to get buzzed—I never am. I’m here on a mission. A mission that starts with keeping myhead clear and ends with making sure Sage is protected—no matter what lurks behind her front door.
“Sparkling or tap?” Jeb’s question hangs for a moment, a choice between the fizz of bubbles or the quiet of still. I lift an eyebrow, a silent conversation in the brief exchange, and he gets it, the corner of his mouth turning up in a knowing smirk.
“Right. Sparkling it is. One sec,” Jeb says with that laid-back drawl of his, as though time moves slower behind this bar, and the world outside these walls isn’t pressing in with its weight and worries.
He grabs the fixed gun with practiced ease, that worn handle no doubt familiar as any tool to a tradesman, and cool water starts to fill the glass with the cadence of rain hitting a tin roof—if you strain your ears enough. It’s a soothing sort of noise, one that almost drowns out the echo of the bar if I let it.
“Thanks,” I murmur as the glass is set before me, heavy with the promise of sober vigilance.
I can still feel the heat of Sage’s gaze lingering, even though she’s turned away, pretending to be caught up in the ebb and flow of the bar crowd. My fingers curl tighter around the glass. The coldness seeps into my skin, a stark contrast to the warmth that’s building within me, stoked by every swaying step she takes.
As the last of the water slides down my throat, I steel myself for the long night ahead.
The clinkof ice cuts through the din, my fingers tracing the condensation beading down the side of the glass. I’m halfway to another sip when Sage’s voice slices across the bar, casual with an edge that’s all challenge.
“You gonna say hello to me, Kade?”
That voice—it’s got this husky timbre that could coax a confession from a saint. I don’t turn right away, letting the tension simmer. Ice melts on my tongue as I hold the cold liquid in my mouth.
Sage glances my way, the corner of her eye catching mine. It’s a look that could mean nothing or everything, and damn if she doesn’t know it. Her fingers, those long, slender digits that have traced fire over my skin now curl around the rim of a tray laden with drinks begging to be served.
She should be moving, weaving through the crowd like some kind of honky-tonk angel, but she’s not. Instead, she’s anchored, rooted by a stubborn need for me to give her that nod of recognition.
As my mind replays every heated moment we’ve shared, I draw in a breath that’s more than air. It’s the electric charge between us, thick enough to roll thunder through my veins. I can almost taste her beneath the stalescent of beer and peanuts, a flavor that’s pure Sage—wild and sweet and goddamn addictive.
