Page 72 of The Mountain Echoes
The place smells like whiskey, frying grease, and the faint sour tang of beer-soaked wood.
The Spur is housed in a long, narrow building with a wraparound bar, low lights, and a dance floor that’s already full of boot-scootin’ ranch hands and women in denim skirts and cowboy boots.
The Rusty Spur isn’t mine, but I have a standing bar tab.
I head to the bar first, nod at the bartender, Moxy, who’s been here since Reagan was President. She’s pouring drinks fast, barely looking up.
“The usual,” I say, and she passes a shot of Bullitt over without a word.
I take it neat. No ice. Just heat.
If I were with Elena, Moxy would have poured us both Wild Turkey. She knows her clientele.
I look around, and it doesn’t take long for me to spot the most interesting woman in the joint.
She’slaughing.
She, Bree, and Kaz are squeezed in a high-top close to the bar.
Bree’s got her signature wild-child look. Leather jacket over a soft floral dress, boots scuffed from honest work. Kaz is next to her, one hand resting on the backrest of her barstool like it belongs there. Those two seriously need to fuck and get done with it.
I’ve gotten to know Kaz,butnot too well, ‘cause he doesn’t let you in. He seems alright most of the time, but then again, sometimes he doesn’t. He fits in like someone who has been trained to fit in. You’d miss it if you weren’t looking.
I’ve been looking.
Even as he’s talking to Bree and Aria, his eyes track the whole place. He’s always scanning—always looking for exits.
I’d say witness protection, but he was born and raised here in Wildflower Canyon, so that won’t track. Undercover? A Fed?
He’s seen me, but pretends he hasn’t.
Aria laughs again, bringing me back to her.
Her hair’s loose, falling in glossy waves down herback. She’s in tight jeans, a pale pink button-down knotted at her waist, like she’s ready to go to a barn dance. I can see the skin at her waist. It looks silky and smooth.
She has on long dangling earrings. She’s done something to her eyes ‘cause they look sultry. She’s wearing lipstick—something soft and pink like her shirt.
She looks effortless and dangerous.
I have a feeling she’s the kind of woman who’d make you sorry when she walked away from you.
Well, Mav, there’s only one way to handle someone like her. Make sure she ain’t ever walkin’ away.
“Ladies.” I brush a kiss on Bree’s cheek, thump Kaz’s shoulder, and squeeze Aria’s before I take the high-backed bar chair next to her.
She’s wearing perfume. She smells like roses and sin.
“How’re you doin’, darlin’?” I hold Aria’s gaze. Don’t want her to think I’m talking to Bree.
Her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t look away. I notice the flush in her cheeks. The shine on her lips. The way her boot taps to the rhythm of the music.
“Fancy seein’ you here, Mav.” Bree glares at Kaz, who gives her a cheeky ‘I didn’t do nothing’ look.
“Fancy that.” I set my glass of whiskey on the table.
“So, what’s the story?” Aria asks as she looks me up and down. “You were here and then you saw us?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
