Page 18 of From the Ashes
Once he’s gone, I return to watching one of the T.V.s overthe bar without actually seeing it. I do that a lot. When something’s on my mind, my eyes may be open, but my brain is a million miles away.
“Whoa, DeVille, get a load of that chick,” Jonas says, tapping my shoulder.
I spin to get a look at who he’s talking about, and so does everyone else in the bar. The woman’sgorgeous. Long, black hair, a skin tone telling me her ancestry isn’t strictly Northern European, and a tight body. She’s standing next to the jukebox, scanning the sheets slowly, wearing a short jean skirt and a bright red tube top.
“Way out of your league, buddy.” I pat Jonas’s chest and signal the waitress for another round.
She takes my glass and smiles sweetly. “Give me one second to grab some orders, and I’ll have your refill right over, hon.”
I nod and spin back around to people watch. It’s more entertaining than the shit on the T.V. The woman at the jukebox makes her selection and heads back to the large table in the corner. The same table the waitress is walking toward. I recognize the guy that was next to me at the bar, and as my eyes land on the person next to him, I hear Jonas draw in a breath, right as my world tilts on its axis.
“Holy shit. Isn’t that Phoenix Harding?”
What are the fucking odds?
I spin back to the bar top, placing my forehead on my forearms in an effort to get the room to stop spinning, when Jonas taps my thigh.
“Look, man! I think itishim!” he says excitedly. Mainstream rodeo media may have moved on, but those of us still in the game never forget the greats, especially those whose careers have such tragic endings.
Even more especially if we contributed to that ending.
When I still don’t answer, I feel Jonas turn in his barstool to face me.
“Walker, what thefuckis wrong with you?”
I’m trying to hide my panic because while I trust Jonas, I don’ttrustJonas. And I sure as shit don’t want to cause a scene and attract attention to myself.
Beside me, Jonas returns his attention to the corner where Phoenix and his friends are sitting. Against my better judgement—which quite honestly is non-existent where Phoenix is concerned—I turn to look again, my eyes greedily taking him in. Fuckme, twenty-eight looks good on him. His eyes still shine bright green even in the dim lights of the bar, although his exuberance seems to have faded since we last met.
My stomach does a somersault as I watch a girl from a neighboring table swing by and talk to the group before handing Phoenix a piece of paper which undoubtedly has her number on it. She turns to leave, but he pulls her back and gives her a kiss as his buddies hoot and holler. The woman takes it as an invitation to deepen the kiss before letting go and giving him a wink. Phoenix makes a show of tucking her number in his wallet as she heads out the door with her friends.
“We need to leave,” I finally announce.
“I’m not leaving until I get his autograph,” Jonas declares. “Dude’s a legend. One of only two riderseverto achieve a perfect score.”
Like I don’t know that.
“Please, Jonas, I’m begging you, for the love of God, don’t go over there.”
He must hear the panic in my voice and realize I’m serious because he stops fangirling long enough to ask for the second time, “Walker, what’s going on?”
Desperate to get out of the bar, I promise to tell himeverything if we can just leave without a single glance at the table in the corner.
“Fine, but this better be one helluva story,” he agrees, no doubt dying to finally get to the bottom of what’s eating me alive. “I just need to pay the tab.”
The bartender is now busy making drinks for the large party, and I know it’s going to be at least ten minutes before I can get the hell out of here. I slide off my stool, hoping to wobble my way to the bathroom, so I can have my meltdown privately, when I crash into someone on my other side.
“Hey, Wendy, can I add—whoa, there. You okay?” he asks when I knock into him, placing his hands on my shoulders to steady me.
I swear to God my heart rate is close to three hundred beats per minute as I look down into the beautiful face of Phoenix Harding. I’m slightly taller than him now, which feels weird.
Recognition hits us at the same time and for a brief moment, I drink him in, cataloguing every line, every freckle, every perfect feature of his face. What strikes me the most is how tired he looks. Not in asleepysort of way, but in awary-of-lifesort of way, and it punches the air from my lungs.
I mean to sayI’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving back then. I’m sorry for being here now. I’m sorry for literally running into you…but what comes out instead is a broken whisper. At least this time, when I answer his question, it’s the whole truth.
“I haven’t been okay in eight years.” And then I crash into the bar stool, sending it skittering to the floor and haul my ass outside, gasping. Ishouldbe able to pull in lungfuls of air, but my airway is so tight, nothing’s getting through.
I scramble into the passenger seat of my truck, shaking from head to toe, still hyperventilating as I drop my head between my knees. A few minutes later, Jonas climbs into the driver’s seat.
