Page 40 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
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I LEAN AGAINST the worn edge of the bar. My fingers tap the wood as I wait for Bucky.
“What can I get for you, boy?”
I’m not even close to a boy, but I guess compared to the eighty-something man, I’m still a young one.
“Bourbon. Neat. I need the burn.”
A grin cracks his crooked lips. “On it.”
The older man also eyes the biker crew—loud boots, louder voices, patch-covered backs taking over the pool tables and all the space around.
“You always drink like you’re about to confess something?” A smoky voice edged with amusement comes from my left.
I glance over.
I don’t want to.
I’m not interested.
She has the look—dark eyeliner, a black tank that hugs tattooed shoulders, jeans that fit like they were poured on, and that confident lean that women get when they’re used to being noticed.
She’s with the biker crew.
There’s no mistaking it.
“You pegging me already?” I offer a polite half-smile. “A bit fast, don’t you think?”
She laughs, low and amused. “You’ve got that strong and silent thing going. Like a cowboy with a past.”
She has no idea.
I shrug, accepting my drink from Bucky. I notice the look he gives me. The crew is in trouble.
He knows.
I know it.
It’s only a matter of time before someone is throwing them out on their ass. We don’t like trouble here—not unless it’s our own. And even then, they get a boot out the back door.
“You always this talkative?” She teases, curling her hair around one finger.
“Only when I’ve got something to say.”
She rests her elbow on the bar, angling herself toward me. “You got a girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Oh, good.” She smiles, as if that is all the invitation she needs. “I’m Trish. You got a name, cowboy?”
“I do.”
She raises a brow, waiting.
I take a slow sip. Maybe she’ll leave. Perhaps she’ll get the hint. Likely, she won’t.
“Hart.”
