Page 47 of Riding the Storm
Istand just outside The Soused Cow, the door swinging shut behind me, muting the music and the roar of the rowdy crowd that’s still going strong inside. The night air hits me like a shock, cool against my overheated skin. I pull in a deep breath—needing it, needing space. My heart’s still hammering in my chest from what just happened.
Bryce kissed me.
Or maybe I kissed him. Hell, I don’t even know what that was.
One second, we were flirting at the table, and the next, I was pinned against the men’s room door in the dark hallway. His hands were on my body and mine were in his hair. Our mouths exploring each other. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t polite; it was heat and hunger and pure chaos. And the worst part? I liked it. I wanted more.
I lean back against the rough log siding of the bar, tilting my head toward the stars, trying to calm down. God help me, I don’t even know what would’ve happened if that poor man hadn’t come stumbling up on us, needing to take a leak. We’d probably still be in there, tearing each other’s clothes off like a couple of horny teenagers.
My lips still tingle. My pulse is still racing.
And I hate that.
Because I’m supposed to be the one in control. I’m the one who doesn’t get tangled up in messy things like cowboys with sinful smiles and crafty hands that know exactly where to go.
I exhale slowly, forcing my fists to unclench. “Get a grip, Charli,” I mutter to myself.
The parking lot’s mostly quiet, just one or two people wandering toward the trucks scattered across the gravel, a few taillights glowing faintly in the dark. A couple of soft conversations drifting on the wind.
Then I spot them.
Three womenstanding near the corner of the lot, clustered together under the yellow glow of a light pole. I recognize them immediately—they were the ones from earlier, the little trio that kept dancing right in front of our table, all long legs and tight denim and too much makeup.
The one with the black hair—she’s the ringleader. The same one who was pressed up against Bryce at the bar. She’s leaning against a tailgate now, holding a lit cigarette to her devil-red lips, flicking her hair over her shoulder and pretending not to look at the door every time it opens.
But I see her.
And I know exactly who she’s waiting for.
My blood simmers hot in my veins. It’s not jealousy; it’s irritation. That’s what I tell myself anyway. Because I don’t do jealous. I don’t do cowboys. I don’t do any of this shit.
The door swings open again, and for a second, my stomach tightens.
It’s not Bryce; it’s my sisters.
They come spilling out in a giggling, tottering mess of boots and hair, corralled by Cabe and Caison, like a couple of patient ranch hands wrangling wild colts. Matty looks tired but content, tucked under Caison’s arm; Shelby’s still grinning ear to ear; and Harleigh—Lord, Harleigh—looks like she’s had one too many tequila shots as she tumbles forward. Cabe catches her before her knees hit the concrete.
Bryce steps out after them. He pauses in the doorway, scanning the parking lot, appearing as cool and unaffected as ever, and the moment his eyes land on me, that lazy, cocky grin spreads across his face.
“There you are!” Harleigh yells when she spots me. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“You found me,” I say dryly, pushing off the wall.
Matty waves and blows drunken kisses, calling a good night to all of us as Caison tightens his arm around her waist, steering her toward his truck. There’s a gentleness in his touch, something protective. It makes me smile.
Shelby, of course, can’t let it end without making things awkward. “Night, sissy!” she whisper-yells, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Enjoy all the birthday sex!”
“Shelby!” Matty hisses, turning, a blush hitting her cheeks.
Cabe groans. “All right, let’s get you three to my truck before one of you ends up in the bushes.”
I roll my eyes but fall into step beside them as the group makes its way across the gravel. The black-haired girl and her friends are still hanging out by the lamppost, pretending not to notice us. Until our little caravan approaches.
She perks up immediately, tossing her hair and giving Bryce a slow, sexy little wave.
He nods politely at her, but he doesn’t wave back. Instead, his hand settles on the small of my back—warm, firm, confident—as he guides me forward toward Cabe’s truck.
He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look down at me, but the gesture sends a spark through me that I feel clear down to my toes.
