2. Stetson
TWO
STETSON
March 7th, 2024
The Wagon Wheel— who comes up with these small town bar names— is surprisingly full for a Saturday at twelve-thirty. It already smells like sweat and stale beer, and I can’t help but wrinkle my nose in disgust. I was always a party girl growing up, granted it was to escape my horrible life versus face it, but still. Cheap beer and wild, groping hands are not my favorite way to spend an afternoon—not even in my top ten favorite ways. I prefer wide open spaces and a bonfire, or thumping music and dancing bodies.
But a silly little honky tonk? Not exactly my thing .
That being said, I want Dale to like me—correction, love me and I know I will gladly come here every Saturday afternoon if it means she will keep smiling at me like I’m the long-lost sister come home to see her. It’s intoxicating, to be wanted by someone as happy and positive as Dale, and I’m realizing how quickly I will get hooked.
Dale is beaming, and I can’t help but loosen up; if only just a little bit. Her smile always has been contagious.
“See anyone you like?” Dale shouts over the twang of the music filling the tightly packed space. I just blink at her; really jumping right in there, I see . She always was this way—trying to hook me up, but never going home with anyone herself. I assume she eventually found someone, but even ten years ago she would say how she was living vicariously through me.
Surely that has changed, right?
I make a raspberry with my lips, and look around the bar. All I can see are cowboy hats, tattered shirts, suppressed male rage, and alcoholism.
“Not really your type anymore? Colorado change you or something?” Dale says it jokingly as she waves her hand at the tall, blonde, relatively handsome cowboy behind the counter. Dale doesn’t realize how true that statement is.
My type has changed; I am no longer satisfied by anything with two legs. I need something with a bite and preferably a dominant disposition. I need someone far darker, far quieter, and far more into using rope for things other than tying up cattle.
But I am not in the habit of talking about my type. Not to anyone. It reminds me that I am dirty—“ fucked up”. And even though I know and accept those things about myself, I’ve learned most people can’t.
I plop down onto the sticky wooden stool and roll my eyes at the way my rounded cheeks squish over the sides. I’m not a thin girl, and the small town, “ everybody needs to be a size zero because that’s how our grandmas were” shit is getting on my nerves. If I sit here long enough, I may just reverse-swallow the thing.
The thought makes me chuckle, and Dale looks at me expectantly. I sigh, and steeple my fingers in front of my face.
“I’m not sure what my type is anymore,” I whisper-shout at Dale. She continues to stare at me, waiting, a mischievous smile pulling at her lips.
“Sweet little Dale, going to show party girl Stetson, the local—” Dale taps her black painted nail on her lips, “—delicacies? This really might be the best day of my life!”
I chuckle again, not wanting to ruin her fun, as a glass full of clear, fizzy liquid with lime is placed in front of me.
“Don’t mean to be rude. But I am happy to volunteer as your first sample.” I look up at large hands pressed against the back of the bar, muscles rippling up tanned arms, toward a clean boyish face complete with shaggy blonde hair and blue eyes. I stare at him, trying to decide if laughing is rude, as my eyes rake over his cleanshavin’ face, and his smile falters. Not enough to drop completely, but enough to tell me what I needed to know.
I would devour him whole with my sexual needs.
“Oh Jared, I thought you were my boyfriend,” Dale whines, crossing her arms across her chest in a pout. He turns then, almost looking relieved that I wasn’t instantly taking him up on the offer, and winks at Dale.
“You’ll always be my best girl.” He slings a dirty rag over his shoulder. “And my best customer.” With a half-hearted chuckle, he saunters away.
“Isn’t this fun?” Dale asks, nearly breathless with excitement. I turn to her, a genuine smile creeping across my face.
“Dale, you need to get out of this little town.” Dale frowns at my words, her dark eyebrows drawing together.
“I’ve left. I just like being a star, and right here in Moztecha I am that. The star of the show.” Dale slurps a large gulp of, what I now know is Vodka and soda, and then looks around the room again with a wide sweep of her arms—a queen taking in her conquests.
“Truly, what’s your type? I’m dying to hear what years of experience out in the wild have done to my dearest friend,” Dale says with a smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
Her dearest friend. I want to cry at the sentiment, but I have not had nearly enough to drink to start doing that. So I shrug my shoulders, steeling my back, causing my blonde hair to fall to one side.
“Tall, dark, broody. Facial hair is good.” I tap my lip in thought. “Oooh, curly hair. Responsible. Hard-working. Calloused hands are a must. Good with horses. Devoted. Demanding in bed. Masculine. Hot eyes.” I shrug again, leaning forward to slurp at my drink. “Nothing too specific.”
Dale bursts into a fit of whooping laughs, the sound so warm and carefree that I can’t contain a giggle from escaping—it’s freeing and unfamiliar—making my chest feel warm and light like a balloon.
And then reality comes crashing back down, the heat of a different kind crawling up my back and neck like it does from time to time. Like I’m being watched intently; their gaze wholly on me and my every move. I look around behind me, a laugh still tumbling from my lips.
Dale’s hand grips my forearm, and my eyes snap back to her. “I’ll take two please!”
“I’ve yet to find one, so good luck,” I state trying to reorient myself and brush off the unwanted crawl atop my skin. My voice has a tinge of annoyance lacing the words and I inwardly cringe hoping she doesn’t notice—I hate that right when I’m relaxing and having fun for the first time in years, the sensation of being watched pierces me like a bullet, leaving me uneasy once more. Changing the subject, I focus on Dale, who is now wiping droplets of water from her lower lashes, a wicked grin still plastered to her face. She clearly hasn’t noticed my shift in mood, and I’m grateful. “What’s your type?”
“I’d like a rich Papi, personally. Someone who can take care of me.” She raises her hands to eye level and starts spreading them apart to about twelve inches. “Big hands.” She starts howling again, slamming her small hand on the bar, making our glasses rattle .
I tip my head back, a true throaty laugh escaping my lips. It feels good to laugh with her, like no time has passed at all between us. Until this moment, I didn’t realize how much I truly missed having her sunshine in my life; how much I need her light to shine through my darkness.
“God, I missed you,” I say, meaning every word.
Dale reaches over, squeezing my hand in her own.“I’ve thought about you every day. I am so grateful you are home.”
Home, would this place ever be home?
“Miss Mendes, who’s your friend?” Hearing Dale referred to as Miss Mendes, almost makes me start cackling again. But I stop when I see we are quickly being surrounded by a group of older men—rough cowboy-looking types.
“Mr. Rightson.” Dale straightens. We must not like Mr. Rightson. “This is my wonderful friend, Stetson. She just moved back.”
The man, a burly fella in his sixties if I have to guess, with wispy gray hair under a black dusty cowboy hat, eyes me skeptically. “You took over the Spurrin’ L Ranch.” It isn’t a question, so I only nod in response. “Not doing a great job, I’d say. Fredrick, the rancher to your East, said your fence is falling over. Said your cows keep getting out because they’re hungry and looking for water. Don’t you know anything about cattle, Miss Stetson?”
I sit, frozen. This is not the first unpleasant conversation I have had since returning. People here seem to feel entitled to an opinion about everything—especially when it comes to the land and what’s on it. I’ve seen the type; know it well—old cowboys afraid of the new generation “ruining” what they worked hard to create.
But I’m not ruining anything. I’m learning as I go because I was thrown in without a guide book or a helping hand. The cattle, the land, it couldn’t wait for me to get my bearings before I started.
I don’t say any of this, not that they would listen anyway, because I don’t want to break the fragile bond that is quickly developing again with Dale.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to let your cattle destroy others property?” he chastised, taking a small step closer, his agitation growing.
Yes, you prick.
My heart flutters erratically in my chest, a familiar roar begins filling my ears. If I was by myself, I would have decked him by now, for thinking he could talk down to me like this. Or at least spat at his feet and walked away.
But I am trapped by the need to please others. Well, not others—Dale.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to corner a woman, at a bar, with a group of other men, and say things you can’t possibly know anything about? Mr. Rightson.” Dale grinds out his name with a hiss, and air of authority that has even me sitting up straighter. I must have missed her standing up, her hands rooted to her hips as she now stands between me and the gathering group of men.
The old man looks stricken, his eyes blowing wide at the local Ag teacher’s obvious support of an outsider. He dips his head.
“Sorry, Miss Mendes. Didn’t mean no rudeness to ya,” he stammers, and she huffs irritatedly.
“No, but you did mean rudeness to her. And I won’t stand for it. You might be liked here in town, but so am I. This girl was my best friend ten years ago, and based on the little time I’ve gotten to spend with her today before you interrupted, I can tell she’s just as wonderful now as she was back then. So you better,” she waves her hand toward the door, “bug off before you say something really stupid.”
He looks at her again, his jaw going slack at the scolding, and dips his head.
Without another word, they all turn around and scatter like ants. Dale slumps back onto the stool with a huff.
“Old, fucking, men,” she mumbles before slamming back her glass and draining the contents.
“I’ll drink to that,” I say with a clink, and drain mine as well. What can I possibly say to my friend, my fiercely loyal and too-good friend, that will even compare to what she just did for me?
I don’t know how to get the words “thank you” past my lips. And I hate myself for it.
The early afternoon quickly bleeds into late evening. My growling stomach is a testament to that, but I continue to ignore it. I’m too enthralled in catching up with Dale, not wanting to ruin this seemingly perfect moment, to interrupt. I never want today to end—it has been years since I had a friend. Probably ten years, if I am being honest with myself, since I had someone seem so interested in me, and so sunny and bubbly with their tales.
I want it to last forever.
I gingerly set down another empty glass, the ice cubes barely melted before I sucked it dry, a hiccup erupting from my lips. My vision is starting to blur, the too-small stool no longer biting painfully into my ass. I am officially drunk.
“Girl, I’m starving,” Dale whines, her head falling dramatically into her hands. Her black hair has loosened from its braid over the hours we have been here, and it now curls in wispy ringlets around her tan face. Her chocolate brown eyes are nearly black, her pupils blown wide with the copious amounts of alcohol pumping through her system.
We drank—we drank a lot . People were sending drinks to Dale and I all afternoon. Most anonymously, or with a comment similar to “This came from so and so for all your hard work with the kids, Miss Dale” or, “From the mom over there. She said thanks for putting up with her hellion” , or my personal favorite, “Miss Dale, my kid thinks you’re the best!” . It is beyond comical to see how the town showers Dale in praise and gallons of alcohol. But I know no one deserves the love and adoration more than the fiery woman before me.
“I thought I was going to have to gnaw off my arm.” I giggle, another hiccup mixing with the sound. Dale looks at me, her face flushed a deep crimson color.
“Why the hell didn’t you say anything? I didn’t want to be rude or come off as a fatty, but I’ve been dying for hours.”
“Wanted to see how drunk you would get,” I hiccup with a shrug.
Dale leans over, hitting my arm with a thump. In the same movement, her stool tips, sending her flailing toward me in a wave of black hair and a slurry of cuss words. We crash dramatically in a heap on the floor, both gasping for breath. Tears stream unrestrained down the swells of my heated face, and I suck in ragged breaths between cackles.
“Here, let me help you up.” A warm hand wraps firmly around my elbow, pulling me up from the dusty floor. Without looking at the bystander, I extend my hand out to Dale who is now sprawled on the floor, her eyes glassy and her lips in a ‘o’ shape. She wiggles her eyebrows, winks, and then rolls over to push up—effectively ignoring my attempt at ignoring whoever is staring at us.
As she stands, she grips my arms, rising on her toes to whisper not so quietly into my ear.
“He might not be your type, but he’s everyone else’s. You should take a ride on the wild side; you might just find out you like it.” Her words fan across my neck, smelling strongly of mint and Vodka. I roll my eyes and turn around.
The man who had pulled me up, is in fact, not my type; just as Dale said. But also like Dale said, I am a woman and I can appreciate how he could definitely be anyone else’s. Even if I doubt there is anything “wild” about him.
He has dirty blonde hair that is cropped short on the sides, with longer waves dusting the top of what has to be a solidly built six feet, if not more. His face, as smooth as the day he was born, is all angular lines with a strong jaw, long, thin nose, thin pale lips, and slashing pale eyebrows. His deep blue eyes sear into my skin, and I squirm with the familiar sensation of feeling naked and looked upon. Because he is looking at me like I am naked, and he likes what he sees.
Gross.
He is a little too primly dressed for my liking, but I can also appreciate a man who likes to dress nicely. His dark jeans have a long, taunt crease down the front from heavy starching, with a crisp pale pink pearl snap tucked into them. His shiny brown boots, and a brown belt all match so perfectly, too perfectly .
“Stetson, this is Nathan Swith. Nathan, this is my dear friend, Stetson. She just moved back here from Colorado,” Dale states, her voice hinting at a laugh. She is clearly trying to cut the tension that is awkwardly building between me and the pretty boy, and I still don’t know what to say or do. He makes my toes curl with his icy stare. And being the fucked up human that I am, I like being uncomfortable. Even if he is prettier than I am.
He blinks, breaking the trance between us, and sticks out a large pale hand toward me. His eyes never waver from my face, and the heat of an unwanted blush climbs up my neck.
It is the alcohol. It has to be.
“Nice to meet you, Stetson. Might want to try staying off the floor here, it’s known to get pretty nasty.”A small smile tips his pale lips to the side. I smile back at him and nod, like an idiot.
Of course, I know the bar floors get nasty.
“Thanks, I don’t know what happened.” It’s all I can squeak out. I obviously know what happened. Dale is hammered and fell off her stool like a dork. But my brain cells aren’t firing at full speed—from the alcohol. Because it certainly can’t be from the pretty boy. He chuckles, shaking his sandy blonde hair.
“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, his smile growing in wattage. A dimple appears on his left cheek, and my eyes itch to roll. Of course, he would have a dimple. It makes him look boyish, hot boyish, but still boyish. I shake my head and turn to look at Dale whose eyes look like a cartoon character, glassy and wide. Her head is currently whipping back and forth between our faces, her hands clasped to her chest.
I need to get her out of here— is she humming the wedding march?
“Not tonight, I think we’ve had about enough to drink. What we need is some food.” I don’t think she will last long enough to eat pizza even if I order it now, and I have no clue how we’re going to leave; Dale managed to not only get me trashed as she had promised, but herself in the process. There aren’t Ubers in nowhere Texas— lucky me . I will have to figure it out.
“Thanks, though.” I don’t want to be rude—he is the first man who has been even remotely nice to me, but I need to get Dale home safely. Plus, there’s food there that we won’t have to wait on.
She’s all that matters right now .
“How ‘bout I drive you? Neither of you looks like you should get behind the wheel.” He extends his hand to me, and I stare down at the baby soft palm. No calluses; strike one against Pretty Boy.
“Uhm, are you sure?” I stammer, although I really hope he says yes. This doesn’t feel appropriate for someone I just met, but I also don’t know how else to get home. Dale’s small hands wrap around my arm.
“Oh, sweet Stet. This nice man wouldn’t offer if he wasn’t sure.” She croons and I swear there are heart’s beating in her eyes.
“Come on Dale, let’s get you and your beautiful friend out of here.” His hand is still outstretched, ready to pull me through the now dense crowd of evening bar hoppers. Dale nudges me, and I reluctantly place my hand in the envelope of his soft fingers. Dale is giggling behind me like a lunatic and starts skipping toward the door.
“Yes, yes. Me and my beautiful friend, need saving. No doubt about it!” Dale is breathless and I can see her clasping her hands to her chest again. I groan.
Get me the fuck out of here.
We step through the crowd, Nathan’s hand never releasing mine, and I fight every instinct to pull my hand from his and wipe it down the front of my jeans. He is too soft, and it is throwing me for a loop. I don’t like soft.
But I also don’t like disappointing people, and I know if I reject him here and now, Dale’s fragile, drunk happiness will burst.
If she cries I don’t know how I will handle it.
So he continues to pull me, and I continue to let him.
We reach the door, a draft of cool air hits my face, but my back burns anew. I turn around, making sure Dale is still following, and to find the source of that ever annoying heat. It doesn’ t always happen when someone looks at me, thank God or I’d be a pile of ashes at this point. But it happens often, and at the most random times—has for several years now—and I have no way of explaining it. Like my intuition is screaming at me, but about what?
Spotting Dale, I trace her features, just to make sure she’s still safe, and note her face growing more weary and tired with each step. I need to get her to a bed, and fast. I move to turn back around, satisfied that she’s still bumping along behind me, albeit slowly, when I freeze.
A pair of dark eyes brand their way through me like a hot iron against exposed flesh, causing a ripple of shivers to snake down my back. I suck in a sharp breath, my eyes glued to his across the room, the familiar wave of heat bursting into an inferno across my skin. Like he’s the lighter and I’m the kindling, a light breeze of fate fanning the forest fire potential between us.
I know I should look away—let this seemingly familiar and yet completely new feeling pass by without acknowledgment. It’ll be safer that way.
But I know if I do, I will regret it.
His eyes flick down, and I instantly know he’s looking at Nathan’s grip on my hand. I want to pull away, I want to push him out of view, but I can’t; I’m frozen. Even if I wasn’t drunk, I know I would be rooted to this moment, to this eclectic current zipping over my skin, from a look.
A single look.
I can’t make out the features of his face, or the shape of his body. He is covered in dark clothing from head to toe—black t-shirt, dark jeans, and a black cowboy hat that shadows his face from the dim lights streaking across the room. Even in the darkness I can tell he’s muscular and solid, the fabric of his shirt and jeans clinging to the ridges of his trim muscles like water over a stone. He looks carved from the shadows—dark and dangerous—and that sends a thrill of excitement racing to my core. I am hot and ready, and I don’t even know what his face looks like.
It is more a feeling, a magnitude. And I’m hooked.
I gulp and feel Nathan tugging at my hand again. The stranger’s eyes flick down once more at where he is gripping me, and I can see the whites of his eyes disappear, like he’s closed them. He leans deeply into the shadows of the room, their dark arms swallowing their equally dark companion, and only when the rotating strobe light returns to his place among them, do I see his eyes glittering at me once more.
And even from here, even with only seconds of light with each pass, I can see he is pissed. I can feel it. His body is coiled tight, holding the quivering monster beneath at bay with a blanket of flimsy fabric.
I rub my thighs together, the alcohol, and my predisposition to fucked up men, making me wet. His dark eyes note that movement too, and his head tips. A small lock of dark hair dropping over his face, but he has pushed it back beneath his hat within the next pass of the strobing lights.
I feel frozen in time, my breathing all but ice in my lungs, the music a distant thrum in my veins. Time could be speeding past me, or halted all together and I wouldn’t know—wouldn’t care. All I know is that heat that has haunted my days and nights for as long as I can remember feels more potent than ever. And I’d do anything to be consumed by it completely; consumed by the man who has the power to make me want to risk running into a burning barn just to see what might lie inside.
I shift my legs again, desperate for any kind of friction to lessen the building ache in my pussy. The light passes his shadows again, and I catch a flash of white teeth—more a snarl than a smile, but it makes me suck in a sharp breath all the same. With the next pass of light, I crane my neck, ready to catch another glimpse of him, like a drug addict looking for my next hit, but his form doesn’t fill out the shadows the way it did only moments before.
I hold my breath, waiting for the light to tilt by three more times before the tugging on my arm becomes too much for me to ignore, and the sound of Dale’s voice filters into my haze once more.
I want to go talk to him. I want to find him and see just how hot his skin feels beside mine.
But the longer I stand here, the cooler my skin becomes—nearly chilled. It’s obvious he’s gone.
And I feel irrationally empty.