Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
brIELLE
“ D id Emily bother you about Saturday?” Melissa asks.
I chance a glance at her, but she’s swiping through her phone with a blank face.
“No,” I say.
Hiking with Emily had been more enjoyable than I’d expected. She’d been quiet and reflective, a perfect balance to Camden’s happy-go-lucky adventurous spirit. I’d expected her to drill me about the awkward as hell runin with her brother, but she didn’t bring up anything about him or the ranch. Nothing beyond doubling down that I’m allowed to ride Phoebe whenever I’d like.
Melissa nods. “Good, then she actually listened to me for once.”
I raise an eyebrow. Melissa shrugs and readjusts her glasses.
“You know how Alphas are. Even when they’re your friends. Sometimes the need to protect overrides the friendship, you know? I told her it was just you reacting to an Alpha after coming off the suppressors. But I wasn’t sure she would just leave it alone.”
She points to the stop sign a few hundred feet ahead of us.
“Turn left here,” she instructs. “And then it’s the second one on your right.”
We’re spending Friday night going to The Outpost, a bar unofficially known as the locals’ hangout space. It’s an unassuming building a few blocks off of Main with a single story, flat-roofed shape and brick facade. Its large double doors are painted a dark brown, probably to look like wood. The windows are large but little light makes it through them, probably from a film they’ve put over the glass for privacy. It’s clear the building is older, but there’s no neon signs or overly western touches that I’d expected.
A majority of Creek Falls makes money from the tourists traveling north to Grand Teton and Yellowstone. And tourists love cliche. So much so that sometimes even the more local spots end up being infected with it. The only concession is the name itself. Calling a bar “The Outpost” is practically right out of the Old West.
The parking lot is nearly full, so I slide into one of the only open spots in the farthest corner. Melissa adjusts her dress as we head toward the building. As she gets her small clutch situated on her wrist, I take a moment to mess with my own outfit, making sure my shirt is tucked into the black skirt and laying flat.
Inside, it’s more of the unassuming design. Simple dark hardwood floors and sporadic landscape photographs on the deep navy walls. The bar runs the entire length of the wall to our left, barstools a simple black with low backs. Smaller tables line the far wall and the one to our right, carving out a large space in the middle for dancing. The only nods to cliche evident inside are all of the people wearing jeans and cowboy hats. Some are bedazzled, some shimmer under the low lighting. I’m the only one without one.
I glance down at my outfit—a metallic black skirt that flares away from my hips and falls mid-thigh and a mostly see-through dark purple top that shows off the lacy black balconette bralette I’m wearing underneath it. It’s something that would have been considered appropriate for a night out at most of the more informal bars in Denver.
I glance at everyone around me and seriously consider just turning around and heading back to the guest house to hide.
“You’re fine, Bri.” Melissa loops her arm through mine and guides us to the bar, sliding into a seat.
“Hey, Mel.” The woman behind the bar greets Melissa, her voice warm and a large smile lighting her face. “What has you out on a Friday?”
Melissa smiles and gestures toward me. I slip into the chair beside her, crossing my ankles and tucking my small, crossbody purse into my lap.
“Devynn, this is Brielle,” Melissa says over the din of the music and crowd.
The woman turns to me and offers a hand. “Nice to meet you! There’s been tons of buzz the last week about you. What would you like to drink?”
I keep my face a happy, empty smile. I’m not surprised the gossip about me has made it to the bars despite it only being a week since I moved into Emily’s guest house. It’s certainly all over the Rustic Roast—despite Joan not encouraging it at all as far as I can tell. Each time I’ve swung by since Emily coaxed me out of hiding on Tuesday, there’s been more eyes on me than when I ran the high stakes executive meetings at Hawkins Corp.
“Nice to meet you,” I offer. “I’ll take a Cape Cod.”
She raises an eyebrow even as she nods. “You want your normal, Mel?”
When she nods, Devynn turns away to make the drinks.
“Sorry,” Melissa says.
I shrug. “I figured there’d be people talking. I spent an entire summer under the microscope, remember?” Melissa worries at her lip, messing up the gloss she reapplied in the car. I palm her knee. “Really, Mel. Don’t worry about me. We came out to have some fun, so let’s do that, all right? People are going to talk, whether I’m here or not.”
Devynn comes back as I’m reassuring her, and she murmurs her agreement.
“Shiny object syndrome. Give it a couple weeks, and it should settle down.”
I slide my ID across the bar to start a tab, and Devynn shakes her head. “No need. I’ll make sure you pay out. Or make you deal with Marcus.”
Her eyes fill with humor, and I tilt my head.
“Marcus?” I ask.
Melissa giggles. “Her Newfoundland. He won’t hurt you. Not intentionally, at least. But he’ll get enough drool on you that you’ll wish you’d just done whatever Devynn asked of you.”
Devynn smiles and shrugs before moving farther down the bar, responding to someone’s wave. I tuck my ID away and take a sip of the cocktail, letting the bite of the vodka steal my focus. Melissa leans her head against my shoulder, and I can’t help but smile.
“Just like you to order something so fancy,” she says, a smile in her voice.
I laugh. “It didn’t occur to me until I’d already said it that she might not know what it is.”
“Devynn grew up in Boston,” she says.
Surprise lights through me. She doesn’t have the accent. Melissa must see my reaction because she sits up and takes a drink of her cocktail.
“She went to school in Jackson the same time we were going to school. She met Brandon while there, and they ended up friends. She moved here when she graduated and set up The Outpost.” Melissa’s voice wavers a bit, but she takes another drink to hide it. I grab her hand. “Anyway, she says she’s been here long enough to drop the accent. But, really, I think she just hates sounding like an outsider. Things like that are a big thing in a little town.”
I trace the rim of my drink as I force a deep breath. Melissa squeezes my hand. The song changes, but I ignore it, trying to let my mind empty out. Before I can quite manage it, Devynn clears her throat. Melissa straightens, dropping my hand, suddenly incredibly focused on the drink sitting in front of her.
“The guy at the end wants to buy you a beer,” Devynn says when I look at her. “As I’m not one who likes to waste beer or money, I figured I’d ask you before opening it.”
Melissa glances down the line before I do. Her nose scrunches before she hides it behind her cup. I try to keep my look more subtle, just in case he’s watching. Turns out, he isn’t. What kind of guy doesn’t at least watch while the bartender delivers their number?
He’s maybe a year or so younger than me and seems vaguely familiar. His red flannel shirt hangs open, revealing an unassuming white tee underneath. His cowboy hat is ivory and looks brand new—not a single sun spot or discolored patch from sweat.
Do people here have a specific hat they wear when they go out? Like the women I used to hang out with had specialty dresses for when they were going to spend a night on the town? The thought makes me giggle, but I don’t let it out of my mouth.
“No, thank you,” I tell Devynn.
Turning him down might make for more problems than I really care to deal with. But it’s leagues better than being stuck talking to someone all night when I have no intention of dating for the foreseeable future. And I’m not one for casual hookups. I’m not built like that. From what I’ve read of other Omegas, it’s a trait many of us share.
Devynn nods. “Figured as much. I’ll handle it.”
“Thanks,” I offer as she turns away.
Melissa sighs. “Sorry.”
I shake my head. “I’m the pretty new toy. It’s fine, Mel.”
She doesn’t seem convinced, but she doesn’t push me, either. “To be honest, I’m shocked it’s Calder that made the first move,” she says, a little of her wry tone coming back.
I scratch at the tattoo behind my ear before running my hand through my hair.
“Who did you think it would be?” I ask.
“Brody,” she says without hesitating. “He’s in the far back corner, chatting with the Baileys.”
Without even looking over my shoulder, I know it’s not someone I’m remotely interested in knowing. The Baileys have been on my metaphorical shit list since I lived here ten years ago. I pretend to gag, and she laughs.
And then the first name she mentioned catches up to me.
“Calder?” I ask. “As in Calder Dean?”
That small bit of guilt I felt for not accepting the beer bleeds out of me. Like hell do I want anything to do with him. Or his brother.
Melissa hums before taking a long drink.
“Yep.”
The one word conveys an entire lifetime of conflict. The Deans—and the Baileys—hate Melissa. Technically, they hated her dad. But small town politics meant that that hate transferred to her as if she was the original aggressor.
Devynn turns to the wall of liquor, and I chance a glance down the bar. The man’s laughing, his head thrown back. He’s a far cry from the lean teenager he’d been the last time I’d knowingly seen him. He’s bulkier now, the last little bit of youth gone from his face.
After a moment, he throws down cash onto the bar top and then joins that same group of guys Melissa mentioned. I just manage to duck my head as they focus on where we sit.
“Trish quit,” Melissa says, her voice quiet and somber. Then she slams the rest of her drink, emptying the cup in a single gulp. Devynn glances over, an eyebrow cocked, but turns back to the woman in front of her.
I frown. “Why?”
Trish has been the office manager for Misty Mountain since Melissa owned it with Brandon. She loves the ranch just as much as Mel does. She’s not the type of person to just suddenly quit.
Of course, neither am I, and yet I’m sitting here in Creek Falls with my best friend rather than a condo in the heart of Denver.
“Her mom called. She’s apparently been sick for a while but didn’t bring it up. To Trish, I mean. She didn’t tell Trish she was sick.” Melissa traces the rim of her drink. “Stage three lung cancer. It’s really bad. Trish was a mess.”
Oh no .
“I told her she can have the job back if she ever wants it, no questions asked. But she’s not sure how long she’ll be gone.” Melissa sighs. “Emily and I talked it over. I’ll take over the day-to-day things, and she’ll juggle the larger items. If it becomes too much for the both of us, then we’ll see about finding someone new.”
Her lips curve down, and she bites at her lip again, betraying her nerves. I bump her shoulder with my own.
“I’ll take over the animals,” I say.
She has an amazing staff that cares for the trail horses at Misty Mountain. But she takes care of the chickens and goats— and her personal horses. She tenses like she’s going to fight me, so I grab her hand and squeeze it.
“It’ll keep me busy.”
The resistance fades away from her, and her shoulders drop. “All right.”
A man sits down beside me, and Devynn turns to him. Her posture changes, though it’s subtle. Her shoulders stiffen, and the corners of her mouth gain a tension that tightens her smile. Whoever this guy is, he doesn’t have a fan in Devynn. Men who piss off bartenders aren’t anyone I want to hang out with.
Just as he’s turning toward me, his intention clear in the set of his shoulders and practiced smile curving his lips, I stand from the stool and drag Melissa with me.
“Let’s get going.”
She doesn’t argue, letting me pull her from the bar before the guy manages to say a single word to me.