Take It Outside (Trailhead #1)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Beau

I t’s a sucker bet, and I’m not going to find anyone to bite, but I raise an eyebrow just as another bottle cap goes flying. I lower it when my second beer lands on the coaster left empty by the cheap lager I finished about twenty seconds ago.

"We could be surprised," I argue, one of my fingertips catching a sliver of ice as it slides over the label. “Sure you don’t wanna take me for a few bucks?”

Darren laughs and flings an extra coaster at my chest. “I kept the whole damn house when we got divorced, Beau. I think we can agree I’ve taken you for plenty. And besides, there’s no chance that pretty dude made the decision to come here tonight. It’s not quite a hostage situation, but it’s close enough.”

With the coaster trapped against my flannel, I take another look at the couple who’d pushed through the bar’s creaky barn doors and sigh at the accuracy of the description, one of them only a half step back, but tense enough for me to wish I could relax for him. The newcomers haven’t made it much farther yet—overwhelmed by the sight of shirtless bartenders, or the scent of men and sawdust, or the volume at which The Chicks are pleading to be taken away—and their hesitation gives me time to take a sip and watch as my ex-husband restocks the cooler on the flip side of the bar.

“The other one looks a little like you,” I say. Somehow, it feels like déjà vu.

“Ah, so I confused you when I didn’t describe him as being the pretty one.”

With a poorly contained snort, I throw the extra coaster back and flip him off, though the gesture is made with affection I won’t deny. Darren’s heart has been tied up with mine for far too long—before, during, and after our marriage—for me to think we won’t love each other forever, no matter how many pieces of cardboard get flung back and forth between us. He winks at me now, and I tip my cowboy hat before I turn my focus back to the two men making their way to one of the empty high-top tables, curious about whether the coaster Darren just caught will be the same one to end up in front of the pretty one.

Or either of the pretty ones maybe, but especially the one who might’ve been dragged here against his will.

My own free will has me at Trailhead for the third time this week, which is probably about what anyone expects of me these days, and the bet bullshit is an old habit Darren and I haven’t quite broken. For as many regulars as the bar might have, it’s often enough that strangers will stumble into Trailhead on some kind of date, and the two of us like to bet on them, anyone nearby joining in if they’re bored. We usually start with which one of any pair pushed for the type of fun a visit to a gay country bar could bring, and sure, sometimes it’s a mutual decision, but more often than not, there’s someone who would’ve stayed in the parking lot all night if it had been a viable option.

“Fine, no bet,” I grumble, the reaction exaggerated just for Darren. “But you better get over there before they bolt altogether.”

It’s a weeknight, and only moderately busy, so everyone behind the bar is welcome to work the room instead of waiting for customers to approach them for a drink. Or as the unofficial bar manager, Darren could probably do that anytime he wants, but it’s still no surprise that he glances at Riley first, just to make sure they aren’t headed to the table to make some extra money.

They’re not, and everyone knows it, Riley predictably happy exactly where they stand, mid-conversation with a couple who will ask little of them.

I track Darren’s path from where he starts within arm’s reach of me, to where he lands even closer to the two guys caught somewhere between their own private world and an entire room that will do its best to knock down a few walls of it. I don’t bother reminiscing about how often I’ve been lost in that space too, the call of memory lane ignored when I shift on my stool to watch this pair instead. My view of Trailhead is the same as usual, the stool at the furthest end of the bar all but saved for me these days, and the constant open-close of the back door—the one leading to the beer garden—is an annoyance I made peace with a very long time ago. I like it here, being able to absorb so much of the bar’s chaos at once, and I take in the two expressions I can clock from where I sit.

One of them, on the face of the one who definitely wants to be at Trailhead tonight, is full of curiosity and fire.

The other is all wariness and something smoky enough to make me wonder whether I can taste it when my tongue sweeps over my lip.

Both of the strangers’ reactions are fair given the half-naked man standing in front of them.

Darren is as traditionally handsome as anyone I’ve ever seen, at this bar or any other, built like a goddamn Ken doll with his jeans resting low enough to tease the world with a v-line that promises better. The rainbow bandana around his neck draws everyone’s attention upward eventually, but then it’s too easy to get caught up in the sharp line of his jaw, the blond scruff that goes better than it should with the styled swoop of his hair, dimples hidden by nothing, and the blue eyes that tip toward gray more often than he knows. And then there’s the attitude he carries with him everywhere, an arrogance forgiven immediately, that keeps just about everyone from looking away.

He slides coasters onto the table—one of them almost certainly marked with my fingerprints—and I take another minute to study the two men still at least a little stunned by Darren’s smile. I think they’re both in their mid-30s, and the far more eager one has hair just a shade lighter, a touch longer, and a bit wavier than Darren’s, his eyes mostly hidden behind glasses he wears well. He’s thin, and probably not all that tall if a beer and a half haven’t messed with my ability to gauge that sort of thing, and he’s wearing a plaid button-up and jeans like maybe it’s a costume only meant for the night versus anything he’d choose on another day. I don’t remember getting a look at his shoes when he’d first walked in, but I’m willing to bet cowboy boots weren’t part of the package.

The other guy is harder to describe—beyond Darren’s very accurate pretty , at least—and I’m not exactly sure why. There’s a mess of dark hair falling across his forehead, and eyes that should be just as dark, except that I have no chance of knowing that from where I’m sitting. He hasn’t shaved in the past day or two, and whether it’s the result of laziness or a style choice, it looks good on him. He’s wearing a graphic tee tight enough to suggest time spent at the gym, and for whatever reason, I think this one might actually have a pair of boots. And then there’s just the beginning of a grin, as though this guy can’t be rude to the gorgeous bartender trying to welcome them to Trailhead, no matter how much he’d rather not be welcomed by anyone at all.

The excited one does most of the talking, and whenever he pauses, I assume it’s Darren’s turn to say something. The quiet husband or partner or boyfriend or casual acquaintance or random hookup speaks only for the few seconds it takes him to order a drink, but Darren seems satisfied with that, nodding just before he turns and returns to the bar to give me their story .

I take a long pull from my bottle and remind myself there’s nothing riding on this one.

“So, how’d it go?”

Darren pulls a Lagunitas from the ice, pops the cap, and sets it on the bar. “Well, they were a little creeped out by the not-so-pretty guy drooling over them from across the room, but I promised I’d keep you on a short leash.”

“Oh, fuck off, they never looked over here,” I growl. “And leashes aren’t your thing, so you can fuck off with that, too.”

“Fine. You behaved, and they didn’t notice you, but christ —the cute blond is a chatty motherfucker,” Darren chuckles, about as serious about it as he is about anything that happens at the bar. “Just as well, I guess, since his friend wasn’t saying shit.”

I nod toward the glass in front of him now. “Except to order a Jack and Coke?”

“Jack and ginger.”

“Since when do you have ginger ale here?”

“We don’t,” Darren says, picking up the soda gun. “I’m cheating—unless you want to run to the store and pick up a bottle for your new friend. They’re from New York, by the way. Moved to L.A. a few weeks ago. You want to know the rest, go talk ‘em up. I have no doubt your drawl can charm the pants off at least one of them.”

He’s out from behind the bar and on his way to drop off the drinks before I can think of a witty enough response to that. Probably something about how I’m not the expert in blowing up relationships by helping someone out of their pants, except that it’s an old joke and a little less funny after all this time. We’ve been through that particular hell and back again, and if I still taste something bitter on my tongue, it’s only because I’ve chosen not to wash it down years after the fact. I tap a meaningless beat against my bottle and then take another sip like it’s the start of something new.

“You okay?”

I blink up at Riley and set my beer back down. “Yeah, darlin’. Do I look that bad?”

Riley smiles but doesn’t bother with an answer, nodding toward the table where Darren’s caught up in another conversation over the beer and whiskey he’s just delivered. “I know you guys like to keep an eye on everything around here, but what is it about them?”

“What do you mean? They just got here.”

“And you’ve barely been able to look away.”

“Like you’re not always watching what’s happening around here,” I huff. “And I don’t know. I like to come here to get out of my head, and maybe it’s not workin’ tonight.”

“I understand wanting to get out of your head, but this place is so—” Riley trails off and shrugs, their crystal blue gaze locking with my darker one for an important second or two, their pierced eyebrow offering a distraction I welcome often, even after they’ve looked away. They’re gorgeous in a way that’s almost out of place here, most people at Trailhead—employees and customers alike—prone to the kind of shit kicking that’ll leave us ragged and breathless and sweaty by the end of the night. Not Riley, though. Riley’s the fresh air we all need afterward. “Your work is so quiet and calm, and then you come here to all the chaos. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Yes, you do.”

I’m quiet when I say it, but it’s enough to have them glance at me again. “Okay, I guess I know how . But maybe sometime you can tell me more about why.”

I want to ask if Riley will tell me why too, because however much I already understand about them, I think there must be another hundred things that have never crossed my mind. It’s not the time for a conversation like that though, and I look forward to the next time it will be. Ours isn’t the kind of relationship that spills beyond Trailhead’s barn doors often, but they know I’ll be there as soon as I’m invited close again. I’ve rarely seen them drink, but maybe at the very least we could sip at something strong in the beer garden and talk about a little bit of everything, old and new.

V had hired Riley as the newest Trailhead bartender when they were barely 21, giving them the misfortune of walking into the immediate aftermath of my divorce from Darren and all the drama that came with it, and I’ll always be a little sorry for that. I shouldn’t have been spending so much time at the bar in those days, Riley introduced to a version of me that might have been a stranger a couple of years before, and now I stare at the New Yorkers for a minute, musing about whether anything has changed.

“Have I been hangin’ out here too long?” I ask .

A quick crease appears between Riley’s brows. “You’re not talking about tonight.”

“No.”

“Haven’t quite figured out whether blondie always talks so much, or whether he just likes the company of shirtless men,” Darren says, interrupting anything else I might have said as he breezes past me and slips behind the bar again. “The good news is, I finally got a legit smile from the pretty one, so maybe the hostage thing is going better than we first thought.”

Riley ducks away, returning to the other half of the L-shaped bar and a handful of happy drinkers who don’t need them, and I grab my own bottle when I roll my eyes at Darren. “Congrats on the smile.”

“Thanks,” he chuckles. “I didn’t scare the kid away, did I?”

“If they were that easy to spook, they would’ve been gone a long, long time ago.”

“Guess you’re right. But it looked like you were having a serious conversation about something. They okay?”

I’m not about to tell Darren that he’s got it backward, a silent nod fine for now. The barn doors swing open and save me from having to dodge more questions, a group of about eight or nine making their presence known when a few of them spot the pool tables and another shouts across the room to someone he recognizes at the bar. None of them look like trouble, just a lot of rowdy fun, but I immediately check on the couple still sitting at the high-top table, just to gauge whether this might make their night better or worse.

Dark hair gets pushed back from a forehead, sharp eyes taking in more details than I think I’d bother to notice. Next to him, a lip gets bit, maybe to keep another thousand words from spilling all over the table. Two drinks get lifted and set back down.

A third beer lands in front of me, and when I try to clear my head enough to mumble thanks to Darren, I get a wink just before he greets the group beginning to crowd the bar, all of them too eager to drink to wait for anyone to come to them. It’s just the beginning of several minutes of one thing after another, Darren and Riley sending bottle caps flying when they’re not pouring shots, the music turned up a notch to match the new energy level around us, and the clack of pool balls becoming something of a constant. Nobody’s gone running for the mechanical bull yet, but that seems like it’s a when situation more than an if one, and I crack the beginning of a smile when I see a few people wander toward the dance floor.

It's my thing. The dance floor. Or dancing anywhere maybe. And if I try hard enough, I’m pretty sure I can convince myself it’s the only reason I come to Trailhead these days, even if I haven’t been out there in a while.

Several seconds are all I need to know that the first two men swing dancing together definitely know what they’re doing. The third is someone who’s goofing around a bit, but his rhythm isn’t bad, and when he’s joined by the guy he’d waved to when he’d walked in, everything seems to fall into place for both of them. Someone else from the group—a woman who threw back her own shot before stealing a friend’s—is the next to join in the fun, and another couple from the bar follows, a small crowd of happy dancers on the floor by the time a new song starts.

I know it well, of course, and the obvious choice of line dances is one I’ve done since I was barely a nugget of a thing messing around in my aunt and uncle’s backyard. Then again, the Tush Push has been around long enough for that to be true for everyone else too, and it’s no real surprise when they all peel away from their partners’ holds and spread out on the wood floor. But I’m too busy watching all of them, and it takes me another moment to notice that one more man has taken his place in line.

Wavy blond hair. Glasses. Plaid shirt. Definitely no cowboy boots. It’s enough to conjure a ghost I first met over 25 years ago, but I force the apparition aside to measure the grace in each of this man’s steps.

He wants to dance. Interesting.

After another quick sip, I leave my bottle on the coaster—if I’m gone long enough, Darren or Riley will tuck it into the ice for me—and I’m halfway to the dance floor before I can worry whether it’s a bad idea. I’m in a strange mood, mostly inexplicable except that it must have something to do with drinking too many beers on a stool I’ve sat on for too many years, and the two men who moved from New York and stepped into a bubble I have no particular right to claim as my own. I should go home tonight and think tomorrow.

But I’m gonna dance for a while first.

My boots carry me there, the sleeves of my flannel rolled to my elbows and my hat comfortably in place, and if I run a hand over my beard, it’s definitely not to help draw any attention to my smile. One of the guys who’d been at the bar recognizes me, and he and I exchange a friendly nod before I turn from him and move as fluidly as anyone, my size never a disadvantage here. I’m tall and broad and people orbit around me naturally—always have, really—and I’m not sorry for trying to catch the eye of the East Coast blond smoothly shaking his ass a few feet away.

I want to know where he learned to dance like this. That’s it. Just a simple question.

“Shit, sorry.”

A different stranger glances down at where he stepped on my toes, but then we’re all pivoting and it doesn’t matter much, the blond somewhere behind me for the next several seconds. I laugh off the clumsiness and count the beats until I can turn again, my view of the room shifting to something mostly new and always temporary. I get caught up in the idea of that for a minute—this chance to evade my own loneliness by moving over and over again—and I practically wince when I remember that the pattern of the dance will always bring me back to where I started, a look at the bar proving that Darren is as reliably there as he’s always been.

Fuck me, I guess.

I shake it off and let my eyes wander, but it’s not much longer before the song ends—the dance too—and while the next of both are just as familiar, I’m beginning to think finishing my beer will be better for me than whatever I thought I’d be able to accomplish out here. I clap one fellow dancer on the shoulder and make a move toward the bar, but then I feel a hand curl around my forearm, the contact as careful as the question that follows.

“So, do you two-step as well as you do everything else?”

I cock my head, slightly curious and more than a little stunned by the fact that I might have the chance to dance with the cute cowboy cosplayer from New York after giving up on exactly that. The next moment brings about a stupidly obvious glance past him and toward the man currently licking Jack and not-quite ginger ale from his lips before I correct my mistake and take a deep breath.

“I do okay, yeah,” I answer, shifting to take his hand. “Lead or follow?”

“You lead.”

I nod and twirl the guy once just because I can, and then we’re off, slipping seamlessly into the small group of dancers—another couple joining us from the bar now—and two-stepping our way around the floor. However much his outfit seems unworn, my dance partner isn’t half bad, and once I’m fairly confident the guy can make conversation while we move, I give into the curiosity I’d ignored a moment ago.

“So, what’s the ‘everything else’ you think I’m so good at? You’ve been here for all of what? Twenty minutes?”

“Sure, I guess,” the guy laughs. “But in that time, you’ve had the constant attention of two different bartenders, and you left them only to wink and smile and line dance more smoothly than anyone else on the floor. You’re a charmer whose two-step is far better than okay, but I’m probably the last to figure that out, huh?”

“You’ve figured out plenty, but there aren’t a whole lot of people here for you to make a fair comparison, so come back on a weekend and then let me know whether I’m any good. As for the bartenders, Darren was married to me for too long and forgot to ignore me again after we split. And Riley? Well, they’re too damn nice to leave me drinkin’ alone.”

I catch the quick furrow of the man’s brows on the other side of his glasses, notes taken and filed away. “You hang out at the bar where your ex-husband works?”

“Far too often, probably,” I say, putting at least some of tonight’s feelings into words before I lead us into a turn, everything about it still easier than I think it should be. “And Darren said you’re from New York, but that’s not exactly the country dancin’ capital of the USA. So, where’d you learn this shit?”

“Are you from the country dancin’ capital, cowboy?” the guy asks me with an exaggerated faux drawl.

“Maybe,” I chuckle. “I’m from Texas.”

“Ah, I suppose that explains the accent. And it was a college roommate—how I learned this shit. He taught me a hell of a lot that year, and I thanked him plenty.”

“Gratitude’s important.”

“So he said.”

I let that go and follow up with the most basic thing of all. “Now that we’re halfway through our first dance, and we both know more than we really need to know about each other, you feel like tellin’ me your name? ”

I get a brilliant smile for my trouble. “Levi. Levi Scott.”

“Well, Levi Scott, I’m Beau Davenport, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”