Chapter Nineteen
The first thing I notice about The Soused Cow is the noise.
It’s not the hum of conversation and quiet music I’m used to at places like the Belicourt lounge. This is louder, rougher—boots stomping, laughter rolling across the room, the steady twang of a country band banging out a song.
The second thing I notice is the smell.
Beer. Whiskey. Sawdust. And cheap cologne.
I stand just inside the doorway for a second, letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting while the band finishes the last chorus of whatever song they’re playing.
I still don’t know how I got here.
One minute, I was sitting in Harleigh’s front yard at Wildhaven Storm Ranch with a paper plate full of brisket and potato salad, listening to her family laugh around a bonfire.
The next minute, she and her sisters were piling into my SUV. Drunk and singing at the top of their lungs.
And I was following Cabe’s truck down a dark rural highway toward this place.
I drag a hand down my face, shaking my head slightly.
I should’ve taken my ass home.
Behind me, the door swings shut with a heavy thud as Bryce and Waylon step in.
“Come on, Garrison,” Waylon says. “Don’t second-guess it now.”
“I’m not,” I mutter.
He grins like he doesn’t believe me.
The girls are already halfway across the bar, weaving through the crowd toward the dance floor like they own the place.
Which, judging by the number of people yelling their names, they practically do.
Harleigh is at the front of the pack.
Of course she is.
Before we left the ranch, she changed into a pair of wide-legged chocolate suede pants and a cowhide-print bustier, topped with a thin brown corduroy jacket.
Her hair tumbles down her back. I watch as she throws her head back, laughing at something Shelby said, and for a moment, I forget where I am entirely.
Then Waylon claps a hand on my shoulder and steers me toward the back corner. “Tables,” he says. “We need tables.”
Bryce is already dragging one across the floor.
The legs scrape loudly against the wood planks.
I grab the edge of another and help shove it into place.
Waylon adds a third.
It’s clearly their usual routine.
People passing by nod at them.
A couple of guys stop to shake hands with Bryce. Rodeo fans.
Someone shouts something across the room at Waylon, and he throws his hand up.
I stay quiet, scanning the bar out of habit.
Crowd size.
Exits.
Body language.
Years of my father drilling security risks into my head have hardwired the instinct into me.
I catalog everything automatically.
The front door. The side exit near the bathrooms. The bar in the center of the room separates the tables from the game area.
And the dance floor.
Harleigh and her sisters are already there, moving with the music, like they’ve been waiting all night to let loose.
Cabe appears beside me suddenly and slaps a hand against my back. “Relax,” he says.
I glance at him.
He’s grinning.
“It’s not as rough as it looks.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You didn’t have to,” he says.
He jerks his chin toward the room.
“We know almost everyone in here,” he assures me. “And the ones we don’t are usually with someone we do.”
Waylon drops into a chair beside the table. “You’re safe, douchebag.”
I sit down slowly. “I’m not worried about my safety,” I grit out.
Before I can say more, a server appears beside the table.
She looks about twenty-five, blonde ponytail, black tank top with The Soused Cow printed across the front.
She plants a hand on her hip. “You boys want the usual?”
Bryce nods immediately. “Yeah.” Then he glances at me. “And our new friend here will take …”
“A scotch, neat,” I say.
The server nods once. “Got it.”
Bryce pulls out a card and hands it to her before she disappears back toward the bar.
I open my mouth to object.
Then close it again.
Waylon leans back in his chair. “You look like a scotch guy.”
“And what does a scotch guy look like?” I ask.
He smirks. “A douchebag.”
Bryce laughs, but it’s all good-natured.
My attention drifts back to the dance floor before I can stop it.
The band finishes their song.
The crowd cheers loudly.
The lead singer—tall guy with shaggy hair and a guitar slung across his chest—jumps down from the stage like he’s done it a hundred times before.
Harleigh laughs when he lands beside her.
He says something into her ear, and she grins up at him.
Then he takes her hand.
My jaw tightens slightly.
And next thing I know, they’re dancing. Not casual dancing. Close dancing.
The kind where his hand settles on her waist like he’s placed it there many times before.
I feel something unpleasant twist in my chest.
Cabe follows my gaze. He leans back in his chair and lets out a low whistle. “And another one bites the dust.”
Waylon chuckles beside him. “Looks that way.”
My head snaps back toward them. “What?”
Bryce clasps my shoulder. “It’s okay, man.”
I stare at him.
“No one at this table has the right to talk,” he continues. “Except maybe Cabe.”
Cabe lifts a finger. “That’s right.”
Bryce shakes his head. “But he’s one of them,” he adds, “so he doesn’t count.”
“Hey!” Cabe protests.
Waylon laughs.
I look at all three of them slowly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Right then, the server returns with backup. Two more girls follow behind her, carrying trays.
They drop glasses onto the table.
Beer. Whiskey.
Shot glasses of tequila.
A ridiculous number of libations.
The server sets my scotch down in front of me.
“Anything else?” she asks.
Bryce waves a hand. “We’re good.”
She nods and walks away again.
Waylon picks up one of the shot glasses and lifts it toward me. “You might not have any idea now, but you will by the end of the night.”
Then he tosses it back in one smooth motion.
Bryce and Cabe follow suit.
I stare down at the shot in front of me for a beat.
Then sigh quietly and pick it up.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
The tequila burns all the way down.
Across the room, Harleigh throws her head back, laughing at something the singer said.
My grip tightens slightly on the glass in my hand.
Cabe notices. “You’ve got about ten minutes,” he says casually.
I look at him. “For what?”
He lifts two fingers. “Before one of two things happens.”
I narrow my eyes. “And what are those?”
He gestures toward the dance floor. “Either she brings him over here to join us …” He pauses. “Or you go out there and drag her away from him.”
Waylon shakes his head. “Nah, there’s a third option. Fifty bucks says Shelby handles it.”
Bryce shakes his head. “I’ve got fifty on Charli.”
“You’re right,” Cabe says. “Charli’s the safest bet.”
I blink. “You’re betting on the singer coming over here?”
Waylon chuckles. “We’re betting on the Storm women.”
Like that explains everything.
My eyes drift back to the dance floor despite myself.
Harleigh is still dancing with the singer. But now Shelby has appeared beside them and is wiggling her way between the two of them.
Waylon’s arms shoot up. “That’s my girl.”
She says something to the guy.
Harleigh looks confused.
Shelby gestures toward our table.
And just like that, the guy politely backs away.
Waylon slaps the table. “Told you!”
Bryce groans. “Damn it. Charli was distracted.”
Charli is standing off to the side, taking a shot of something pink with a group of females.
He reaches into his back pocket, pulls a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet, and tosses it at Waylon.