4. Romy
4
romy
I t was midnight by the time the winding mountain pass turned into Willows’s two-lane Main Street, shaded by ponderosa pines. And my bladder was killing me!
I didn't let my father know I was coming, nor did I want to stay with him. Traveling on short notice, I hadn't had time to search for a place to stay.
The nearest motel was thirty miles down the road, and I was too tired to make that drive. Most tourists either stayed in the cabin rentals at The Butte on the outskirts of town or camped down by the Deschutes River, both of which you had to book months in advance to find a vacancy.
Willows was one of those small towns most people drove through on their way to the mountains, destination hiking trails, or resort towns. Main Street was lined with specialty shops, galleries, a grocery store with a butcher and smokehouse, two cliché western restaurants, the burger and shake stop—I vowed I’d get one of their cookies-and-cream shakes before I left—Willows Coffee Company, which roasted their own beans and served breakfast, and, of course, the Rooster. Not much had changed in the past decade outside of a fresh coat of paint here or there and an updated sign above the coffee shop to look country chic, appealing to the tourists who traipsed through.
The Rooster, the only bar in town, blazed its red, neon rooster above the shake roof. It was the brightest beacon on Main. The Open sign flashed in the window. Thank goodness it was dark out, and so was the bar. No one should recognize me if I just dipped in to use the restroom.
I pulled my rented, red Hyundai into the small parking lot, the wheels crunching on the gravel. Every F-150 and their mom appeared to be here, and I reminded myself it was Saturday night in Willows. There was nothing else to do but get drunk at the Rooster.
A man and woman pushed open the front door, Kenny Chesney’s “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” flowing out with them. The woman in a jean skirt and paisley print top clung to the man in denim and canvas coat, giggling. I glanced at them, wondering if I knew either of them as I parked the car.
Nope. Strangers. Thank God!
Hopefully, I’d be just another stranger, too.
Stepping out of the car, I flung my purse across my shoulder and went inside.
Just keep your head down.
The bar was packed. Patrons on barstools chatted with two bartenders pouring beer on tap and stirring vodka cranberries. Every table was full, and there was a cacophony that only came from a full, drunk bar—laughter, talking, hollering, classic country playing over jukebox speakers, billiards breaking in the back. It was warm with all the body heat and smelled like stale beer and fried food. Neon beer-and-cowboy signs decorated the walls. A large, hand-painted, red rooster was posed in midcrow over the full bar.
The restroom sign hung over the lone hallway to the left of the front door, and I hurried down the hall to the women’s restroom, pushing open a vacant stall.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t even realized I was holding it.
A couple women came in, chatting while they used the toilets. I vaguely recognized one of their voices. Flashbacks of hiding in the girls’ bathroom in high school, overhearing classmates talk shit about me, made me question whether or not this was a good decision.
The women took their time washing their hands, primping in the mirror, while they laughed about some cowboy hitting on their friend. I held my breath, expecting them to say my name, to have noticed me come in. But they didn’t. I puffed out a big breath of relief. I waited until they left before I stepped out.
This was going to be a long night, and I needed to figure out where I was going to stay. I washed my hands and decided I could ask for a glass of water before I got back in my car to figure this shit out.
My head ducked, I headed toward the bar. A single barstool was vacant at the end. I slid on and waved a hand at one of the bartenders. Her curly, dark hair was thrown into a messy bun, and freckles dusting the bridge of her nose contrasted against her bronze skin. She had made an excellent choice in red lipstick, brightening her white smile.
“What are you having, darlin’?” she inquired, setting a napkin down in front of me.
“Can I get an ice water, please?” I asked.
Her dark brows rose. “Just an ice water? On a Saturday night? I make a mean margarita. You’re looking like you need some tequila in your life tonight.”
She wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t think tequila would solve my problem. Tequila and I were not always simpatico. Not since college. But tequila did make the worries seem to fade, and I did have a lot of them. Most of which I would not be able to solve tonight.
“You know what? Fuck it. Why not.” I had made worse choices in Willows.
Messy Bun’s bartender smile widened, and her brown eyes brightened. “Atta girl! One margarita coming right up. I’ll still bring you that water, though.” She finished with a wink.
I shrugged off my purse and hung it on the hook beneath the bar. I always loved it when bars had purse hooks. Maybe the Rooster wasn’t as much of a dive bar as I thought. Being that I was eighteen the last time I was in town, I’d never stepped foot inside the Rooster. Like most teenagers, I did all my minor age drinking by the river or in a friend’s basement.
“Salt on the rim?” Messy Bun called from where she was fixing the drinks.
“Please!” I called back.
She nodded, pouring water from the fountain into a glass of ice before spinning a second tumbler in a saucer of salt.
Turning in my seat, I risked a glance at the people in the bar. Most of them were older, except for a group of guys shooting pool in the back. A shallow lamp illuminated the pool table, and I gulped because I recognized a few of them from high school. I quickly turned back to the bar.
“Here you go,” she said, setting the water and margarita-on-the-rocks on napkins.
“Thanks, girl …” I began, hoping to get her name.
“Sage.” She smiled. The name didn’t sound familiar, so I figured she was someone who just came into town for work. She looked like she was about my age.
“Romy. Thank you, Sage.”
“Do you wanna open a tab?” she asked.
“No, we can close it.”
She nodded before heading to the register to print the receipt.
I took a sip of the margarita, and happy endorphins immediately shot through me. It was like summer in a glass. I exhaled. This was exactly what I needed. I’ll just finish my drinks, maybe use the restroom one more time, and head back to the car. Maybe I could park by the river and get a few hours of rest before heading to Thornbrush in the morning.
“Holy shit!” one of the billiard boys yelled, disrupting the whole bar. Everyone turned to look his way. He set down his cue, his disheveled, chestnut hair swooping his forehead, his eyes crinkling with his beaming smile as he looked toward the door.
Shit! It was Christian, one of Jude’s old wrestling buddies. Pretty sure he was with another friend from high school. I ducked my head and turned back to my drink, hoping he wouldn’t see me.
Maybe being here was a bad idea.
Then he bellowed, “Jude ‘The Mood’!” He prolonged the oohs . The energy of the bar ratcheted up with the announcement. My stomach dropped.
“It’s ‘The Bull’ now,” a deep voice boomed back, cutting through the jukebox music and inebriated chatter.
I froze, clutching my ice-cold drink. My breath hitched, and heat washed over my body.
No, no, no, no, no. It can’t be.
This margarita was about to become my lifeline. I stared into the lime-green liquid.
My stomach did a flip into my throat.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
I took another gulp of the margarita, hoping to settle my stomach and steel my nerves.
The guys abandoned their pool game, breaking through the crowd toward the door. The air shifted as they collided behind me.
“So good to see you, bro!” the other guy greeted. I heard them slap hands in what one could only describe as a who-can-grip-harder man handshake.
Don’t turn around.
Don’t. Turn. Around.
Then he laughed. His booming, raspy chuckle that seemed to be sexier than I remembered.
And my damn body betrayed me.
I involuntarily turned around toward the rowdy reunion. Even after twelve years apart, I could not deny the pull that was uniquely Jude and me. Just like the rest of the bar … just like everyone always had been … I was drawn to him. After all these years, his presence still did something to me. Shit!
He was a contradiction. He always had been. It’s where he got his nickname, Jude “The Mood,” in high school. He was your typical, angsty teenager. Moody and brooding. Maybe a little bit mysterious since he mostly kept to himself or his close-knit circle. All the girls in high school were gaga over him—probably another reason to hate me because he had no interest in any of them. But even on his grumpiest days, he exuded chill, cool, and collected. That was probably why he was a state wrestling champion his junior and senior year. He never cracked under pressure. Something I always appreciated about him. Something everyone liked about him.
Jude never seemed to care. He was the one who always sought me out, annoying Chase. I did my best to keep him, and the little flutter in my chest, in the friend zone. But he made it challenging whenever Jude “The Mood” gave me a flirty smirk or refused to let me walk to class alone—even if it meant he was perpetually tardy to his own classes. It was the kind of flutter that scared me, that would only end in heartbreak when we inevitably went our separate ways. But it was this flutter that even after twelve years, I still craved.
I also ended up dating Chase way longer than I should have, just to try to keep Jude at a distance. That is, until I was truly leaving, and Hazel insisted I come to Thornbrush. She wanted me to watch her last barrel practice since I was going to miss her parade as rodeo queen.
And just like it was then when he walked up behind me in the riding arena, drawing my attention directly into his fierce, blue eyes, I couldn’t help but turn now.
As soon as I glanced up, his eyes went from his friend to catching mine like a fish to a lure.
Was it hot in here? It felt really fucking hot in here.
He looked better than I remembered. Better than he did on TV. Jude Larsen stood two steps away from me. He was taller than most people in the bar, his six-foot-plus frame thick with muscles. Even the arms of his black hoodie seemed to advertise “this body could treat you real good.” I gritted my teeth just as I squeezed my knees together.
Get it fuckin’ together, Romy.
His dark hair was longer now, curling beneath his baseball cap. As he turned it backward—that had been a nervous tick of his—my pussy clenched. I always thought it was so damn sexy. And it was still damn sexy.
His bright blues pierced into my soul. I could feel them even in the dim light of the bar.
I gulped.
It wasn’t fair that he only grew hotter in the last twelve years. A shadow of scruff accentuated his square jaw. A little crook in the bridge of his nose from a break made him look rugged. He must have taken care of himself, too, because he didn’t have cauliflower ears like most fighters. My eyes went to his throat, where his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He had a black-and-gray tattoo along the right side of his neck, and I yearned to get closer to see what it was, to run my tongue up it and make him shudder.
Ugh! Don’t be a moron.
It was like he could read my thoughts. One side of his mouth tipped in that lopsided grin of his.
“Romy.” He said my name on a long exhale. It came out in a deep rumble, and it went straight to my core.
A flush burned up my chest and face.
Damn tequila.