Bad Cowboy, Tennessee (Hard Spot Saloon #3)

1. Max

Max

S omething was off.

Maybe it was the crowd at the bar.

Drunker than usual. More depraved than usual.

Within the first hour of my regular bartending shift down at the Hard Spot, I’d seen enough.

Mascara running down cheeks.

A guy passed out on the back patio.

A man dick deep in somebody else’s mouth, too, before I politely separated the two of them in one of our bathroom stalls.

I was pretty sure I was going to see blood spill by the end of the night.

I leaned against the cool wood surface of the back of the bar, collecting my to-do list inside my head:

Restock the bottom-shelf vodkas.

Check on the patio, which is probably littered with empty pint glasses.

Probably about time to sweep the bathroom stalls again for any more active penetration, too.

The plan had been to sneak some time to film a quickie video for my online channel tonight between rushes. The Cocktail Bro was my baby, and my followers had come to expect regular updates and recipes.

I wanted to give it to them.

I wished I had time to record a dozen videos a day, but with the state of the bar tonight…

So much for having time to film anything.

Firstly: people needed their alcohol. The music was loud in here, and I could feel eyes on me as more groups filed in through the front doors and sidled up to the bar, waiting for drinks.

I gave myself ten seconds to take a breather before plunging back in, heading over to another mob of college guys awaiting a round of green apple vodka shots.

“The rum thing,” a girl called out to me from the other side of the bar, hiccuping. “Can I get another rum thing? You’re cute.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Like, really cute. I’d fuck you.”

I nodded. “Here is one rum thing , and a tall water. I recommend it.”

Before I became a bartender I didn’t know that the job description included being a therapist, a babysitter, and a constant referee. Sometimes I felt like I was behind the bar to act as a pure, blank canvas for people to paint their sins on.

Usually I didn’t mind.

It was fun, and I got good tips, enough for me to keep putting money into more renovations for my barn house.

I was also good at the whole therapist-babysitter thing because being 22 and fresh out of a frat house meant that I’d had a lifetime’s worth of experience with drunk bros and learning their limits.

But tonight, I was bone-tired. On edge. Ready to take a damn breath.

When I finally got to the end of my shift, it felt like crossing the finish line of a marathon.

I gunned it home in my truck.

But I didn’t know that going back to my house wasn’t going to help at all.

It was only going to take this night from bad to catastrophically worse.

The air coming in from my driver’s side window was humid. It felt tinged with electricity like right before a storm, even though the sky was cloudless.

Tennessee weather could be unpredictable, but there were stars for miles in the black sky up above. If there was a storm coming, it wasn’t from anywhere I could see.

I got to my driveway.

Threw the truck in park.

Cut the engine.

And I made my way to my front door like I was a kid on Christmas morning.

Home .

I shut the front door behind me and let out a long breath.

Now can tonight please start feeling fucking normal?

I dropped my keys onto the little table by the front door. It was dark other than a tiny lamp I left on in the far corner. My place was just a barn, situated on the far edge of my parents’ property, but I’d retrofitted it into a living space for myself over the past year.

It was the first space that was truly all mine , and I loved this goddamn barn like it was my child.

I was in my little kitchenette by the window, raising a cold, short glass of liquor to my lips just a few minutes later.

Lemon and whiskey hit my tongue. Sour, sweet, and bitter.

Followed by the kick of the secret ingredient I’d laced into the back end of the cocktail: a splash of spiced tart plum liquor. My followers online were going to love it. I was going to name it The Sucker Punch in my next video.

I first heard a sound at my front door as I raised the glass to my lips for a second time, cutting through the quiet in my barn.

A rattling sound.

Then, a slight jingling.

I froze in place, my ears perking up like two antennae.

Not possible.

I was alone here.

At least… I should have been alone, for a radius of at least a football field around this barn.

There was no chance someone could be out there.

I put down my phone. The sound of one of my videos was still playing quietly on a loop, my voice coming out from the tinny phone speaker: “ And this cocktail is like an old friend… with benefits. And that’s how we do it in Tennessee, baby. ”

I listened for the sound. I felt for my phone again and muted it, throwing the barn into silence.

I glanced over toward the front door knob.

Maybe I’d imagined it?

A rattling sound came again a moment later, more loudly this time.

My chest went cold. I set my glass down on my kitchen counter, turning quickly in the dark.

“Misty?” I muttered to no one. But the tabby stray hadn’t been on my porch all week.

My little barn was surrounded by grass, shrubs, maple and oak, and my parents’ house was on the opposite end of our two acres of land.

There was no way anybody could mistake the front door of this old barn for anyone else’s.

The handle jiggled now.

Someone really was trying to get in.

I moved away from my kitchen counter, crossing toward the front of the living room. It was dark outside and dark in here. I hadn’t bothered turning on any lights when I stepped inside ten minutes ago, bone tired after my shift at the bar. The only light was the tiny glow above my stove.

I thought about the comments on my latest video.

Some of which seemed a bit… stalkery .

I’d filmed my last video shirtless and it had been getting a lot of attention from men. I was straight, but I didn’t mind the compliments. But if one of the creepier comments actually had been someone threatening, and they’d found out where I lived?

I was fucked.

I didn’t think I had reason to feel unsafe… until about thirty seconds ago.

My pulse was rising. A thin strip of moonlight came in across the living room, and my gaze landed on the corner, where I had an old hockey stick from college resting on the wall.

Not exactly the best self-defense weapon, but I could crack someone over the head with it if needed. If only I’d played baseball instead.

I padded over the hardwood floor as quietly as I could and closed my fingers over the cool lacquered wood of the hockey stick, gripping tight.

As I stepped toward the front door a floorboard creaked.

“ Shit .”

I’d remodeled this barn with a lot of TLC, and even though it looked nice and cozy, the place wasn’t Fort Knox in the security department.

When I heard the handle being fucked with again, louder this time, my heart lodged itself somewhere up in my throat.

I sucked in a breath through my nostrils.

Fuck .

Think. Think.

I had no time to think. If someone was trying to break in, I wasn’t going to sit around and wait to be ambushed.

I needed to ambush them.

I moved to the front, grabbing the handle and yanking the heavy door open.

Holy fuck.

It hadn’t been a false alarm. There was a man.

A stranger in a black cowboy hat on my porch, trying to get in.

To my fucking house .

My spine went cold and time froze. I saw his silhouette with the glow of the moon behind him.

The outline of a cowboy hat. His body, hard and muscled.

The light of my parents’ house was distant, like a little lighthouse on the horizon across a field full of grass, shrubs, and trees.

There was no chance they could hear me yell from this far away.

My only advantage was that I’d seemed to catch the man off guard, giving me a split second to act.

I brought the wooden stick up, aiming for the side of his head as I began to swing it down. My grip was sweaty and uneven, though, and on my downswing, the man’s hand came up and closed around my wrist in a swift motion, gripping me with an alarming amount of force.

“What the fuck?”

His palm was warm around my wrist. I tried to pry it away and he held me tight, as if he was handcuffing me with just his strength. It was starting to hurt now, and his grip was only getting tighter.

In a flash, he moved positions, yanking my arm up against his chest and jerking the hockey stick out of my hands. I lost my grip and the stick was gone in a split second, clattering to the ground. In my peripheral vision, something else fell onto the porch too.

Think.

Fucking think.

I kicked my heel downward onto the man’s boot, but I was barefoot and it didn’t do a damn thing.

He got behind me quickly. His leg connected with the back of my ankle, getting behind my foot. Both of us tipped backward and I felt the ground disappear beneath my feet as I got lifted and he took us both down onto the ground.

His forearm locked against my throat.

His broad chest, pushed up against my back.

He’d grappled me down in an instant, restraining me from behind until his arm was an iron bar just below my neck.

I’d watched enough of my college buddies wrestle to know that there was no chance I could get out of this position. Not with a man so much stronger than me.

He could easily choke me out or snap my neck if he wanted to, now that he had me here.

His chest was warm against my back. My heartbeat was slamming out of my chest, panic flooding every inch of my body. I caught his scent and my nostrils flared. Too clean. Too expensive . Warm musk, clove, maybe even vanilla?

About to be murdered and I’m still picking out ingredients like I’m making a goddamn cocktail.

“Who the fuck are you?” I managed to utter, my voice coming out strained.

He just hummed from behind, not answering me.