Chapter 25 Jasper
Chapter twenty-five
Jasper
The Busted Barrel is packed now with bodies shoulder to shoulder, boots sliding across the floorboards, and the band in the corner playing a cover of “Friends in Low Places.” I’d bet half the county’s already squeezed inside.
The air smells like spilled beer, cheap cologne, and the makings of a good Friday night.
Abbie’s perched on the barstool next to me, one knee brushing my thigh every so often, probably without her even noticing.
But I fucking notice.
Lincoln, Lawson, and Beau migrated over to the pool table a few minutes ago for a quick game, and even over the music and crowds of people, I can hear them arguing about rules like they haven’t played pool at this damn bar at least once a month since we were teenagers.
They invited us over, but Abigail looked more than comfortable in her spot, drinking her second beer, which means I was in no rush to leave her.
And I’m not about to pretend and say I didn’t like the way she looked at me when I stayed.
“So,” she asks, chin tilting toward me as she takes another drink. “How’s your season going so far? You’ve gone to two events already, right?”
A small grin pulls at my lips. “Keepin’ tabs on me, Red?”
The way she blushes never fails to send all the blood in my body straight to my dick. “Somethin’ like that.”
“I like that.”
She hums in approval before asking, “You’re one of the best, huh?”
“I’m not gonna lie to ya, I’m good. Real damn good.”
“Humble too, I see?”
“Somethin’ like that,” I shoot back.
She studies me for a moment. “Doesn’t it scare you? Bull riding, I mean? I don’t know much about it, but I do know how dangerous it is. You could die, you know?”
It’s the same speech I’ve heard a thousand times, and I give her the same answer I tell everyone else.
“You could die right here in this bar, Abbie. I love being on the back of that bull. It makes me feel alive, free. It’s the same way I feel on the back of a horse.
If I’m going to go out someday, why wouldn’t I want to go doing something that makes me feel like that? ”
She laughs softly. “Yeah. I think I would,” she replies, then her gaze flicks down to my arms. I feel her looking, like a warm hand dragging slow over my skin. My sleeves are shoved up to my elbows, and she’s zeroed in on the tattoos inked there.
Hell, if that doesn’t light me up inside.
“You starin’ at somethin’, Red?” I ask, knowing damn well I’m grinning at her like a fool.
Her blush deepens, but she doesn’t look away. “Maybe.”
My pulse kicks under her stare. “You wanna know what they are?”
She nods, lips parting, and I turn my arm toward her. “These”—I brush my fingers over the chrysanthemums and pansies woven into a darker background—“match my sister’s. They’re our birth flowers.”
Abigail’s expression softens. “They’re beautiful.” Her hand reaches out but stops mid-air. “Can I… can I touch them?”
I swallow harshly. “Of course.”
Her fingers lightly graze my forearm, and my entire body comes alive. Just one touch is all it takes. I want more. More of her touch on my skin. Her body against mine. My mouth on hers. I. Want. More.
And all she had to do was touch my fucking arm.
But I can’t say any of that right now. Instead, I say roughly, “We wanted somethin’ that reminded us of who we are. That she’ll always be there for me and I for her. No matter how far apart. No matter what happens. The two of us have each other. Our past be damned.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and there’s something warm there. Something deep.
Then the music shifts to a cover of “Choosin’ Texas” by Ella Langley, and the dance floor slows as couples start to two-step around the room.
Abbie glances toward it, trying to hide how her face lights up, and I stand without a second thought and hold out my hand. “C’Mon, Abbie Girl. Dance with me.”
Her breath catches, and she nods. “Okay.”
Threading my fingers with hers, I lead her through the crowd. Her hand is small in mine, but it’s warm. Trusting. And the second I pull her against me, something in me damn near snaps.
She fits. She fits so fucking perfectly. Like she was made for this exact space—here, pressed against my chest, her hip aligned with mine, her head lifting to look at me through those damn lashes.
Christ.
Resting one hand low on her back, I spread my fingers over the small dip in her spine, and a small shiver works through her. She knows she does it, too, because her eyes look down at the floor for just a moment.
I smirk. “Cold?”
She shakes her head. “Not even a little.”
Her other hand settles on my shoulder, fingers curling, gripping me like she’s afraid the moment will disappear before she’s had a chance to enjoy it. And the feeling of her holding me so tightly shoots straight down my spine.
We start to move around the room, slow and steady, as I keep us in time with the music. But this isn’t about dancing at all. It’s about touch. It’s about tension. It’s about everything we’re not saying that’s hanging heavy in the space between our mouths.
“You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” she murmurs.
“Tryin’ not to do anything stupid,” I admit.
Her eyelashes flutter. “Like what?”
“Like kiss you right here in front of the whole damn town.”
Her breath stutters, and her fingers slide from my shoulder to the front of my shirt as she grips it between her fingers. “Jasper…”
“You think I don’t see how you’re lookin’ at me,” I ask. “You think I didn’t feel what I know you felt when you touched me?”
Her eyes shine at the recollection of the feeling, but she doesn’t admit it. She doesn’t deny it either. Instead, she steps closer, her breasts brushing my chest, her thigh sliding between mine.
My body responds instantly, like it’s been waiting for this exact moment since we almost kissed all those weeks ago. I lean in, forehead almost touching hers. “You’re killin’ me, Red.”
She swallows hard. “Then… maybe you should just kiss me already.”
Fuck.
Those six words might actually end me. Right here in the middle of The Busted goddamn Barrel.
But just like I said before, if I’m gonna die, what better way to go out than something that makes me feel like this. So I lift a hand to her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek. Her eyes flutter shut, and her lips part ever so slightly—an invitation I’ve been starving for.
“This is what you want?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper. “Say it.”
“I want you to kiss me, Jasper,” she whispers back.
That’s it. That’s all I need.
I start to close the last half-inch of space between us, my pulse thundering, her breath warm against my mouth—
A microphone screeches. “And now for our very own Beau Saint John.”
Both of us jerk, heads snapping toward the stage just in time to see Beau sling a guitar over his shoulder as he walks toward the microphone, grinning like the cocky bastard he is.
This son of a bitch.
He taps the mic once. “Alright, folks, by request, we’re gonna slow it down a bit more. Hope y’all brought your dancin’ partners.”
I stare at him with the fire of a thousand burning suns.
But does he care? No. Of course, he doesn’t. Because he knows good and fucking well what he’s about to do. And as if I needed further proof, his grin grows so wide, I’m surprised those dimples don’t break his fucking face.
Abigail laughs breathlessly, pulling back a fraction, her fingers still fisted in my shirt, and I swear under my breath, shaking my head. “Oh, he’s really gonna be your favorite now, Red.”
Her eyes sparkle, and she shrugs her shoulders. “Have you seen what he looks like up there?”
“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” I mumble, and her laugh grows even louder, but her body stays pressed against mine. That is, until Beau strums the first chord and I feel two familiar figures come up behind me. Abigail’s eyes widen, and suddenly I’m not entirely turned off by what’s about to happen.