Nine
Dallas
Billie’s been gone two days and I’m already lost. I hate it when she’s right.
She’s eight years old, when did she get so…
wise? Her mother would be proud of her. I know I am – we are.
Billie’s a force to be reckoned with, her fiery spirit and huge heart always guiding her through her decisions.
Colt and I try to let her figure shit out on her own, only intervening when absolutely necessary, or if she asks us to.
I may not know what I’m doing right or wrong as a parent, but I’ll be damned if I raise a young woman who is afraid to say what she wants and not go for it.
My daughter will never take shit from anyone, and I will make damn sure of that. She’ll fix her own car, hang her own pictures, pay her own bills. My daughter will move mountains in ways I can’t even imagine, because she deserves to be a name people remember.
Colt barges through the bathroom door, interrupting my thoughts.
His fly is undone, jeans hanging loosely off his hips as he flashes me a wicked smile.
He’s got that look in his eyes, the same one Dad had when he’d tell Mum he was going to take us fishing, but really, we’d end up at the rodeo watching him ride. Colt looks more like Dad every day.
“Put on a clean shirt, we’re going out.”
“I don’t want to,” I reply.
“Don’t care,” he retorts.
“Colt.” A warning tone laces my voice.
“Dallas, you’ve been moping around here for years. Bumble’s away, you’re free as a bird. Would it kill you to have some fucking fun once in a while? Wear some cologne, brush your hair, fucking talk to a woman, anything. Come on man.”
“What part of ‘I don’t want to’ are you not understanding?
” Colt scowls, throwing a flannel shirt at me and winking as he says, “Clean yourself up, pull the crop out of your ass, and meet me downstairs in ten. And wear the one in the blue bottle, it’ll work for you.
It’s gonna be a night to remember, old boy. Don’t fuck it up.”
I don’t know what possesses me to follow his instructions, but as if on autopilot, I do, in fact, wear the one in the blue bottle.
It smells amazing. I hate it when he’s right.
My boots slide on with ease, and I mentally kick myself for not owning a nicer pair, or you know, a second pair in general.
I’m ticking off the list of shit Colt demanded I do before we leave.
Again, I’m just as surprised as you are.
Clean shirt, cologne, I draw the line at brushing my hair; it’s got a curl, do you know how hard it is to brush curls? Good god, I sound like Billie. No, worse, I sound like her mother. I’m shaking my head as I take the stairs two at a time. Colson is at the door waiting for me, phone in hand.
“You look hot,” he winks at me.
“You look like you’ve got a lot of teeth for a smart ass.”
His palm connects with my shoulder, a manly show of affection if I’ve ever seen one. I’m gifted with a grin so large, every tooth is on display. “Pearly white, old man. Love you.”
“Yeah, love you too,” I groan. We always have and always will.
Well, here we go, I guess.
The bar is too crowded. I’m forty-fucking-five. I do not want to be sitting in a bar, watching my little brother buy drinks for women twice his age in hopes he’ll get his dick wet. I find myself wondering what it would be like to live in Colt’s shoes for a day.
My mind tracks back to my teenage years and how they were filled with nights on the road with Dad.
When Mum died, Colt was away at school, so I packed up and went on tour with Dad and the rodeo.
That’s how I met Billie’s Mum. Back then, she was the only female barrel racer on the circuit, well, the Wattle Ridge circuit anyway.
One night, I have the genius idea to sneak into one of the local bars in Blackridge while Dad was preparing for his ride.
I’m barely fourteen. I climb out the window of our trailer with all intentions of getting a beer before the show.
My jeans catch on the lock and tear a bloody great hole halfway up my ass.
My heart races as I wrestle with my own limbs and try to break free from my self-inflicted prison. I’m about to give up and call for help when the most melodic laugh I have ever heard echoes from the darkness.
“Hello?” I call. Only the giggle answers me.
I call into the void again, starting to feel a weird combination of pissed off, exposed, and oddly terrified.
I have no idea who is out there, how much of my ass is on display, or how much like a dickhead I look while I’m half wedged in the window of a fucking caravan.
The thought of it now makes me laugh, despite it not being remotely funny back then.
I was a fourteen-year-old boy, ripe with ego and testosterone and the son of a notorious speed-racer. It wouldn’t matter who found me like this; clearly on the brink of an escape plan of chaos. My non-existent reputation would be shattered.
The leaves across from me rustle, and steady footsteps creep out from behind the shadows, giving way to what I can only assume is an angel here to carry me to my fate.
“Whatcha' doing, Northlane?” the angel asks me.
“How do you know my name? Who’s out there?” My reply comes out shaken and breathy. I’m jammed in a window with a lock up my ass, what do you expect?
The angel waltzes up to me, the string lights adorning Dad’s trailer radiate off her face as she steps out of the shadows and reaches for me. I accept that this is how I die, and no, I am not being dramatic.
“Samantha Ballantine-Brior,” the angel offers. Well fuck me sideways, the angel has a name.
She’s a tiny, muscular blonde with ringlets bigger than my belt buckle. Her eyes are so blue they pierce through my skin and deep into my soul, nestled delicately under perfectly shaped brows.
Samantha is wearing a baggy, green T-shirt with the rodeo logo plastered dead centre, the hem loosely tucked into her jeans. She smiles at me and I think I’ve gone to heaven. Her hands meet my skin and a rush of heat spreads through my veins, goosebumps rising across every inch of me.
“You just gonna sit there or are you gonna’ actually help me get your ass down from there, Northlane?” she taunts.
The sound of a keg being re-tapped pulls me out of my past, and I suddenly feel incredibly thirsty. I slide myself out of the booth and make my way towards the bar. I have barely taken three steps when a familiar bubblegum-haired pixie-nymph crashes into my shoulder, groaning on impact. Annabeth.
“Fucking hell, Ella!” she shouts.
A curvy, made-up blonde with lips half the size of her face and boobs hiked up to her chin appears up behind her, stumbling as her eyes light up like the neon lights that cover almost every surface of the bar.
Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating slightly, but she definitely doesn’t look like most of the women around here.
Well, neither of them do. A barbie and a pixie in Hawks fucking Hollow.
“Hellooo, sexy,” she croons in my direction. She must be drunk, because Ella and I are not exactly strangers, and she’s staring at me with hearts in her eyes that are usually reserved for Colson.
“I’m so sorry, Mister… uhh…” Annabeth starts to say. As she turns to face me, sheer panic flashes across her face. I watch her cheeks flush crimson as she puts the pieces together and realises who she just bumped into.
“Dallas. Dallas Northlane. Remember?” I ask, tipping the brim of my hat. I know she remembers me.
The entire world fades around us. The lights dim. The music softens. There’s nothing but us. My heart thrums in my chest, the steady rhythm increasing slowly with each breath I take.
“Dallas,” she repeats. Nothing has ever sounded sweeter than my name dripping from her cherry lips.
I wonder how those lips taste. How she’d feel pressed against me.
I will my dick to stay put, not wanting to deal with the embarrassment of my jeans tenting in the middle of a fucking bar, in front of my daughter’s music teacher and my brother.
Besides, I can’t be thinking these thoughts.
It’s not right. It isn’t fair to me, to her, or to Sam.
Colt emerges from behind Ella with a drink in his hand, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, and a mischievous smirk plastered on his face.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asks, knowing damn well what he’s doing.
My heart skips a beat as Annabeth smiles a wicked smile and says, “Nah, not at all. In fact, do you fine gentlemen wanna join us for a drink?”
Colt agrees, too quickly I might add, and I find myself back in the booth, drink in hand, sitting next to my brother as he and Ella whisper to each other beside me.
I know he’s had a thing for her since she moved here, but I didn’t think it was mutual – until now.
I mean sure, she’s always flirted with him, but she kinda flirts with everyone.
No, wait, that sounds bad. I just mean she owns this place; she’s supposed to make you feel special, that’s part of the charm of small-town bars.
Colt, as usual, was completely oblivious to her advances, but if my brother ever took a second to get his head out of his ass and realise he had a shot with her, it would be tonight.
Annabeth scoots closer to me, her thighs brush up against mine as she leans in and whispers, “Umm… Dallas?”
“Yeah?”
“I reeaally don’t want to witness the face-sucking that I’m pretty sure is about to unravel here… so… umm… do you want to dance?”
I motion to Colt to move, gently taking Annabeth’s hand as I glide us out of the booth and towards the dance floor.
She slips past my brother, the excessive amount of lights that adorn every surface imaginable illuminate her form.
I don't know why, but I allow myself a moment to soak in how breathtaking she looks tonight.
Her vibrant, pink hair is glowing in the neon lights. She looks like a firefly. I make a mental note to think of her as a firefly rather than whatever the fuck I called her in my head before. Pixie-nymph… What the heck does that even mean?
A faint sprinkle of glitter cascades across her skin.
She’s wearing a white cut-off shirt that’s tied in a little bow above the waistband of her Wranglers, exposing a few inches of her curved belly.
A shiny, gold barbell hangs from her navel and rests against the denim that’s all-but painted to her body.
Her jeans are tucked into a pair of well-worn Ariats that have floral stitching lining the leather.
“Well, cowboy, you comin’?” she taunts playfully, wiggling her hips as she walks ahead of me and beckons me to join her.
Oh, I am so fucked.