Hell of a Show (Black River Ranch #2)

Chapter 1

RHETT

Boozin’ Boots is the last place I want to be tonight, but I promised my brothers we’d celebrate the twins’ birthday this weekend. So, here I am. Because, if there’s one thing I won’t do, it’s break a promise—not when I know how it feels to be on the receiving end of a shattered one.

The heavy weight of my muscles claims payment for the week’s work I put in at the Black River and Lilac Meadow ranches. Layer my vet callouts on top, and I’m practically dead on my feet. My cowboy boots drag across the sticky floor as I begrudgingly carry a round of drinks to our regular booth.

The neon lights buzz overhead, casting the battered walls in a kaleidoscope haze of bleeding colors. Spilled beer, fryer grease, and the stench of impending bad decisions assault my nose with every breath—Boozin’ Boots’s signature fragrance.

Cole’s the first to spot me, grinning like he’s already three drinks past good sense. “About damn time, Grandpa!” He snags a beer from me before I can even set it on the table.

Jace follows suit, grabbing his bottle with a shit-eating grin. “We were beginning to think you bailed for a nap.”

“Said I’d be here, didn’t I?” Grumbling, I slide onto the cracked leather seat beside Kade with all the grace of a man twice my age.

Probably because I spent the night tossing and turning after Sage let it slip that Noah is coming home this weekend for a dress fitting. “Not staying long, though. I’m beat.”

I may be the eldest of the Rivers brothers by a year, but there are days I feel three decades older than all these assholes.

My body groans with every move. Lifting my bourbon with a sigh, the cold glass leaches heat from my palm.

“Besides”—the amber liquid hits my lips, washing down the stress of the day before I continue—“who the fuck are you calling grandpa? I’m twenty-one, not eighty. ”

Laughter rumbles low from Kade’s chest and vibrates around the booth. “Tell that to your audible knees, Rhett. They don’t seem to agree.”

“Fuck you, asshole.” The retort is automatic, but there’s no real bite in it.

Not tonight. Not when it’s the four of us, all together for once.

It’s rarer than it should be because Kade and Sage are busy playing house.

“Where’s your better half tonight? I thought she’d be working.

” Asking Kade Sage’s whereabouts seems like punishment, because I already know the answer.

“She’s having a girls’ night.” He withholds who Sage is really with for my sake.

Fuck-all good it does, because Noah Lane is back in Black River for the first time since she left.

And her pathetic ex, aka me, is gathering any scraps of information about her.

I’m not sure whether it’s to avoid seeing her again or hoping that I do.

An ache settles deep into my bones as I stretch my legs under the table and nurse my drink. It burns on the way down, cutting through the week’s exhaustion better than anything else could.

The bar hums around us, alive with the chaotic soundtrack of small-town nights: clinking bottles, rowdy laughter, the crack of a missed pool shot, and someone cussing at the diabolical rendition of Patsy Cline warbling from the stage.

Boozin’ Boots is as familiar as an old pair of jeans—just how I like it.

I let the noise soak into my skin, the tension bleeds out of my muscles, and the world’s weight lifts off my shoulders, even just for a minute.

Kade sits half turned toward the door, water glass sweating on the table, his jaw tight in a way that says he’s counting the minutes until he can get back to his girl.

Jace and Cole are already arguing about something stupid—whose pickup could haul more weight, or who’d win in a fistfight if they were drunk.

I tip my glass back, savoring the burn, and counting down the seconds until I can leave.

But as I finish up my drink, Cole slams his bottle hard enough to rattle the table. “Karaoke!”

My response is punctuated with a glare. “Not a chance in hell. I’m headin’ out.”

“Not so fast.” A wide grin splits Jace’s face, highlighting the boyish dimples on his cheeks. “You fuckin’ promised us a night out weeks ago. One drink’s not cuttin’ it.”

“The hell are you talking about? Karaoke’s not something I’d ever agree to.” Not since … her. Shaking that intrusive thought away, I drag my gaze from the bottom of my bourbon glass.

“It’s our birthday tradition, Rhett! Goddamn brother karaoke!” From the looks of him, Jace is ready to launch across the room and grab the microphone from the current eardrum-bursting participant.

“No.” Already shaking my head, I look toward Kade to help me out of the twins’ ridiculous idea of a good time. “I said I’d come out for a drink. That’s it. Besides, you never make him do karaoke.” I point at a smug Kade as he tries, and fails, to hide behind his water glass.

“’Cause he’d clear the place out,” Cole adds, grinning at Kade and his now raised middle fingers.

“Fuck me,” I mutter. Begging Kade for help, I plead, “John Cena.”

His lips hook up to one side while his brow raises on the other. “Even JC can’t help you out of this one.”

The twins are on me in a second. “Don’t be a bag of old balls, Rhett.” Jace grabs my left arm and hauls me out of the booth. Both yell and laugh as they knock over beer bottles and damn near tip tables while hauling me across the bar.

I pull from their hold. “You’re worse than drunk toddlers.”

Behind us, Kade doesn’t lift a finger to help. He just leans back, raising his water in a lazy toast, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re fucked, brother.” His amusement shakes his shoulders as he holds up his hand and fucking waves at me like he’s some royal douchebag.

“You’re dead to me,” I fire at him as one of three mics is shoved into my hand within seconds—warm, slick, and damp.

Standing on stage, the air reeks of beer breath, stale smoke, and every poor decision ever made.

The overhead lights burn into my skin like a brand, highlighting every ounce of reluctance I wear on my face. I don’t bother hiding it.

“I’m gonna kill both of you for this.” The threat is mumbled under my breath, but even if I roared, it would be wasted. They’re already lost in the thrill of it.

Cole and Jace don’t hesitate. They’re built for chaos, wired for attention, and clearly hell-bent on dragging me down with them.

The jangled opening chords of “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” crackle through the speakers like the start of a bar fight.

It’s loud, off-key already, and somehow still not as obnoxious as the way Jace throws his arm around my neck and yanks me into a drunken, lopsided march.

The crowd hoots and hollers, someone whistles near the front as we stumble across the stage like idiots who have no business being here. Cole flanks my other side, pumping his fist to the beat as he stomps the floor like we’re heading straight into hell.

I don’t sing. Not yet. I scowl into the crowd, letting the beat vibrate through the soles of my boots, through my ribs, through the part of me that just wanted a quiet drink and an early night. I should have known better.

Kade’s voice slices through the noise from our booth like the devil himself. “Come on, Rhett. Put your back into it.”

Murder dances behind my eyes, but the crowd doesn’t give me time to think. Two women up front are already egging the twins on, waving dollar bills with manic grins as if this is a Vegas club, not some dive bar with beer-stained floors and a jukebox older than I am.

Flashing a grin that could get him arrested, Cole breaks away first and strips his shirt off in one quick move.

It flies into the crowd and lands in some screeching brunette’s lap.

With a dramatic flair, Jace twirls his shirt overhead like a lasso before tossing it.

His chest glistens with sweat and whatever beer splashed on him earlier.

One of the women whistles, and then the bills start flying like confetti around our feet.

“Take it off, pretty boys!”

Dear sweet baby Jesus. This is why I don’t do karaoke with these two.

Proving my point, Jace does an exaggerated bump and grind against Cole, then stuffs a dollar bill into the waistband of his jeans with a flourish that has the crowd howling.

Cole throws his head back and soaks it in like he’s on stage at a sold-out arena.

Climbing onto one of the stools shoved near the stage’s edge, Jace starts shredding air guitar like it owes him money.

Heat prickles beneath my collar as I try like hell not to let the corner of my mouth twitch.

Cole turns, catching my eye. His grin is wicked and soaked in triumph as he shoves my shoulder. “Come on, Rhett. Sing it.”

Before I can stop myself, a bark of laughter slips out, raw and too fucking honest. For the first time in a long time, I feel light.

Unburdened. And I’m enjoying just being their brother instead of the father figure I’ve been forced to become.

My head drops for a second as I exhale hard through my nose.

Then I lift the mic, square my shoulders, and give the crowd exactly what they came for.

My voice rasps through the first few lines I sing, too loud and unapologetically off pitch.

The mic squeals with feedback. I don’t care.

No one else does either. The song rolls over us, chaotic and joyful and loud as hell.

My shoulders loosen, the weight of life dissipating with every lyric I shout into the mic.

I lean into the rhythm as Jace throws in the “da-da-da-da” backup vocals like he was born to do it.

Cole loops his arm around my shoulders and drags us both into a full-body stomp that shakes the stage beneath us.

More bills rain down, and someone tosses a bra—black lace—which lands on Jace’s shoulder like fate itself.

We hit the chorus with every ounce of breath we’ve got. My throat burns. My chest aches from laughing too hard, from shouting too loud, from feeling too fucking much.

And somehow, despite myself, I’m grinning like an idiot, lost in the madness.

For the first time in what feels like years, I forget everything. The exhaustion, the expectations, the past. I’m just here—on this stage, with my brothers, half drunk and half dressed, screaming out the cheesiest song ever written and not giving a single damn who hears it.

The final “DA-DA-DA-DA!” crashes out of us, unhinged and victorious, the kind of ending that leaves your lungs burning and your heart light.

Cole raises both arms in triumph like we’ve just won the Super Bowl while Jace throws himself into a bow, arms sweeping wide.

I drag a hand through my damp hair, chest still heaving as I toss the mic toward the sound guy. It skids across the floor with a screech of feedback, and I hop off the edge of the stage, the buzz of adrenaline still fizzing in my blood.

And that’s when I see her.

Just inside the doorway.

She’s still as a shadow, lit in flickering neon, dark hair loose around her shoulders, and bourbon eyes locked on mine like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment to ruin me. Again.

Noah Lane. My ex-fiancée.