18. The General
18
THE GENERAL
WYATT
D akota’s red sundress has the tiniest straps I’ve ever seen. How the hell is that thing staying up?
Some cowboy whistles across the hazy bar. “You’re lookin’ real good tonight, Killer! Save a dance for me, would ya?”
I clench my long-necked beer. Can’t catch a break.
“Thanks, Brodie,” she calls back. “But I’m gonna have to pass on that.”
“Brutal!” someone shouts, and the group of cowboys laugh.
She sips her purple-pink margarita, but all I’m focused on are the amount of looks she’s getting in that dress—that damn red sundress. I’ve had to keep my arm around her shoulders all night to ward off all these cowboys.
“Look at you in that pretty little dress,” I murmur, tugging her closer to my side, ramping up the flirting. “You’re driving everyone in here wild.”
“Aw, you think my dress is pretty, Patterson? Thanks,” she says, completely unaffected as she ducks out from under my grasp to say hello to the cowboys.
Dammit .
Margaritas tend to turn her scowl into a grin, so she’s been handing out shiny smiles to everyone tonight. I release a frustrated groan, dropping my arm to my side.
After we finished getting ready, Dakota put her cowgirl-riding plan into action and dragged me to The General—a podunk dive bar/dance hall/restaurant that was named after the Granite Falls general store that was established in 1871.
The place has so many beer stains that all the pool tables look discolored, and there’s a permanent haze in the air thanks to the bikers who never follow the no smoking sign.
It’s nestled in the middle of the old town square, and they’ve got a revolving door of country cover bands that play every night with at least three encores. There’s also this smoky scent that sticks on your clothes more than a campfire, but it’s home. I’ve seen at least twenty familiar faces here.
My cousin, Willie (not Nelson, he always clarifies) works the grungy bar. He’s got to clarify since the guy’s got a brown mullet, caveman beard, and always wears a red bandana.
“You want another round, Patty?” Willie grits out, patting the counter. “You look like you need a drink.”
Our Willie’s in his late twenties, but it’s impossible to tell his age with all that dark facial hair. His only distinguishing feature is his bright-blue eyes that are almost turquoise. Caribbean eyes, my mama always said.
I shift on my beat-up, torn leather-back chair that’s duct taped together. “Nah, I’m still nursing my beer. Thanks, Willie.”
He flicks a bar towel over his shoulder. “We missed you down here, Patty. I know you’re a hotshot hockey player, but don’t forget about us small-towners.”
I hold out my fist, and he bumps it back. “Never, my man. My body might be on the ice, but my heart’s here in Texas.”
“You ever think about transferring down south?”
“Every day,” I admit.
There’s a reason everyone in the country is flocking to the Lone Star State (a.k.a. Texas) in droves, and it’s not for the cowboys. People are down-to-earth, open-minded, and know how to have a damn good time.
I’ve missed it here.
I’ve heard Austin’s getting a new NHL team, and I’ve thought about transferring. It’s sounding like a good choice, but part of me is worried about leaving Cruz.
“ Please come back to Texas,” Dakota begs with a lopsided smile, popping up out of nowhere. “That would be so much fun for us. Our kids could be best friends too!”
I wince at the thought of putting my future son through that absolute torture, but still chuckle at her half-drunk state. “I’ll think about it.”
“Willie!” a bar patron shouts, grabbing his attention. He moves to the opposite side of the scarred wooden counter, leaving me standing there with Dakota as she sips a margarita.
She sniffs me. “Have I ever told you that you smell like heaven? I love the way mountain laurels smell. Like sweet, floral grape Kool-Aid. It’s my favorite.”
I pull her closer into my side, murmuring against her cheek. “Yeah, I know it’s your favorite.”
I spent one summer going through every store at the mall, trying to find a cologne that smelled like mountain laurels, all to see if it’d set something off in her pheromones to make her like me. It didn’t work, but it does smell good, so I still wear it.
She scans the hazy bar, her eyes widening when they land on someone.
“Okay, you’ve still got it. That woman right there can’t stop staring at you,” she says, using her prickly pear margarita to point to someone. “See? She just did it again!”
I don’t even bother looking. “Not my type.”
“What’s your type? ”
“Women who want nothing to do with me, apparently,” I mutter.
She snorts. “Seems like we have the same type. Give me a man who wants nothing to do with me, and my traitorous legs spread on their own. That’s why I fell for Boone. I had to win him over. Now, stop putting your arm around me. People are gonna think we’re together.” Dakota shrugs off my arm for the tenth fucking time, nodding to a woman in the corner. “Okay, what about the cute brunette in the jean strapless jumpsuit?”
“Nope.” I keep my eyes on her, not that she notices because I’m a doormat to this woman.
“Look,” she commands, gripping my chin and forcing me to turn.
Holding back a frown, I look past the couples twirling on the dance floor, their boots scuffing against the old planks. The neon Coors sign flickers while a country band plays a cover of “I Like It, I Love It” by Tim McGraw, but I finally spot the woman.
“Yeah, I see her,” I say. “What about her?”
“That’s Emmylou,” Dakota says, her warm breath fanning my cheek. She rests her hand on my forearm, oblivious to the fact that she’s driving me absolutely insane. “She’s a second-grade teacher at Granite Falls Elementary, and she’s sweeter than a Fredericksburg peach, so she’s perfect for you. You should go talk to her.”
The only thing I’m thinking about is how Emmylou is the name of the girl in the song “Check Yes or No” by George Strait, and how Dakota’s stereo broke one summer, and that song played on repeat every time she drove us around in Daisy Blue. “I don’t really want to talk to any women tonight. I’m not feeling it.”
“Why not?” she asks.
“Because I’m here with you,” I say, lowering my voice. “You’re the only woman I plan on taking home.”
“That’s because we live together.” She sets her drink down to undo one button on my shirt, and I get all kinds of sexy ideas that involve her red dress coming off.
“No, it’s just because I want to take you home,” I counter.
“You’re too sweet for me. You look great in that button-down and those Wranglers, by the way,” she says, unperturbed. “You just need to roll up the sleeves.”
She waves Emmylou over to us, and her eyes snag on me. Dakota starts rolling my sleeves up herself.
I pinch my brows. “I don’t get it. Why do I need to roll up my sleeves?”
“Because women want to see your forearm veins. They’re sexy. There.” She nods, satisfied with her sleeve-rolling.
I grin at that. “You think my forearm veins are sexy?”
“Yeah, women are obsessed with forearm veins.”
“I didn’t ask about women; I asked about you .”
“ I don’t matter. Now, quick. She’s coming over here. Go ask her to dance, but if you kiss her, just don’t do that weird lip purse thing you did when we played spin the bottle that one summer and you kissed Laura Jean.”
“What the hell is a lip purse thing?”
“You know, like fish lips.” She smooches the air, doing a loud demonstration.
Fucking fish lips? Is that really how she thinks I kiss a woman? Goddammit.
I take a giant swig of my beer, keeping my arm draped around her shoulder. “Alright, I know it’s been a while for me, but I know how to kiss a woman, and I know damn well how to please a woman.”
Her mouth parts, but I don’t have it in me to be embarrassed.
It’s the truth.
I was raised by two women, and let me tell you, when it came time for the birds and the bees talk, they got way too graphic, detailed, and personal.
We stare at each other for a moment, but then she glances over my shoulder at something and shakes her head. “Okay, um, well, good to know, but I don’t need the details about your love life. Emmylou’s walking over here. You should tell her I’m your cousin so she doesn’t think we’re together.”
“Yeah, there’s no chance in hell I’m telling her that.”
“Then tell her I’m your second cousin,” she whispers as Emmylou beelines across the dance floor.
“Sorry. Not doing that either.”
Emmylou walks up to us with a shy smile, and Dakota introduces me. “Emmylou! You look amazing tonight. Love the jean jumpsuit. This is my third cousin, Wyatt. He’s a two-stepping king.”
“No,” I cut across her. “We’re not blood related. At all.”
Dakota glares at me.
I smirk right back.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Wyatt. Would you like to dance?” Emmylou asks, batting her lashes. “Given you’re a two-stepping king and all.”
She looks up at me, and she really is cute with her freckles and blue eyes, but I don’t get that same nervous-nauseous flutter I’ve had for years with Dakota.
I’m about to let her down easy when Dakota practically kicks us onto the dance floor. “Go. Dance. Get married.”
I shoot her a scowl over my shoulder, which she returns with a wink. I count about ten cowboys already eyeing her up.
One of them lets his eyes roam a little too far down her body and starts making his way to her. Yeah, I’m not letting that happen, so we’re leaving. I wrap my arm around Dakota’s waist, trying to let Emmylou down easy.
“Actually,” I say, tightening my arm around Dakota’s curves. “We were just heading out. Isn’t that right, honey?”
Dakota’s brows jump in surprise. “ Honey? Since when do you call me honey?”
I’ve always wanted to call her that, so I keep my gaze on her, leaning in so my stubble brushes her cheek. “Since right now, honey. Let’s get out of here. Just you and me. The sun hasn’t set yet, and my mom already tucked Vi into bed, so how about we go to our old spot? There’s only one cowgirl I want to be with tonight.”