WINNIE
KARAOKE NIGHT
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
"I thought if I could touch this place or feel it / This brokenness inside me might start healing"
- Miranda Lambert
***
The adrenaline from the win was still buzzing under my skin, warmer than the tequila. We had actually done it. We’d beaten the Hendersons.
Jake and Matt Henderson made their way over to our table through the noise of the bar. For a second, I braced myself for actual beef—Jake didn’t lose well, and neither did I—but he was grinning, shaking his head as he stuck out a hand.
"Good game, Jameson. Y'all earned it. Barely."
I shook his hand. "You made us work for it. Almost had me sweating there."
"Almost," Jake agreed. He looked at Beau, sizing him up with a newfound respect. "That new guy of yours knows his shit. Where'd you find him?"
"Dallas sent him as tribute," I said.
Beau laughed, a relaxed, easy sound that fit right in with the noise of the bar. "I just got lucky with the dates, Jake."
"We'll get you next week," Jake promised, pointing a finger at me. "I'm studying up on obscure mammals."
They headed back to their table, defeated but gracious, and I turned back to my team.
"That," I announced, slamming my hand on the table, "is how it’s done."
"That was legitimately the most intense thing I've ever witnessed," Beau said, shaking his head. "And I've been to Dallas Cowboys playoff games in a luxury suite."
"This is better than football," Cassie declared, signaling Donna for another round. "The stakes are personal.".
"Who's up for karaoke?" Jerry announced from the stage, and half the bar cheered.
"Oh no," I said immediately. "Absolutely not."
"Oh YES!" Cassie grabbed my arm with a grip of iron. "We're doing 'Before He Cheats'! It is legally required!"
"We are not—"
"We absolutely are! It's tradition! It’s victory music!"
Before I could protest further—or escape—Cassie had dragged me up to the small stage area, shoved a microphone into my hand, and the opening notes of Carrie Underwood started playing.
And you know what? Four beers in, surrounded by people I'd known my whole life, with my best friend screaming lyrics beside me? I fucking committed.
"Right now, he's probably slow dancing with a bleach-blonde tramp..."
The bar lost its mind, singing along, stomping boots on the floor. I caught sight of Beau watching from our table, chin in his hand, looking at me with an expression that was half-amused, half... something else. Something softer.
When we finished—to thunderous applause and whistling—I stumbled off the stage, breathless and laughing, adrenaline still sparking in my veins.
"That was incredible," Beau said as I collapsed back into my seat. "I didn't know you could sing."
"I can't. I just fake it with enthusiasm and volume."
"It worked. I was captivated."
"Your turn!" Cassie announced, pointing a finger at Beau. "New guy has to do karaoke. It's the law. Look it up."
"There is no law that says—"
"Beau! Beau! Beau!" She started a chant, slamming her hand on the table in rhythm. Within seconds, half the bar had joined in.
He looked at me, slightly panicked. "Do I have to?"
"You really don't," I said, taking pity on him. "She's just drunk and demanding. It’s her default state."
"But I'll be disappointed if you don't," Cassie added, pouting. "And I'm very annoying when I'm disappointed. I will whine."
He sighed, drained his whiskey in one swallow, and stood up. "Fine. But I'm picking the song. No Carrie Underwood."
He walked up to Jerry, whispered something, and then the opening chords of "Wagon Wheel" started playing.
Oh, this was going to be good. Or a disaster.
Except it wasn't just good. It was legitimately great.
Beau could actually sing. Not just fake-it-with-enthusiasm sing, but real, carry-a-tune, country-song sing. His voice was deeper than I expected, rougher, with a timbre that vibrated right in my chest. He performed it like he meant every word, easy and confident.
"Rock me mama like a wagon wheel, rock me mama any way you feel..."
The bar went absolutely wild. Women were screaming, guys were clapping along, and Cassie was leaning over to me, shouting over the noise, "WHY IS HE GOOD AT EVERYTHING? IT’S ANNOYING!"
"I DON'T KNOW!" I shouted back, unable to look away from him.
When he finished, the applause was deafening. He came back to the table looking both embarrassed and pleased, a flush high on his cheeks.
"You've been holding out on us," I said, genuinely impressed. "Where'd you learn to sing like that? Boarding school?"
"Piano lessons as a kid. Choir in high school. Did some musical theater in college," he admitted with a shrug. "My father hated it, said it was 'frivolous,' so naturally I kept doing it out of spite."
"Rebel," Cassie said approvingly. "I like it. Spite is a great motivator."
The rest of the night blurred into a pleasant haze of more drinks, more conversations with locals who were finally warming up to Beau, and more truly terrible karaoke from people who definitely should not have had access to microphones.
At some point, a guy named Tyler—who I'd dated briefly a couple of years ago—came over to say hi.
"Hey, Win," Tyler said, leaning against our table with that easy, cowboy charm that used to work on me. "Heard you're trainin' for regionals. How's Bandit doin'?"
"Good. Real good. Think we got a shot this year."
"I bet you do. You were always the best rider in the county." He glanced at Beau, his smile tightening just a fraction. "You must be the Sterling boy everyone's talking about."
"Beau," he corrected, and his voice had an edge to it I hadn't heard before. Harder. "And you are?"
"Tyler Marsh. I run a ranch about ten miles from the Jameson place." He stuck out his hand, and Beau shook it. They both did that stupid guy thing where they grip too hard, knuckles white, trying to establish dominance over who had the firmer handshake.
"Tyler and I dated a while back," I said, trying to diffuse the testosterone cloud that was rapidly forming. "But we're just friends now."
"Good friends," Tyler added, winking at me. "Winnie's one of the best people I know."
"I'm aware," Beau said coolly.
Oh for fuck's sake.
"Tyler, thanks for stopping by," I said pointedly, kicking Beau under the table. "We're actually about to head out. Long day tomorrow."
"Sure, sure. Good to see you, Win. You too, Beau." He tipped his hat and walked away, and I turned to Beau with raised eyebrows. "What was that?"
"What was what?"
"The territorial cowboy thing you just did. Puffing your chest out."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You do realize I'm perfectly capable of having guy friends without you getting all... protective? Plus, I'm a grown ass woman."
"I wasn't being protective."
"You definitely were."
"I was being friendly."
"You were being a caveman."
Cassie, who'd been watching this exchange with obvious glee, cackled. "Oh my god, you're jealous!"
"I'm not jealous," Beau protested, looking offended.
"You're totally jealous!" She pointed a finger at him. "The Dallas boy is jealous of Tyler Marsh! This is the best night of my life! I need popcorn."
"I'm not—" He stopped, sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "I wasn't. He was just looking at you like—"
"Like a friend," I cut him off. "Tyler's a good guy. We dated, it didn't work out, we stayed friends. That's it. There's nothing there. Zero sparks."
"Noted," he said quietly, taking a sip of his drink.
An awkward silence settled over the table, heavy and strange. I drained the rest of my beer, suddenly ready to leave before things got any weirder.
"Come on," I said, standing up. "Let's get out of here before you pick a fight with someone else."
"I didn't pick a fight!"
"You were about to. I saw your eyebrows doing that thing."
Cassie hugged us both goodbye—sloppily, because she was definitely drunk—and made us promise to come back next time. Then Beau and I headed out into the cool night air, and I took a deep breath, trying to clear my head.
"Want me to drive?" Beau offered, dangling my keys with a confidence he absolutely did not earn. "You've had more to drink than me."
"You've had whiskey."
"Three glasses over four hours. I'm fine. Plus, I’m a bigger guy. Metabolize faster. Science."
I eyed him. He looked steady enough, and honestly, the tequila was starting to make the edges of my vision a little fuzzy. "Fine. But if you scratch the truck, I’m killing you. If you crash it, Pops will resurrect you just to kill you again."
"Understood. The truck is a holy relic. I will treat it with the reverence of the Pope mobile."
We walked to the truck, the gravel crunching under our boots. I climbed into the passenger seat, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes, waiting for the engine to turn over.
Instead, there was silence. Then a sigh. Then the sound of someone shifting in leather, followed by a very quiet, very confused, "Oh."
I opened one eye. Beau was staring at the gear shift like it was a live cobra.
"Problem?" I asked.
"Where is..." He moved his hand around the steering column, then down to the console. "Where is the 'Drive' option? There are just... numbers."
I sat up, a grin breaking through my exhaustion. "You’ve got to be kidding me."
"What?"
"You don't know how to drive stick."
"I know the concept of driving stick," he said defensively. "I understand the mechanics. Clutch, gear, gas. It’s simple physics."
"Have you ever actually done it?"
"I drive a Porsche in Dallas."
"Does it have a clutch pedal?"
"...It has paddle shifters."
I laughed, loud and unladylike. "Oh my god. Get out. I’m driving."
"No!" He looked offended now. "I can do this. I’m a quick learner. You literally said I was a natural on the horse."
"Daisy has autopilot. This truck does not."
"Walk me through it. Come on, Winnie. I’m sober enough to drive, but you’re drunk enough that you shouldn't. Let me be chivalrous."