Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
OLIVIA
M y annoyance spikes as Rhett walks away and Tony sits down. I feel him slide a cold hand down my spine as he settles next to me and resist the instinct to shake him off. You wanted this date , I remind myself—though I’m already having a hard time remembering why.
“You know,” Tony says with an arched brow as he looks at me. “You’re prettier than your profile picture. I almost didn’t swipe.” He smirks and picks up his drink—can’t say anyone’s ordered me a White Russian before—then proceeds to suck down its contents through the small black straw. It suddenly feels like last night all over again—except this time, I don’t have my best friend to act as a buffer.
When I let Charlotte download the dating app to my phone last weekend, I wasn’t sure I was actually going to do anything with it. She’s always been much bolder and braver when it comes to interacting with men, but she’s also lived through her share of dating-related horror stories that, quite frankly, should have been more than enough to keep me away from online dating.
But spending night after night alone in my quiet house has been increasingly depressing. Not even keeping myself busy with work at the diner has staved off this suffocating . . . boredom . I’ve spent the majority of my life in this cramped and dusty town, surrounded by people who care more about spying on their neighbors for a juicy piece of gossip than making lasting and heartfelt connections with each other.
That’s not to say I’ve never dated. But nothing ever lasted more than a few weeks . . . and I certainly didn’t find any of those men online. It’s not even to say I haven’t dabbled in gossip. It’s just . . . I want more. For my life, for myself. And I just don’t care if Jenny hired the latest teen mom at her salon or Ed from the post office is delaying his retirement.
“Oh,” I mumble into my own drink, unsure how to respond to what I’m choosing to believe was a well-intentioned compliment. “Really?” I take a long sip and almost spit out the foul concoction. Something tastes . . . rotten.
“Yeah.” Tony laughs, seemingly unaware as he takes another swig. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—you’re easy on the eyes in that picture. It’s not like anything was a turn-off, you know? But I consider myself to be pretty picky, and I guess I just wasn’t sure if it’d be worth it.”
I squint at him. “If what would be worth it?”
He shrugs. “You know”—he waves a hand around as if to indicate anything and everything it took to get here on these stools together—“this date.”
I can only stare at him in disbelief.
“But it is,” he insists, perhaps recognizing the massive offense in what he’s saying. “Like I said, you’re a real looker. Very pretty.” He smiles. “I don’t even care that you’re just a waitress.”
Anger pinches deep in my belly, a sharp and uncomfortable pressure. “I’m not?—”
“Get out,” a deep voice gruffs.
I turn to find Rhett standing on the other side of the bar, his scowl trained on Tony. His dark cowboy hat is sunk low over his head, and it makes him look even more menacing than I already know him to be.
Tony shifts to give me a look like Who the fuck is this guy? before addressing Rhett. “What?”
Rhett points a thick finger at the door. “Get the fuck out of my bar.”
Tony’s face crumples into a frown. “I don’t understand.”
I begin to rise from my own stool, utterly mortified, but I know better than to cross a Bennett.
“Oh no,” Rhett says, turning his attention my way. His pale gray eyes bore into mine and I feel the weight of his focus press into me. “Sit down.”
“All right, man,” Tony interjects. “You talk to her like that and we’re going to have some real problems.”
Rhett smiles. “Oh yeah?” My stomach coils with dread—Tony isn’t from around here and has no idea who he’s talking to. Rhett Bennett is the last person he should be fucking with.
This is what I get for trying to have some fun. Charlotte is going to lose her mind when I call her later.
Tony throws him a hard look. “Yeah. You know what? Where’s your manager? I’d like to talk to someone about your behavior.”
Rhett smirks, a dark and dangerous thing. “Tell you what, City Slicker . . . instead of focusing on my bad behavior, why don’t you take a minute to reflect on your own?”
An older man who shares Rhett’s nose and jawline—his brother, Kasey—rounds the corner from the back with two bottles of liquor in hand. He pauses when he notices Rhett’s stance. “Something wrong, Rhett?” he asks cautiously.
“Yeah,” Tony answers instead, his voice an octave higher. “This guy is trying to tell us to leave for no good reason?—”
Rhett shoves a finger right in the middle of Tony’s chest, and Tony’s eyes bulge out of their sockets. “No, asshole. I’m telling you to leave because you’re a sack of shit and I don’t want you stinkin’ up my bar.”
“Rhett,” Kasey warns.
“She stays,” Rhett continues, eyes flicking my way for a beat before bouncing back. “Date’s over. Get out.”
Tony turns to look at me, brows pinched in a furious show of indignation. “What the hell kind of place is this, Olivia? Shitty bar in a shitty fucking town . . .”
Now I’m the one throwing a daggered expression. “This is my home, asshole,” I retort, surprised at my bravery in such a contentious moment. But I’ve put up with enough shit in the last couple of nights—enough to last me months—and it’s about time I stood up for myself. “You know what? I wish you hadn’t swiped. Hell, I wish I hadn’t swiped. This whole thing was a mistake.”
Tony’s ears glow bright red. “Wow.” He shakes his head as he stands, doing his best to save face. There are other men around the bar watching the scene unfold, most of them I recognize as the husbands of some of Saddlebrook Falls’s most notorious gossip mongers, and I realize how easy it would be for all of this to get back to my mother. She’d have a field day if she knew I was meeting strangers from the internet.
Tony stands and shoves his drink toward Rhett, causing some of the white liquid to spill onto the bar top. “This tastes like shit, by the way,” he says before striding out the front door.
I turn back to look at Rhett and find him already watching me. Kasey stands a foot away from him, looking back and forth between us. “Want to tell me what that was about?” he asks his brother.
“Nope,” Rhett answers, keeping his eyes fastened on me from beneath the brim of his dark hat. The black felt contrasts the gray storms in his eyes, painting them almost onyx in the low bar light.
Kasey sighs. “Right.” He walks away, mumbling something incoherent under his breath.
Rhett crosses his arms over his chest. “You have a kink for this shit or something?”
I balk, my shoulders rising to my ears. “What?”
“You were with a douchebag last night, which I’d hoped was just a fluke,” he says, uncrossing his arms to lean over the bar. He brings his face within a foot of mine, his glare sharp and biting. “But now I’ve got you parading another one around—in my bar, no less. I don’t have time for this shit, peaches.”
Peaches . What the heck?
“I’m not parading anyone around,” I argue. I’m just . . . dating !”
He has the audacity to smile, though the way his face twists reflects zero humor. “Right,” he says, shaking his head. He backs away from me again, leaving room for me to gulp down a deep breath.
I watch him examine a stack of dirty drinking glasses, tossing their remaining contents into a wide trash can before moving them to the sink behind the bar.
“He was right, by the way,” I mumble. Rhett looks at me, brows dipped in question. I drag my glass back and forth through its puddle of condensation. “This is terrible.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Milk’s ’bout two weeks past old.”
I grimace, looking down at the liquid I thought was supposed to be curdled, and cough to mask my gag.
“I don’t know why you’re wasting time with guys like that,” he grumbles, abandoning the dirty glasses to reach for a bottle of whiskey from the well below.
“Guys like what?” I demand irritably.
He looks me square in the eye, a clear challenge. “You know exactly what I mean.” He pours the whiskey into two water-spotted shot glasses before pushing one toward me.
I stare at it hesitantly. “No, I don’t. And I didn’t order a shot.”
“It’ll kill whatever bacteria’s in your mouth from that milk.”
I frown. “You shouldn’t have served rotten milk to begin with, asshole.”
“Fine.” Rhett shrugs, reaching to pull the shot back toward himself. He sighs before lifting the glass to his lips and tipping the whiskey into his mouth. I watch as his jaw works around a heavy swallow, still in disbelief that this is what the night’s come to. He sets it down on the bar’s counter with a loud thud and immediately picks up the second one, downing that too.
“I don’t think you can do that,” I say.
“Do what?” he snaps, that buzzing frustration on full display.
“Drink on the job.”
“Says who?” He makes a show of looking around, like Sheriff Joe or some suit from the Texas liquor board might suddenly appear out of thin air.
I roll my eyes. “I’m just saying . . . it’s a little unbecoming to watch the bartender down shots faster than his customers. Seems a little messy, don’t you think?”
“Peaches, everything about my life is messy, haven’t you heard?”
That name again . “Look . . . I should go.” I pull the straps of my purse up onto my shoulder. “I’m sorry about Tony?—”
“Wait,” Rhett interrupts. He reaches to lift his hat off his head before settling it back down, then crosses his arms over his chest again. He seems . . . anxious. Like all that frustrated energy rolling through him has no place to go. “Stay.”
I’m pinned with that heavy focus again, like he’s trying to make sense of me, and I’m not sure what to make of it. “Stay?” I ask.
“Please.” He sighs, scratching at his jaw with the knuckle of his middle finger. “Just . . . stay . . . ’til I’m off. And I’ll take you home after.”
I glance back at the door behind me, knowing it would only take me a half hour to walk home from here. Maybe less. Rhett’s not going to be off for at least another few hours; if the steady buzzing of conversation and riotous laughter is any indication, it’s a busy night at Wild Coyote. Plus, I just watched him down two shots of whiskey, so even if he is done with work soon, I don’t think getting in a car with him is a smart move.
Every logical consideration in my brain tells me it’s time to bail on this whole weird night and find reprieve in the comfort of my little backwoods bungalow.
But when I pause to study Rhett, I find a sincerity in his eyes. Something protective and concerned and . . . tired, I think. It’s the same look he gave me in the hallway at Spurs last night, the one that hooked under my skin and left a mark I don’t know how to describe—exactly what’s happening now. So, against all reason, I lean into the instinct to stay and see this—whatever “this” is—through.
My purse slides off my shoulder, hooking in the crook of my elbow. I hold eye contact with him as I settle back onto the stool. “Fine,” I say quietly.
If he’s relieved by my choice to stay, he doesn’t show it. All I get from him is a quick dip of his chin before he walks away, busying himself with making a drink. To my surprise, he drops it in front of me when he’s done, rumbling out, “A real drink,” before he plucks the White Russian off the bar with two fingers and disappears into the collection of tables behind me.
I take a tentative sip of the new drink—a strong Jack and Coke—and cough to clear the burn in my throat. But warmth spreads down my chest with it, and I decide I like the feeling.
Turns out, I don’t have to wait too long. I spend some time reading a book through an app on my phone, and it feels like only a few minutes have passed before Rhett’s standing in front of me again, a stoic look on his face. “Ready?” he asks. He’s wearing a brown fleece-lined work jacket zipped up to his chest, hand stuffed in the front pockets.
“Already?” I say.
“It’s been almost two hours.”
I glance at the analog clock hanging on the wall above the beer taps, confident I’ll find 8:30 flashing back at me, at the latest. But sure enough, it’s almost ten. “Oh,” I say, realizing just how lost in my book I’d gotten as I tuck my phone back into my purse. “Yeah, I’m ready.” I wrap my own jacket—my favorite: distressed denim with sewn-on pearls and rhinestones—around my shoulders and stand to follow him out the front door.
The air outside is cold and sharp as it slices right through all my layers, burrowing into a bone-deep chill, and I wrap the front of my jacket tighter around my middle to seal in as much warmth as I can while trailing behind Rhett into the parking lot. Rhett, who doesn’t appear affected in the slightest by the freeze of winter. I distract myself by trying to match a vehicle to the man, assuming he’s probably driving some fashion of a truck.
Unlike most of the businesses in Saddlebrook Falls that sit together in town square, Wild Coyote is an isolated establishment tucked behind a few layers of tall trees and wild brush. You wouldn’t know it’s there by simply passing it on the main road—even at night, there are no exterior lights that shine like beacons to attract new customers. The bar itself doesn’t have any windows for indoor light to spill out of, so it’s only by moonlight that we’re able to see anything out here.
But when Rhett stops walking, there’s no mistaking what he’s standing next to.
“No way,” I protest, looking at the two-wheeled deathtrap parked at the end of the row. Silver metal bars jut up toward the sky, only dimly illuminated by the stars.
Rhett unties a strap to free a dark helmet from the seat and holds it out to me. “Put this on.”
A nervous laugh bubbles out of me. “Sorry, I don’t think you heard me. There’s no way I’m getting on this thing.” I’ve seen Rhett on a motorcycle before, rumbling through town, mean-mugging everyone who so much as looks at him. But for some reason, I figured he’d have a second vehicle—something practical for everyday use that isn’t so . . . risky.
“I heard you,” he clarifies. “I’m just hoping if I ignore your spiral, we’ll get to the part where you cowboy up and get on the bike quicker.”
“That’s a little bold, don’t you think? To just assume I’d be okay with getting on . . . that .” I hike my purse up my shoulder. “You know, you’ve been making assumptions about me all night.”
Rhett’s head tilts with an amusement that feels dangerous as his gray eyes assess me, cocksure and oozing confidence. “Oh yeah? What sort of assumptions have I been making?”
“That I’m on some sort of loser kick, trying to find douchey guys to date me. That I purposefully decided your bar would be a good place for it, as if I’m trying to, I don’t know, mess with you or something?” My eyes jump back to the motorcycle. “Or that I would ever get on a dangerous hunk of metal destined to spread my blood and guts across a highway.”
A little dramatic perhaps, but I’m making a point here.
Still, Rhett smiles. And I want to stomp my foot and scream.
“Olivia,” his deep voice rumbles. “One, you are on a loser kick. Exhibits A and B are the assholes I’ve seen you with in the last twenty-four hours. Two, I find it pretty fucking coincidental that after seeing you last night two towns away, you ended up right in front of me again tonight. But you said you didn’t realize I might be there despite it being my family’s bar, and I believe you. And three”—he tosses the helmet at me in a low-speed underhand move that still has me shrieking as I easily catch it—“I would never let anything happen to you on this bike.” He says it like it’s a simple fact.
I look down at the helmet and then back up at him. “I watched you take shots.”
At this, the cockiness slips. Like I might have touched on the one thing that could actually poke a hole through his plans. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I probably shouldn’t have done that. But it was a couple hours ago, and I promise I don’t feel anything. I’ve had plenty of water since . . . I’m pretty sure any trace of that whiskey would be gone by now. But . . .” He pauses, shifting on his feet. “If you want to go back to the bar and watch me down a cup of coffee before we leave, I’ll do it.”
His words unspool in me a steadying calm. For as much as he grumbles and glares, he wants my trust. I’m not sure what to make of it. I mean, he’s a Bennett for goodness’ sake.
This is exactly what you wanted , a small voice unhelpfully chirps inside of me.
I try to shove it down, but it’s no use, because it’s right. Getting on the back of a dangerous man’s bike is pretty much in line with the kind of fear-inducing rush of adventure I’ve been craving for longer than I care to admit. It’s what prompted me to let Charlotte download dating apps on my phone in the first place.
The truth is, I’ve reached a level of boredom with my life that rivals studying for the SATs or listening to the same song on repeat for years on end. If my life were a reality show, it would only exist on C-SPAN, and that’s not to knock on the episodes of American Writers I get hooked on late at night when I can’t sleep.
To be fair, my mother vehemently raised me to believe that risk is an unnecessary undertaking, especially as it relates to romance. And while growing up I mostly felt thankful that she’d set me straight and helped me avoid so much of the embarrassing drama my peers fell victim to as they navigated love and, inevitably, loss, I can’t help but now feel I may have missed out.
Sure, I have everything I need for a decent life—I signed a lease on my first home last year after Gus Romano’s sister passed away and he put her vacant property up for rent (by which I mean he posted a sign in the window of Mustang’s Pizza to advertise to everyone who walked in) and am paying for it all on my own with money I saved working at the café. The café my mother owns and will someday hand over to me.
It’s not like she’s scared me away from men altogether. She just wants me to steer clear of the ones who stand as a threat between me and my carefully guarded heart so that I don’t end up desperate to fill a hole the size of Saturn in a perilously broken one when one of those men inevitably shatters it. It’s me who’s never been sure how to tell the dangerous ones from the good ones, so I’ve avoided men altogether in hopes that someday I’d figure out the difference—just in time for my own Prince Charming to walk into my life and sweep me off my feet.
But I haven’t figured out anything other than I won’t ever know if I don’t try, which is what led me to making plans with both Trent and Tony this weekend. Admittedly, both dates were catastrophic failures. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t see the opportunity right in front of me, shaped like a hostile cowboy with a clear fetish for danger.
It’s enough for me to find my bravery, to grip the sides of the helmet and pull it over my head, the pressure of it squeezing uncomfortably against my ears. “No, it’s okay,” I finally say.
Even through the dark-tinted visor in this unlit parking lot, I catch the surprise in Rhett’s features. After a beat, he steps toward me, reaching to gently fasten the helmet’s straps below my chin. His fingers are careful as they make adjustments to tighten it against my skin without choking me, just until the helmet fits snugly. He gives it a light shake for good measure, and when my whole body moves in response, a new smile plays on his lips.
“Thank you,” I say, though I have no idea if he can hear me through all the plastic and fiberglass.
He inhales a breath and lets it out in a whoosh before turning back to the bike, pulling a pair of gloves from one of the bags that hangs from the side. When he pushes the key into the slot and turns the ignition, the bike comes to life with a thunderous roar that racks my whole body.
He turns to look at me as he pulls off his cowboy hat, tucking it carefully beneath a bungee strap on top of the back wheel well. “You ready?” I force myself to nod, though I’m second-guessing this thing with every moment that passes. He swings a strong leg over the seat and sinks down, knocking the kickstand up with the heel of his boot. “All right,” he calls back to me over the noise of the engine. “Get on.”
I must hesitate for too long because he turns to look at me. His dark curls are wild from being trapped in his hat all day, a lock seemingly glued to his forehead, and I realize he doesn’t have a helmet for himself. That he’s given me the one he wears. “Olivia,” he presses again, “get on the bike.”
The command is soft and somehow knowing, but his assuredness in our safety is a balm over the rattling anxiousness I feel expanding inside of me. It’s what finally pushes me over the line in the sand, pressing my hands down on the backs of his shoulders for balance as I mimic his move and swing my leg over the seat of the bike.
I settle behind him, my head heavy beneath the weight of the helmet, and slide my hands down his back, fearful that if I lose any ounce of contact with his body, I might spontaneously tip right over and onto the ground. I band my arms around his middle, and before I know it, he takes off with a jolt.