15. Clara
CLARA
The world around me, or the club at least, is a blur.
Tunnel vision of darkness, sliced with blinding lights and the thrum of heavy base that hammers through my body.
I can’t seem to catch a breath, my knees are shaking so bad I barely manage to take a few steps without staggering, almost collapsing onto the floor like I’m made of wet papier-maché.
The strong arm around me holds me up, steadies me, and I cling to it like it’s all I’ve got tethering me to the world so I don’t slip away.
“Everybody get the fuck out.”
I blink hard from the sudden glare of the lights, searching the dressing room as a few girls file out, hurrying as they pass.
“Is she okay?” someone asks, clearly worried.
“She’s fine,” the deep voice of the body pressed up against me from behind grits out.
A door slams, and suddenly, I’m being lifted off my feet, the world around me tilting off-center as I’m carried to the sofa in the corner of the room.
“Hey, you’re okay,” a deep, low voice whispers. “It’s just you and me. Breathe, Clara.”
I blink tight a few times, breathing hard yet fast, forcing myself out of the pixelated haze, only to find a set of ocean blue eyes staring deep into mine.
“Cole,” I say on a breath.
“You’re okay, darlin’,” he says again, his big hand cupping my cheek, calloused thumb stroking my heated skin.
As I stare into his eyes, at the uncharacteristic softness in his gaze, my breathing slows and I feel my racing heart begin to ebb to a slightly less concerning rate. And when I realize exactly what just happened, I gasp, sitting up and collecting my wits as best as I can.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, wiping my damp cheeks and looking around frantically. “I’m so sorry, I-I don’t know what—”
“Clara,” Cole interjects.
“Bruce is going to kill me!” I push up from the sofa, tugging down the hem of my tank top.
“Clara!” Cole says louder this time, standing and stepping right up in front of me. His hands grab my shoulders, firm yet tender, and he forces me to look up at him. “Stop.”
I lick my lips, rolling them together as I search his eyes.
“It’s okay,” he assures me. “I’ll deal with fuckin’ Bruce, just…” He trails off, his gaze roving my face before zeroing in on my cheek, eyebrows knitting together as his thumb returns, wiping my skin again.
“I’m a mess, aren’t I?”
Without waiting for his confirmation, I walk over to one of the dressing tables, taking a look at myself in the mirror to see that, yes, I am a mess. Huffing, I take a seat and pluck one of the makeup wipes from the packet, cleaning what I can of the mascara tracks staining my cheeks.
“Wanna talk to me about what just happened?” Cole asks, tentatively resting against the edge of the table I’m at, his gaze heavy as his eyes bore down on me.
I avoid his intense stare, focusing on cleaning up my face, sniffling back the heavy emotion that lingers.
“Austin’s my boss. He’s a good guy,” Cole says. “I promise he would never hurt you, or anyone.”
I glance up then to find Cole gazing off into the distance questioningly.
“Let me rephrase that,” he continues with a slight quirk to his lips. “Austin would never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. I promise you.”
A thick swallow works its way down my throat. “I just…It was i-instinct. When I saw him jump up from the corner of my eye… Most times that would usually end with a hand or a fist connecting to the side of my face.” The thought causes a shudder to roll through me.
“Fuck,” Cole mutters softly, his rough hand touching my shoulder and giving me a gentle squeeze.
“I feel so stupid.” I wince, cowering in on myself.
“Don’t.”
Surprised by the steely tone of his voice, I look up to see Cole shaking his head. “Don’t you dare,” he gruffs. “You let me deal with those guys, and Bruce, okay?”
Averting my eyes down to the makeup wipe I’m wringing between my fingers, I nod once.
“What time do you finish?”
“Midnight.”
“I’ll drive you home.”
I snap my head up. “I have my car.”
“I know.” He smiles. “I’ll have Brady drive my truck back to the ranch.”
I study him then, noticing the shirt he’s wearing, the one brandishing patches with logos—a familiar beer brand, Rattlesnake Ranch, a few others I don’t know—stitched up his sleeves, his big belt buckle gleaming beneath the glow of the overhead drop lights.
“How was your… race?” I ask, not sure what to call bull riding.
Cole snorts a laugh. “Ride,” he corrects. “And, honestly, don’t fuckin’ ask. Tonight was….” He trails off again, one eye narrowing a touch as he studies my face. “Not a good night.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, frowning.
“Not your fault.” He shrugs. “It happens.”
“Thank you,” I murmur quietly.
“The hell are you thankin’ me for?” He chuckles.
“For holding me up when it felt like I was gonna fall,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Again.”
Cole’s eyes bounce between mine, something deep and unspoken in his gaze. But, instead of saying anything in return, he simply nods once before pushing off the dressing table.
“I’ll see you back out there,” he says on his way to the door.
And, in the reflection of the mirror, I see him open the door, the noise of the club outside flooding in and stealing the silence away. His eyes meet mine in the mirror once more, something unspoken yet full of promise passing between us, before he disappears out of view.
With a resigned sigh, I look back at my reflection, and it’s only then that I notice the hint of an unexpected smile as it curls my lips.
The last hour of my shift went surprisingly smoothly.
Bruce barely even acknowledged me, let alone asked me about what occurred earlier, and the guys at Cole’s table were all super kind every time I returned with a round of drinks.
The man—Austin—left with no more than a nod and a dip of his cowboy hat, tucking a three-hundred-dollar tip into my hand as he passed.
Thanks to him, and a few others, tonight was my most profitable night so far, despite my mortifying meltdown. And I can’t help but think that it has everything to do with the man currently waiting outside the staff entrance for me as I walk out into the cool night air.
Standing in the dimly lit parking lot, leaning against the side of the building, Cole turns at the sound of the heavy metal door as it closes behind me with a bang.
He pushes off the wall and begins toward me, removing his hat to rake his fingers through his hair before replacing it again, his gaze doing a slow sweeping assessment of me.
I changed out of my uniform and into leggings and a tank top, removing what was left of my makeup as best as I could, feeling a little more like myself at least.
“Ready?”
I nod.
Surprising me, Cole lifts the strap of my tote bag off my shoulder, taking it from me and carrying it as we navigate our way through the gravel lot toward my car parked at the end of the line.
“Keys?” Cole glances back at me.
I dig into my purse, pulling out the car keys, but before I can make a move to the driver’s side, Cole takes them, presses the button to disarm the locks, and opens the passenger door for me, waiting.
“I-I can drive,” I say, looking up at him.
“I got it,” is all he says in response, still holding the door open and scanning the empty parking lot while waiting for me to get in.
Reluctantly, I hop into the car and fasten my seatbelt. Cole hands me my tote before closing the door gently, and I watch as he rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat.
The silence in the car between us is thick and obvious, and when he turns the key in the ignition, all I can hope is that the damn thing starts because honestly, that’d be all I need right now.
Thankfully, it does, but unfortunately so do the Backstreet Boys, at full volume, singing the “I Want It That Way” bridge.
Cole’s head turns slowly, looking at me, his brow quirked questioningly.
Lunging forward to turn down the volume until the song is a low murmur of faint music, I bite back a grin, feeling my cheeks heat. “Billie…” is all say by way of explanation.
Billie has this weird Backstreet Boys obsession considering she’s only five years old, but I’ve embraced it because it sure beats “Baby Shark” or whatever the hell kids are forced to listen to nowadays.
Cole chuckles, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road. The tension in the car between us eases to something that feels almost easy, companionable, as we drive through the darkness to the tune of the Backstreet Boys playing softly through the speakers.
“When do you… ride next?” I ask, breaking the silence.
Cole shifts in his seat, not looking at me. “Um, tomorrow night. Back down Guthrie. Just a small event.”
I watch him from the corner of my eye, from his tight grip on the steering wheel, to the way his throat bobs, to the ticking muscle in his jaw.
“Do you like it?”
He glances at me briefly then. “What?”
“Riding.”
He nods, turning back to watch the road ahead. “Yeah, I love it.”
My lips twist to the side as I study him. “You don’t even smile when you talk about it.”
Cole looks at me again, his brows knitting together. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “Well, normally when a person talks about something they love, they light up. You… kinda look like you could kill someone right now,” I say wryly.
Looking back to the road, Cole releases a hard breath, and I see him mull over something. “It’s not about lovin’ it or hatin’ it. It’s about it being all I’ve got. All I’m good at. Ridin’ bulls is it for me. I kinda have to love it.”
I watch him for a beat, his answer tinged with something that hangs heavy and hints at sadness.
Flashing me another glance, there’s the flicker of a twinkle in his eyes as he says, “Besides, I don’t smile all that much.”
“You should,” I say before I can stop myself, snapping my mouth shut when I realize exactly what words are on the tip of my tongue. Jesus, Clara.
He arches a brow. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
Because your smile is everything, I don’t say.
Thankfully, before I’m forced to respond with something that will probably do nothing more than make a fool of me, we turn off the country road and into the driveway, and I witness Cole’s face transform before my very eyes from playful to murderous as he practically barks, “What the fuck?”
I turn, my mouth falling open at the sight of what appears to be at least fifty people standing in the front yard.
“Oh my god!” Panic wraps itself around my belly and I’m opening the car door before we’ve even come to a stop.
“Clara, wait!” is all I hear, Cole’s words lost to the sound of the music and the din of voices filling the night air, but I’m already out, running through the yard, pushing and shouldering my way through the throng of drunken teenagers as tears prick my eyes.
“Get out of my way!” I cry, shoving through a group milling about on the porch steps. I yank open the screen door, finding even more people inside, drinking and smoking, laughing like they fucking belong here.
“Tommy?” I yell out, searching the space. “Billie?”
“Mommy?”
At the sound of Billie’s voice, I push past a mountain of a boy, zeroing in on Billie and Tommy sitting on the sofa, grinning mischievously up at me, perched between two teenage boys with video game controllers in their hands.
Breath racking, I rush forward, grabbing my children and pulling them to me, the two boys either side unbothered as they continue playing their game.
“Are you okay?” I search Billie and Tommy’s faces, looking for any sign of distress, but honestly, besides looking glassy-eyed and tired, they look pretty damn pleased with themselves. “What… w-what happened?”
“Taylor’s… boyfriend,” Billie whispers the word with a little giggle, “came over and he brought us burgers, and fries, and chocolate shakes!” Billie is beside herself with excitement.
“Carter’s friends came over, and we’ve been playing this really cool car racing game,” Tommy says, pointing to the television. “It was so fun, Mom!”
I shake my head, sufficiently confused and on the verge of losing my ever-loving shit. “W-who’s Carter?”
“Taylor’s boyfriend,” Tommy tells me with a look like he thinks I need to keep up.
Anger fills me, and I look over their heads, glaring at the two boys still playing video games. Considering myself for less than a few seconds, I stand and walk to the TV, shutting it off at the screen.
“Hey!” One of them guffaws.
“What the hell?” The other huffs.
“Get out of my house,” I say as calmly as I can, folding my arms across my chest and tapping a foot, impatiently.
They look from me, to each other before tossing the game controllers onto the couch cushion and muttering something between themselves as they stand.
“See ya, Tommy.” One of the guys holds his hand out, and I’m taken aback when my ten-year-old high fives him like they’re best friends.
“Later, Bill.” One of the boys waves at Billie.
“Bye bye!” She waves back with a big old grin.
“You two,” I say sternly, pointing a finger between Tommy and Billie. “Get your butts in your bedroom and shut the door. Now.”
“Okay, Mommy,” Billie says contritely, offering me the puppy dog eyes she’s perfected.
“Are we in trouble?” Tommy asks, suddenly nervous.
I grit my teeth. “No, babe,” I assure him with a sigh, squeezing his shoulder as he passes. Looking out over the sea of people still standing here in my living room, I mutter under my breath, “Taylor’s in trouble…”