7
T his is Wyatt. He used to be my…trainer.
The sentence packs a punch.
No doubt its intended effect. No doubt Fallon’s way of telling me I’m not needed.
If I wasn’t pissed off before, I am now.
“I’ll get drinks,” Fallon says as our group settles around a sticky high-top. She barely looks at me as she makes a quick exit.
That dark thundercloud that’s been hanging over me ever since she left rumbles.
“New bar,” Ford observes, settling on a stool.
“Not our bar,” Charlie grunts.
Rolling out the tension in my shoulders, I clap my brother on the back. “Just knock a couple drinks back, and you’ll be right at home.”
The Copper Queen is a honky-tonk set out in the Arizona desert. Dusty and hot. Pool tables and a jukebox that blasts Waylon Jennings. But it has cold beer, so my brothers can’t complain.
The scene in the crowded bar is one I’m familiar with.
Buckle bunnies hovering in the wings. A dozen cowboys hold court, playing pool, boasting about tomorrow’s ride.
There are cameras everywhere, documenting the new competition, which adds to the chaos.
I don’t recognize any of the other riders.
A year ago, they’d be familiar, but turnover’s quick in rodeo.
My gaze drifts.
The second I get a lock on her, tunnel vision takes over.
Fallon.
As local as local can be the way she confidently weaves through the crowd, nodding, stopping every so often for a conversation or a handshake.
Neon lights catching the silver scar on her jaw, she glances over her shoulder. The fuck off glare she sends me has me going rock hard in a matter of seconds.
Christ.
She’s the world’s biggest menace with that kind of crippling beauty.
She looks tan and tough in her stonewashed old school Wranglers and tiny white tank top.
Her caramel hair’s in a thick fishtail braid that hangs over her shoulder.
Bright, bold ink, swirls of cowgirls and flowers blend together on her bare, tan arms. Adding to the gut punch of it all, the dusky red lipstick from her photo shoot still stains her pillowy lips, making her look like some fierce bloodsucking cowgirl. Her body isn’t just muscle. It’s cut.
Sure, she looks good. But does the outside match the inside? If she excels at one thing, it’s brick-walling her emotions.
I watch, mesmerized, as Fallon sharks her way across the bar. A cross between a knife and a woman, that’s Fallon McGraw. Sharp, angular, violent. She stands at the bar, shouting orders at the bartender.
“How’s your girl lookin’?”
I snap my head to Ford, wanting to punch that smug smile off his face. “Ain’t my girl.”
Ruby giggles.
Returning with a bucket of beer and a bottle of whiskey, Fallon deposits the goods then pulls out a chair at the opposite end of the table next to Dakota. I bring a beer to my lips and chuckle darkly. The distance she keeps between us is fuckin’ unreal.
My fault. I came in hot seeing her on that ranch today. Not how I wanted our first meeting in almost a year to go. But the second I laid eyes on her, bitterness welled up. Anger over her leaving. Relief at seeing that she was okay. The clusterfuck of emotions meant I came out swinging.
And so did she.
Fallon exhales like she’s breathing fire. “C’mon. Gossip. What’s new in the shithole that is Resurrection?”
Dakota brightens. “Guess who’s dating?”
Ford snickers.
Dakota drum-rolls the table then says, “Sheena and Beef.”
“Oh my god.” Fallon laughs. “I don’t fucking believe it. Beef and Sheena?” Her nose wrinkles. “Christ. The apocalypse must be happening in real-time.”
“It’s true love,” Ruby announces. “I’ve seen it.” Beaming, she turns to Charlie, tugs on his arm. “It has to be the flower shop.”
“You opened it?” For a brief second, Fallon looks crestfallen, then she quickly recovers, hardening her face into a skilled look of uncaring.
“Not yet,” Charlie wraps an arm around Ruby. “We’re starting construction in the fall when the ranch is closed.”
“You ready for the rodeo tomorrow?” Davis asks Fallon.
I down my beer in three quick gulps. Rove an eye around the bar. “This ain’t a rodeo, it’s a circus.”
“Not like I ever want to agree with Wyatt,” Ford says, “but yeah, it feels a little too reality show to me.”
“They didn’t ask you buffoons,” Fallon shoots back. She pivots to Davis and Dakota. “I’m ready as I’ll ever be.”
The sisters exchange quick grins.
My teeth grit in distaste at the sight of Fallon’s entourage. Pappy Starr and Tripp Hendrix talk in a dimly lit corner. Tripp’s a skinny cowboy from Resurrection who follows Fallon everywhere. He’s a puppy I’d like to send back to the pound.
“You need all that?” I ask, jerking my chin. “Groupies?”
“Leave it alone, Wyatt,” Davis growls.
Eyes wide, Ruby looks between me and Fallon. “What I need is a pink drink.”
Looking relieved, Fallon hops up, beating Charlie. “I’ll go,” she says, trading a quick glance with her sister before heading back to the bar.
I crack another beer. It’s obvious Fallon’s uncomfortable with everyone’s attention. I watch as a cowboy slides a stool closer to Fallon. As she leans forward, the sharp smile on her face heats my blood.
It’s then I realize I’m gripping the table with my fists.
“You’re staring,” Reese says, amused.
“I think that’s considered glowering,” Ford offers.
Fuck this. I shove up from the table. “I’m goin’ to talk to her.”
Davis exhales. “Just…don’t start.”
Dakota grabs the hem of my T-shirt. “Please, don’t.”
I’m moving before I can process what I’m doing. My entire body is on a gravitational pull toward Fallon.
I can’t wait anymore. Can’t stay away. This is my one opportunity to talk to her alone, and I’m taking it.
I wedge my body between Fallon and the cowboy, subtly blocking her from him and our family.
She’s not impressed. The tense posture, that eyebrow raise.
I should know better than to go in alone.
Fallon doesn’t want small talk, she wants blood.
And some sick, stupid part of me welcomes it.
I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face and a sharp mouth.
But the only eyes I have are for Fallon.
The bartender slides a shot of tequila toward her.
“Thought you didn’t drink before a ride,” I say.
Down goes her shot.
“I do now.” She looks at me pointedly. “Why are you here, Wyatt?”
“Disappointed to see me?”
She bares her teeth. “Every damn time.”
The woman’s as infuriating as ever.
And still as fiercely sexy as I remember.
My cock flexes.
“Your sister wanted to come.” As I get closer, her delicate scent of smoke and spice fills my space.
“Bullshit,” she hisses. “Don’t you dare blame my sister.” Her red lips purse as she shoots a quick glance at our table. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want any of you here.”
With narrowed eyes, I take her in. I see what she’s trying to do. Prove to me she’s okay. That her life is fine without us. If she thinks I’m buying any of that, she’s fucking wrong. She cares. Cares that she’s missed things. More than she’s letting on.
The anger, the worry over her, gets the best of me. I can’t contain it. Bitterness builds again. I lean in. “Do you know how goddamn worried everyone was when you took off? Dakota cried for weeks. She—”
“Don’t,” Fallon orders, wild-eyed. “I don’t want to hear what I missed. How big Duke is, that Lainie doesn’t even know me, what everyone else has done since I’ve been gone. I don’t want to hear any of it.”
“Why?” I push.
“Because,” she snaps, “it pisses me off. And you know what else pisses me off? You.”
My cock throbs at her sharp words. She turns me on when she’s mean to me. Christ, I’ve never loved anything more than Fallon’s bite.
She throws her next words like they’re grenades. “I don’t want to argue with you. In fact, I don’t even know why you’re here. You have your school. You have your life. So why are you here, busting my fucking balls before my big ride tomorrow?”
Damn it. I hate that she can see right through me. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? A chance to talk to her, to bring her home. But knowing what I want to say doesn’t mean I know how to say it.
I take a step closer, towering over her. “That ain’t you, cowgirl. Playin’ dress up.” I glance over at Pappy, who’s on his phone. “I know you’d rather snap his fat neck than take orders from a man.”
She snarls. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me anymore.”
I flinch. “You’re right, I don’t. Because you left.”
“I took a time-out.”
“And that time-out lasted a year?”
For a long second, she’s silent. She holds my gaze, her expression unreadable. Then she says, “It was either leave, or walk into the Pacific with rocks in my pockets.”
Fuck.
It’s what I thought. She ran. Had something so dark hanging over her none of us even knew about.
Voice thick, I manage to ask, “Do you like it here at least?”
Even though her leaving tore my heart out, I need her to be happy. If she wasn’t, that’d just feel worse.
She hesitates. “I do. It stops the voices in my head from getting too loud.”
I cover her hand, rings of turquoise, her bright, bold tattoos. Surprise crossing her face, she tenses, but she doesn’t pull away. My thumb brushes over the delicate bone in her wrist before settling over her tattooed knuckles.
Electricity zips between us. Our gazes clash. Hell, if we lock eyes for longer than seven seconds, we’re either fighting or fucking. Right now, I’d take either.
It’s been three hundred days since I last touched her, and I’ve been going crazy for every single one of them.
The memory of our last time, my mouth between her legs, Fallon on cold sheets, gasping for air.
Her hands gripping my shoulders like she wanted to strangle me.
That breathless noise she made when she came, how she smelled like bourbon and vanilla, and how every day of the week after that I wanted to eat her again and again.
Like she can read my thoughts, her cheeks pinken.