3. Kade
Chapter 3
Kade
I press my head against the brick wall. The October sun is still bright, but soon, the sun will start to set, and people will trickle in for happy hour. Which is a funny concept if you think about it. The implication is that you only get to be happy for an hour, or in some cases, a few hours. And that happiness is supplied to you by half-priced alcohol and deep-fried bar food. Or my favorite: all-you-can-eat chips and salsa.
And why is that even more funny to a man like me? Because people wonder why we have so many cases of alcoholism in the United States. We’re born and bred to believe our lives should consist of hard work and only hours of happiness. Happiness that is then supplied by alcohol.
I laugh at myself. I’m not even old enough to rent a car yet; I should be thinking about more interesting things. Or happier things, though my thoughts are a product of living in Randall my whole life. I often think that if I hadn’t been born here, maybe I’d be fresh out of college or working in corporate America—not that those options are better than shoveling cow shit. In fact, most people around here would say it’s more fun to be knee-deep in muck rather than working for The Man as a suit monkey.
I pull my silver flask from my pocket and stare at it for a moment, tracing the engraved Montgomery monogram with my index finger. I carry it out of habit, but after last night, I found myself filling it for the first time since before the accident .
The flask is a family heirloom. Figures that Dad would leave a symbol of his love for alcohol to me while leaving our ranch, the only thing I wanted, to Gavin—the thing he promised me right before he died.
I unscrew the cap and bring the whiskey to my lips.
As I tip it back to take a swig, the back door opens, and I see a flash of blonde. This must be the new hire that was standing with Jake when I walked in. I’m not sure, though, because I didn’t get a good look. I was too busy being annoyed with my brother. He’d been upset with me about coming home this morning smelling like alcohol and sex then even more upset I agreed to teach line dancing tonight.
No matter how many times I told him I was fine, that he didn’t need to worry, he wouldn’t stop pestering me. He wanted to know what happened after my doctor’s appointment, where I went, how much I drank, who I was with. None of which is his business—and never will be his business. I’m a grown adult. He doesn’t have control over what I choose to do with my life or who I choose to do, even though he thinks he does.
“Sorry, I can leave.” The velvety sound of my guest’s voice has the hair on my arms standing on end. The lush resonance of it reminds me of how a woman’s voice sounds when she first wakes up in the morning, thoroughly sated. It grabs my attention in more ways than one.
Ignoring the effect a simple voice has on my groin, I shift my body to look at the girl, or should I say woman, from beneath the brim of my hat.
The first thing I notice is that her hair isn’t fully blonde. It’s wavy, framing her diamond-shaped face, but what makes it unique is the purple. There are different shades of it, starting lighter near her cheekbones and moving into darker, violet tones at the bottom. The color makes her skin look ivory, as if she hasn’t seen the sun in months.
When I meet her eyes, unsure sapphire irises stare back at me. After a brief second, she looks down at her feet then back up. When she does that a few more times, it becomes clear she’s unable to hold my stare for long, as if my eye contact makes her nervous.
“Right, I’ll—” She points to the door, turning to head back in. I get a flash of her generous ass in a pair of form-fitting black jeans, which doesn’t help the tight-pants situation I’ve got going on. You’d think I’d be sated after the fun I had last night, but honestly, while the release felt good, it only provided me with a few moments of fleeting pleasure, leaving me emptier than before—like a black void of nothingness. I want to chuckle to myself, because maybe I was wrong and I already have gone numb without the use of my vices.
As the woman is about to open the door, I manage to speak up. “You can stay. This is a free country, after all.”
She turns, her eyes moving to my flask before her shoulders slouch and she slips her hands in her pockets. She starts fishing awkwardly for something, her gaze trained on the ground while she pats her jeans and apron pockets.
While she’s distracted, I let my eyes wander her pear-shaped body. Besides the unique shade of her hair—that I know is going to garner her quite a bit of attention from the people in this town—she’s got a bunch of tattoos inked down her left arm. That’s something I never see in Randall. A few of the guys get ‘em, but I can’t think of any woman I know who has any. If they do, they’re hidden. But I like the way the black-and-gray flowers look against her skin. I have the urge to ask her why she chose the flowers that she did. Maybe she has a thing for violets since her hair is violet, too.
When she hikes up her jeans that have slid down her wide hips and puts what looks like a vape pen to her mouth, I stop my perusal.
“You smoke?” I ask, surprised. Sure, she has colored hair and tattoos, but she doesn’t strike me as a smoker. But maybe that’s why her voice sounds like sex .
Her cheeks blush a delicious pink color, and she pulls the pen from between her lips. “I did for a few years when I was in college. A nasty habit. I quit a few years back.”
“Then what is that?”
She eyes the thing in her hand. “It’s an inhaler that has peppermint, valerian root, and chamomile in it. It’s supposed to calm you.”
I press my lips together but can’t help the chuckle that escapes. “Okay, that was the most city-girl thing you could have said.”
She scrunches her nose. It’s cute and reminds me of a bunny rabbit. “Is that a bad thing?” she asks.
“No, not a bad thing.” I grin. I didn’t know she was a city girl when I said it, but it was easy to guess, and now she’s confirmed it.
The woman tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and takes a drag of the fancy pen. When she exhales, a puff of white dances from her glossy lips. The wind catches it, and I’m hit with a whiff of peppermint and herbs. “Sorry,” she offers, swatting the minty cloud like she can force it not to come toward me.
“It’s fine.” I take a drink from my flask. The whiskey burns as it goes down, hitting my empty stomach and reminding me I haven’t eaten since this morning. I should take care of that so I don’t end up making a fool of myself on the dance floor.
Without thinking, I hold the flask out to my new friend, if I can call her that.
She takes another puff of her weird stick thing and shakes her head. “I don’t think I should drink on the job, especially on my first day. I don’t want to get fired.”
I tip the flask back and take another small sip. Most of the people who work at Night Hawk wouldn’t have refused a drink—clearly this woman is not the usual type Jake hires. Mostly, my coworkers are locals or people who come stay as seasonal ranch hands and want some extra cash on the side. Come to think of it, they’re usually men, too.
I let my gaze drag over her ample body once more. She’s round and soft in lots of nice places. The Night Hawk T-shirt she wears lays mostly flat against her small chest, and her backside, as I’ve already established, is more than great. I can’t stop my mind from swirling and fantasizing a bit more, wondering what I’d discover under her cotton shirt. How her tits would feel in my palms.
When another cloud of peppermint hits my nose, I realize I’ve been staring at her chest. I clear my throat and connect with her chiding eyes. Busted.
I display my most charming smile, the one that’s always gotten me out of trouble or into women’s pants. “You don’t have to worry about getting fired. Jake isn’t that kind of boss. Things are relaxed around here.”
She nods, holding the inhaler stick in one hand while she tugs at the short sleeves of her shirt.
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Are you cold?” She can’t be cold. It’s hotter and muggier than Satan’s armpit for an October evening.
Those already pink cheeks of hers turn the colors of strawberries as she stops tugging. “I was thinking I should’ve worn a wig or something and a long-sleeve shirt.”
“Why?”
She nibbles at her bottom lip, her shoulders curving in and chin dipping like she said too much and she’s trying to pull into herself. “Just thinking about an earlier conversation with Jake. I’m going to stand out.”
While her hair and tattoos suit her, she’s right about that. But she’ll also bring in some good tips. The men around here like when we get someone new. When you live in a small town, you either get mixed up in the drama of dating someone’s daughter or relative or you have to go out and catch a city girl and hope she doesn’t leave you high and dry when she figures out marrying a cowboy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
I kick some dirt near my feet and exhale a small chuckle. “Trust me. If you wore a wig and a long-sleeve shirt, you’d stand out even more. Nobody wears long sleeves to a bar, at least not in this town. It gets hot with all the people dancing and drinking.”
The woman sighs then takes another drag from her pen. She holds the white cloud in for a long beat then, when I think she’s going to swallow it, she blows it out.
“Thanks for the advice—Kade, is it?”
The hairs on my arms stand up again when she says my name with that velvety inflection. “Have we met before, Sweetheart?”
The energy in the air between us goes taut, her shoulders squaring and body pulling tight like a bow string. Her lips part, fists clenching at her sides as she stares directly into my eyes with a hardened gaze. “I’m nobody’s sweetheart,” she snaps.
Her cold tone feels like a bucket of ice water was dumped over my head, and I hold my hands up in surrender. I know the sound of someone ready to deck me, and that was it. I stand to my full height, trying to present myself in the most non-threatening way—half smile, relaxed shoulders, warm eyes. “I meant no disrespect.” And I mean that. Women usually love when I call them pet names: sweetheart, baby, honey, you name it. But I guess not this woman.
For a few moments, we stand there, deadlocked. When I flash my teeth in a wider smile, she finally blinks, snapping out of whatever thought spiral she’s having. She inhales and exhales twice before she regains her bearings then puts her pen in her pocket.
“My name is Presley.”
“Like Elvis?”
Apparently that, too, was the wrong thing to say, because she cringes. “Just Presley,” she bites out. “No P, or Pres, or Lee. Presley is my name. Please only call me that. ”
My eyebrows lift. This woman is a surprise. Normally, women don’t talk to me like this. Maybe my Momma or Gran, but that doesn’t count. Evidently, Presley has a spark underneath her awkwardness. It’s one that needs to be lit, but I see it there.
“Jake and your brother told me your name,” she says. “So no, we don’t know each other, but we’re going to be working together. Let’s put whatever that was behind us, yeah?” She holds out her hand for me to shake—which was the last thing I expected her to do—but she does it in a funny way, as if she doesn’t want me to shake it. Her arm is sort of hanging there limply, fingers slightly curled toward her palm.
I study her hand, nails painted dark purple to match the ends of her hair, then meet her questioning eyes again. This city girl is strange, a woman who, without a doubt, has a story to tell. Presley. I like her name. And whether it has anything to do with Elvis or not, the uncommon name suits her.
I remove my hat and place my palm into hers so those curled fingers brush against the back of my hand. Her skin is warm against my palm—almost too warm, even a little sweaty from her nerves and the hot night.
As we shake, her eye contact wavers, her red cheeks getting redder the longer I hold her captive with my stare. It’s both sexy and sweet. Presley on the surface isn’t the type I usually go for—I tend to like women who aren’t shy—but I’ll admit she sparks my interest.
I’ve been with enough girls to know which ones are looking for more, though, and her vibes are screaming that she’s the relationship type. I am certainly not looking for a relationship. But despite all this, I like the outgoing rocker-chick vibe she’s giving off that’s in direct contrast to how she’s acted so far in front of me.
Now that I’m seeing her up close, her soulful eyes tell me she’s too good for me. The gentle lines on her face, the serious maturity lingering under the surface, and the interaction we’ve just had all give me the impression she wouldn’t give me the time of day. She’s polite, but this will be a strictly professional relationship. Which, in the end, is what it should be. I don’t need to shit where I eat.
“Yeah,” I finally say, shaking her hand one more time before pulling back. I place my hat on my head then take a step toward the door. That step brings me and Presley closer, close enough that I can smell the peppermint on her breath.
Her breathing stops, and she looks up at me from her coal-colored lashes. I don’t miss the way those blue eyes flash to my lips, and for a second, I lean in. I’m not sure why I do it, maybe because I know I’ll never kiss her. But for this brief moment in time, I let myself imagine what it would be like. The way she’d unfold for me as I backed her against the wall and dove in to taste her like a starving man. I bet, once comfortable, Presley would bloom under my touch. Maybe even beg for it.
When all the blood in my body travels south, I know it’s time to end whatever it is I’m doing. I’m not thinking with my brain.
I step around her, leaving Presley standing there. When I turn my head over my shoulder, she’s still frozen in time, her eyes on where my lips were.
“See you inside,” I say under my breath before opening the door. It’s not until the back door closes that I finally inhale and decide it’s best to erase that interaction from my memory.