7. Kade
Chapter 7
Kade
I wipe down a glass and put it in its place under the bar. It’s just about six o’clock on a Sunday, and Night Hawk isn’t too busy yet—which annoys me.
I wasn’t even supposed to be working, but after I finished patching up the south pasture, I took a ride on my horse, hoping it would clear my mind since my dip in the spring and work had failed to do so. But just like everything else, it didn’t help. So I came here, praying the chatter of people and maybe a couple of women to flirt with would stop the thoughts that just won’t quit. But no luck so far.
I pick up another glass, wiping it down as I stare at one of the neon signs above the bar that says, “Never Stop Lovin’ Cowboys.” Kind of a funny sign if you ask me, considering people love the idea of cowboys but usually not the cowboy themselves. Or they think a cowboy is the kind they read about in romance novels or see on TV, when in fact there’s only a small percentage that make the kind of living people who come to this bar expect. In reality, being a cowboy is hard fucking work, and most of us are broke.
I chuckle sadly, because when I was a kid, I had na?ve ideas like that, too. I wanted to be one of those fancy cowboys. I’d often daydream about becoming a reining champion, a competitive Western discipline where a rider takes a horse through a precise pattern of circles, spins, and stops. After I made a name for myself by winning a bunch of fancy titles, I wanted to use those skills to train the next generation of reiners, breed horses, the whole shebang.
In many ways, I wanted to create the kind of life Blake grew up having and build a similar operation to the one her family runs now. I wanted to make the Montgomery Family Ranch a name that people in the sport could trust. A legacy for my children, if I were to have any.
But that dream died. Not because I wasn’t good—the opposite, actually—but I learned at a young age that I wasn’t meant for silly things like big dreams. Not only did Dad constantly remind me of my responsibilities around the ranch and how my training got in the way of those responsibilities, but my momentum was crushed early on.
I had qualified for a big senior youth competition in Arizona, one that could have put my name on the map if I even placed in the top ten. I had given Dad the paperwork I needed to enter, but he passed it on to Gavin to complete because he was busy. Gavin forgot, and I missed the deadline.
I remember the night I found out so clearly, the utter blood-boiling rage I felt. How I literally could see all my dreams disappearing into the air like my breath on a cold winter night. I think that was the first time I truly lost myself and let my temper get the best of me, so much so that I hit Gavin and we got into a huge fight.
In hindsight, I know missing the deadline was not his fault. Just like me, he had a lot on his plate. Dad had given him more responsibility than he could handle on the ranch, and as I later found out, he was just told he couldn’t go away for college. He was needed on the ranch, and if he wanted to continue school, community college was his only option.
The whole ordeal is just another example of our dad not being a great dad. And the more I think about our childhood, especially my teenage years, the more I wonder if Emmett Montgomery was never the man I thought he was.
“Can I get another beer, son? ”
I turn to look at one of the locals, Jerry. Like many of the older men in this town, he’s rough around the edges. Crow’s feet line the corners of his brown eyes, and the skin on his face is tanned and sunspotted.
“Sure thing.”
I hand him the longneck after I’ve removed the bottle cap on the bar top, a bit of a tradition around here. I don’t know who started it, probably Jake’s Pops. The wooden top has dents and nicks all up and down it. Jake claims that just like the peanut shells on the floor, it gives Night Hawk a certain charm. And I suppose it does. Much like most of my friends, we grew up coming to this bar with our parents since nobody had babysitters. It looks a lot different now, but I like it all the same. Jake’s done a nice job creating a place that’s welcoming and fun.
I hear a man whistle, and I pop my chin up to the sight of blonde-and-purple hair walking into the bar. I pick up another glass to wipe off as Presley approaches with her head down, eyes cast to the floor. The apples of her cheeks have turned pink from the man’s attention, which strikes me as a bit odd, considering everything about her screams for attention—her wild hair, her tattoos, that full bottom of hers in those tight jeans.
When she reaches the bar, she glances those pretty blue eyes of hers up at me for only a second, but it’s enough for me to see the stain of her cheeks turn a shade darker. The colors have me thinking about last night, how she watched me feel up the girl in the back room. I wonder if that darker flush means she’s remembering it, too, or if it was simply caused by the whistle. Since I don’t know Presley that well, I’m finding it difficult to get a read on her.
When I open my mouth to greet her, her head turns to Jerry, who’s staring at her—well, more like at her hair and tattoos. She awkwardly waves at him then bolts to the back room before either of us can get a word out. It’s a strange reaction, but maybe it’s because of me and what she saw last night. Or I could be giving myself too much credit and it’s just her general awkwardness.
I run my tongue against the back of my teeth, my curiosity about our new bartender growing. Questions swirl in my head, and there’s a part of me that wants to follow her into the back room and ask her why she bolted, how she felt about seeing me in the back room last night, if watching me turns her on. The questions are mostly inappropriate, but for the first time all day, I’m not thinking about my problems. I’m thinking about the mysterious city girl whose appearance begs me to look at her, yet her actions say otherwise.
“Who’s that purple girl?”
I snort. “That’s the best you can come up with?”
He shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “Never seen hair like that.”
“That’s because you don’t come here on a Saturday night.” Which is true—Presley isn’t the first person to come in here with colored hair.
“Too many of you young’uns for me to come on a Saturday. Heard you had a line here last night.”
“You heard right.”
He grumbles something about times changing just as the back door opens and Presley walks back out. Jerry studies her again, his gruff expression not changing.
“Howdy,” I say. The greeting is silly, but working in a place like this, it’s all part of the charm—and hard to turn off when I’m within these walls. As I said, the people love the whole Texas cowboy act.
Presley shoves her hands into the pockets of the apron tied around her waist, fidgeting on her feet for a long second before her lips part.
“Hi,” she squeaks, her eyes bulging slightly from her clearly unintentional tone of voice before she looks down at her feet again .
I attempt not to laugh while I tuck the rag I was using in my back pocket, waiting for her to look at me. When she eventually does, those sexy sapphire eyes of hers are still unsure, but she manages to keep eye contact with me.
“Jake told me to find you. Said you’d know what to do with me.” As soon as the words leave her lips, the flush that had just started to dissipate returns in full force.
I clench my lips together, really trying hard not to laugh now. But hell, I’m not going to lie. Her simple words spark something in my low abdomen. I’m a twenty-two-year-old man, one who uses sex as a way to clear my mind, ease my pain. Girls have always come easy to me, just like ranching, reining, and drinking. This woman? While she might confuse me a bit, I sure as hell would know exactly what to do with her. What I could do for her.
My eyes drop down Presley’s body, lazily looking her over. The sound of her throat clearing has me meeting her now narrowed gaze. I flash her a flirty smile, one that tells her I’m not ashamed of looking. This only lights a fire in her eyes, just like the one she had last night when she caught me looking at her boobs and I called her Sweetheart.
She cocks an eyebrow at me, and my heart beats faster in my chest. I wonder what it would take to break down Presley’s walls, to crack her open and get her to let loose. To fan that flame I see behind her eyes right now. I can think of so many ways, many of which involve that velvety voice of hers crying out my name—
Fuck . I inhale a breath, willing myself to get it together. While being at work has never stopped me from pursuing a woman, I know better than to get involved with a coworker. Like I said, Presley isn’t my usual type, and I highly doubt she’d want anything to do with me, anyway, despite our little moment outside yesterday.
There’s a reason I have the reputation of Randall’s playboy, and I didn’t get that name by sitting on my hands. The first time I had sex, I was fifteen, which isn’t uncommon here. Not much to do for fun in a small town, and our high school parties in farm fields often led to kids hooking up—or at least making out. Over the years, my experience grew, and eventually, I got into the kink community online, with rope bondage in particular catching my interest. That led me to taking drives into the city and getting some hands-on experience in clubs after I turned eighteen.
The way Presley fidgets and avoids eye contact reminds me of some women I used to play with when I first started out, ones who take time to unfurl and need a safe place to explore. In the last two years, minus one woman before my accident, I’ve only hooked up with women who sought me out. These were women I knew could handle my rougher tastes and didn’t need to be coddled, didn’t ask to exchange phone numbers after, and didn’t want to date.
“Kade?” My name on her lips cuts through my thoughts. Jesus, now who’s the one staring awkwardly? I need to stay cool, if for no other reason than to simply not look like an idiot. I lessen my smile so it’s more friendly and less let me tie you up, darlin’ and motion for her to follow me. It takes us only a few steps to reach our destination.
“You can set up shop here for a bit,” I say, showing her the station I use to slice all of our citrus and refill things like cherries. “It’s pretty slow right now, so it’s a good time to cut and refill everything we need for drinks.” I pick up a lime and toss it in the air before placing it on the counter.
Her eyes watch the action and widen like saucers, her cheeks flaming pink again as if it’s their natural color. At first, I have no idea why a lime is causing her to react this way, but then I remember Gavin saying something about limes when he walked into the back room last night.
I can’t help the small chuckle that leaves my lips. While I should feel bad, the situation is kind of funny. It’s also good she understands what kind of man I am. Maybe she will keep her distance, and then I won’t have such a hard time trying not to think about all the ways I could make her come undone.
I tap my fingers on the bar. “Think you can handle it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
I nod and step back so she can take my spot at the station. “Great. We should be getting busier in the next half hour or so. On Sundays, it’s mostly locals who come around, trying to take the edge off before another long week. We offer half-priced bull rides, and tonight, we have a band coming. They should be here any minute.”
Her breath catches in her throat, and a look of panic flashes through her eyes.
“Have something against live music?”
“No.” She shakes her head but then asks, “What band?” There’s a slight quiver to her voice when she says it, and my hackles rise. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone get nervous over talk of a band, which adds to my confusion and curiosity about this woman. It has me feeling like I should comfort her, but given our interactions so far, I doubt she’d like that. And I definitely don’t need to get involved in her life—that would only complicate things.
“Just some band from a town over,” I answer. “He’s a friend of Jake’s. I should say it’s more one guy with his guitar and his friend, a fiddle player who sometimes plays the banjo.”
She drags her gaze to meet mine as she picks up a lime. “Do you want me to cut all of these?”
Alright, change of subject. I can’t knock her for that, especially since I can relate to not wanting to talk about my feelings. “Just fill up all the containers. Then you can put the rest in the back fridge for later.”
The mention of the back room has her pink again. Jesus, this woman. How does she get embarrassed so easily? “Look, Presley,” I say, making sure I use her name and not an endearment. “I’m sorry about last night. ”
She puts her hand up before I can continue. “It’s not a problem. I’d rather not talk about it.”
I blow out a sigh. “If that’s what you want.”
She nods, holding my gaze, though once again, I can tell she’s struggling to do it. Her pupils bounce around while she clenches her fists, and questions I want to ask her sit on the tip of my tongue. The biggest one? Why does a person who’s as shy as she is, who doesn’t seem to be one for small talk, move to a town like this and start working at a bar? It’s confusing. She’s confusing.
Fuck. Maybe I should have a drink. While the thoughts of her stopped my spiral over the drama that is my life, now I’m obsessing over her. I shouldn’t care about Presley or why she is the way she is. Yet I can’t seem to stop myself.
The boisterous laugh of one of our patrons makes Presley jump, and she breaks eye contact, moving back to the task of cutting limes. I watch her for a minute, her hands delicately grabbing the fruit before she slices into it. Her cuts aren’t perfect, and the wedges are all uneven, but she’s dedicated to her task. It reminds me of when I started working here and how mine looked even worse.
“I can teach you a trick to cut the wedges evenly if you want.”
She stops cutting and looks up. The corner of her mouth twitches as if she’s irritated, like I’ve offended her by offering to help. She places the knife down and wipes her fingers on her apron. “There’s a trick to cutting lime wedges?”
I chuckle. I don’t know if she meant to, but her tone was flat like she was calling me an asshole without actually saying it. It doesn’t bother me, but again, I’m trying to figure out why something as simple as saying I could teach her how to cut limes would be annoying.
“Look, you can cut them any way you want, but Jake had to teach me. Thought I could make it easier on you.”
She places her hands on her round hips and steps back. “Show away. ”
I smirk again, inhabiting the spot she just occupied. When I pick up the knife, I find she’s standing off to the side, putting a large distance between us. “Can you see from there?”
Presley blinks, face burning bright again. Only now it’s not from embarrassment or shyness but clear irritation. I want to ask her what her deal is because I did nothing to make her angry in the last five seconds except offer her help. Huh. Maybe that’s the issue.
Before I can tell her to carry on how she was doing it, she puffs out a breath from between her teeth and steps closer—but still not close enough to see properly.
I grunt, now getting annoyed right back at her. “Get in here, woman. I need you to see what I’m doing.”
Her eyes harden. “Did you just call me ‘woman’?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Calling her “woman” was a slipup. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. “Presley.” I say her name in hopes she’ll cut me some slack. “Please, I’m just trying to show you something.”
Jerry’s loud cackle draws my gaze to where he’s seated at the bar. I’d forgotten he was there, most likely watching our entire exchange. He tips his bottle at me as if he’s saying good luck with that one before he takes a drink.
When my focus moves back to Presley, she’s got her arms crossed over her chest. “Show me.”
With a slight shake of my head, I angle my body so she can see. “First, you want to cut the lime in half.”
“I know that. Anything else?”
Laughter bubbles in my chest, but I manage to tamp it down. Despite my annoyance, I like this fiery side of her. It’s better than the awkward and shy version. Feels more like I’m actually talking to her.
“Yep. Do you want to know the secret?”
Her foot taps on the floor, and for a second, I think she’ll say no. Then she surprises me by nodding .
“You have to cut a slit in the middle. That way, you can put it on the rim of the glass easier.” I pick up the lime, and since she won’t come closer to me, I hold it up and show her how I do it. “Cool, right? Just make sure not to go too deep so you cut through the rind at the bottom.”
Presley watches my hands work, and then she nods. “Got it. Don’t go too deep.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Why does everything out of her mouth sound like sexual innuendo to me? Before I can think too much about that or embarrass her again, I place the wedge I sliced on the cutting board. I finish showing her how to cut the lime at an angle so it makes three perfect wedges.
“Simple enough, right?”
“Yes.”
I step out of her way again, realizing I’m not going to get anything else from her. She takes her place back at the board, and I hand her the knife with the handle down. When she reaches for it, our skin touches. I don’t miss the way her breath hitches at our nearness like it did yesterday when I stupidly wanted to kiss her.
Eyes penetrating into mine, Presley’s fingers linger. Everything about this moment makes me feel as if she’s trying to see something in my eyes, trying to read me like I’ve been trying to read her. The thought has a tilted grin pulling at the corner of my lips, and for whatever reason, that snaps her out of whatever she’s thinking.
Her fingers brush over mine once more as they go for the knife. When they do, I notice her fingertips are calloused, the texture of them interesting. I look down at her left hand, but she pulls the knife away, trying to put distance between us. That isn’t easy, since I’d have to move away for that to happen.
“Thanks, I’ve got it from here,” she snaps.
“You want to try it once—”
“I got it,” she says again, defiance in her tone.
“Presley.” My voice is quieter, not wanting to draw attention to us. More people have started to come in, and Stu is now at the bar helping customers. “Are you okay?”
She places the knife down, refusing to meet my eyes. “I have to use the restroom.”
Before I can blink, she makes a swift exit, and I’m left to wonder what happened. Was it because we touched? Or was it because of our previous interactions?
“Women, am I right?”
I turn my head toward Jerry, who’s sipping his beer with a funny look on his face. “You need another one?” I ask, not wanting to get into a conversation about Presley, or any woman for that matter, with him. The man is twice divorced. It was all the town could talk about for a while. I don’t think anything he says could help me out.
He looks at the bottle then at me. “Why the hell not?”