Chapter FiveLearning the Ropes
Jolene Callahan drags me into her pickup truck and drives me to a location on the other side of Durango, parking in a gravel lot in front of a weathered, brightly lit building. As we exit the truck, I quickly realize what sort of place this is.
"A honky-tonk?" I say, grimacing at the gaudy decor. I can hear the country music blasting inside the building. "I'm starving, but I'd prefer someplace less...raucous."
Just as we mount the porch steps, Jo halts and swivels partway toward me, waggling one finger. "Now, now, Clay, don't be a stick in the mud. You need some serious relaxation, and your personal rodeo doctor has prescribed a night of honky-tonk therapy."
Her wicked grin makes me feel as if she's luring me into debauchery. Jo is the cutest, sexiest devil. I won't mind letting her corrupt me.
Jo bumps her hip into me. "Thought you wanted to learn about visibility. This is where your lesson begins."
Before I can protest, she pushes through the swinging doors.
A wall of sound slams into me like a freight train.
The Dusty Boot Bar is exactly what you'd expect from a roadhouse on the outskirts of nowhere---sawdust on the floor, neon beer signs flickering on wood-paneled walls, and a mechanical bull that's seen better decades.
The air is thick with cigarette smoke, and the smell of fried food makes my stomach growl despite my reservations.
"Two beers," Jo hollers to the bartender, sliding onto a stool like she owns the place. Heads turn to follow her every movement.
I settle onto the stool beside her, acutely aware of how every conversation in our immediate vicinity has dropped to a whisper. Great. Just what I need---an audience.
"Relax," Jo whispers, nudging my shoulder with her own. "You look like you're about to bolt."
"Can you blame me?" I accept the beer from the bartender, a grizzled man with arms like tree trunks who's clearly been working this joint since the Carter administration. "Half the people in here are staring at us."
"Good." She takes a long pull from her bottle, scanning the room. Her gaze has the calculating precision of a general surveying a battlefield. "That's the whole point of this exercise."
"In what way? I'm confused, Jo. An explanation would be helpful."
Before she can respond to my query, a familiar voice calls out through the ruckus behind us. "Well, I'll be damned. If it isn't the second-place cowboy himself."
I don't need to turn around to know the jerk who's speaking is Brock Sterling. My jaw tightens as I sense his presence behind me, and the smell of his expensive cologne wafts through the room. His smugness is almost as pungent.
"Sterling," I acknowledge without glancing at him, and I deliberately swallow a large swig of my beer.
"And there's the beautiful Jo Callahan." Brock slides up to the bar beside me, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. Territorial bastard. "Didn't expect to see rodeo royalty in a dive like this."
Jo doesn't even glance at Brock as she speaks. "Sometimes you need to get your hands dirty to remember where you came from, don't you think?"
"Can't say I relate." Brock signals the bartender for a whiskey, neat. "Some of us never forgot we belonged at the top."
The dig lands exactly where he intended, and my knuckles whiten around the beer bottle. Jo must sense my tension because her hand suddenly lands on my thigh, squeezing gently in what appears to be a warning.
"Clay and I were just celebrating his impressive performance today," she declares, her voice carrying far enough to draw attention from nearby tables. "Two-tenths of a second behind you, Brock."
Brock's smile falters for a fraction of a second before he recovers. "Impressive for a small-time rancher, I suppose. But we both know consistency is what separates the champions from the also-rans."
I open my mouth to fire back, but Jo digs her fingers deeper into my thigh. Her other hand slides up my arm, coming to rest against my biceps in a gesture that's unmistakably possessive.
"Clay has plenty of consistency," she proclaims.
Something shifts in Brock's expression, his eyes darting between Jo's face and her hand on my arm. I can practically hear the wheels turning in her mind.
"Your companion?" he repeats, his voice laced with disbelief. "Since when did you two become so...friendly?"
Jo leans in, gazing up at me like we're going steady. "Some things happen when you aren't looking, Sterling."
What the hell is she playing at?
Brock's gaze narrows, and his lips pucker faintly. "Last I heard, Jo wasn't exactly in the market for a cowboy. In fact, I heard she prefers...a different sort of companionship."
I clench my jaw so hard it hurts. If Brock doesn't shut his mouth, I might do it for him. But before I can respond, Jo grips my hand under the table, squeezing firmly. I get the point. She's urging me not to let Brock crawl under my skin.
I relax my posture, draping an arm around Jo's shoulders as I turn my focus to her. "Ready to boogie, darlin'?"
"Absolutely." Jo slides off her barstool with fluid grace. She twines her fingers with mine, and the contact sends an unexpected jolt through me. "I love this song."
I don't recognize whatever's blasting from the speakers, but I'm not about to admit that with Brock Sterling watching our every move. Jo tugs me toward the small dance floor where a handful of couples are swaying to the music. I follow because, hell, what else am I gonna do?
"I don't dance," I mutter close to her ear as we reach the edge of the wooden floor.
"Tonight, you will, Clay." She slides her hands up my chest and onto my shoulders. "Trust me, McKendrick. This is all part of the plan."
"Shouldn't your cohort be clued in?"
Jo ignores my question, already moving to the music. She sways those hips in a sensual rhythm that makes my mouth go dry and my brain forget how to form complete thoughts.
I squint my eyes, hoping to get her attention. "Are you still talking about that blasted 'visibility' hogwash?"
"Yes," she hisses through her teeth. "Half the rodeo circuit is in this bar tonight, and they're all watching us right now. Time to get the train rolling."
I glance around and realize she's right. Cowboys I recognize from earlier today are nursing beers at various tables, their eyes tracking our every movement. Even some of the buckle bunnies who usually orbit Sterling's crew are whispering behind their hands, pointing in our direction.
"So, we're putting on a show." I rest my hands on her waist because it seems like the natural place to put them.
"We're crafting a narrative, that's all.
" Her fingers toy with the hair at the base of my neck, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the air conditioning.
"Clay McKendrick isn't just a struggling rancher anymore.
He's the cowboy who caught the attention of Jo Callahan---rodeo royalty. "
The sultry tone of her voice has me breathing a little harder. When she leans in closer, her lips graze my ear, and she whispers, "We're using each other to get what we both want." Her breath ghosts over my skin, warm and tempting.
Damn, I need to fuck Jo. But I've never been the type to use and discard a woman---or to let a woman do that to me. Before I take her back to the truck to screw her on the bench seat, I need to show her all my moves, the ones she's never seen before.
I brush my lips over the shell of her ear, making her shiver faintly. "Time to show you my best moves, Jolene Callahan."
Her brows lift, but she doesn't move a muscle.
So, I slide out of the booth and offer her my hand. "Are you tough enough to keep up with me on the dance floor?"
She holds out her hand to me, palm up, letting me pull her to her feet. "Oh please, I've been burning up the dance floor since I was eight years old."
The joint is packed tighter than sardines in a can, but Jo weaves through the crowd like she's done this a hundred times.
I follow, hyperaware of every eye tracking our movement, every whispered conversation that stops when we pass by.
The song shifts to a softer, more intimate ballad as Jo faces me and assumes the usual pose for slow dancing.
She fits in my arms perfectly. As I settle my hands on her waist, she brushes her thumbs along the strip of skin where her shirt has ridden up slightly.
"You're thinking too hard again," she whispers, toying with the collar of my shirt. "Just move with me. It's not hard to do once you relax into it."
The music seems to wrap around us as if our bodies have merged, and I let myself get lost in the sensual rhythm.
Jo's right. I am overthinking this. She initiates a leisurely pace while her hips move with mine and my hands sink lower to rest just above the curve of her ass.
The moment feels right, as if we've always been meant to join our bodies this way.
I need to kiss her so badly, need it like a starved man craves a meal after weeks in the desert with no food.
But then the ballad fades away, and a raucous number starts up as new couples take the floor. This is just what I need right now to distract myself from the feel of Jo's body molded to mine.
I wink at her. "Now the fun really begins."