3. Sage
sage
“At least you still talk to me,” Frank Miller, the father of Hazel Miller and Romy Larsen, bemoaned.
Per usual, he was drunk before five o’clock.
“Yes, to tell you to go home,” I reiterated, picking up his empty beer bottle and wiping down the antique wood bartop.
“I’m doing my job and making sure everyone leaves safely.
” The evening was still young and the cowboys who were just getting off shift were starting to come in.
Service was about to pick up, especially with it being a Friday night. “Do you need me to find you a ride?”
Frank waved me off, his face ruddy from alcoholism, scrunching in annoyance.
“Think I don’t know how to find my way home in my own town?
” he grumbled. “Y’all think I’m a worthless piece of shit for what happened at Thornbrush Ranch.
” It was always the same self-loathing remarks from him.
His eldest daughter, Hazel, was currently in prison for illegally carrying a firearm and evading arrest after killing her ex in self-defense.
“I didn’t tell my daughter to shoot the Larsen’s foreman.
She was our golden girl. Our rodeo queen.
” His rheumy eyes glistened and I figured I was about to see one of Frank’s drunken fits.
“And what does she do? She throws all that away, destroying our family’s reputation, lets the cops catch her, and they lock her up for three years.
” He turned on his stool to face the rest of the patrons, locals and townies.
“It was so easy for y’all to turn your backs on your queen!
Where’s your loyalty?” He berated the few full tables.
Some of them looked his way briefly, shifting uncomfortably in their seats, before looking anywhere but his direction, clearly embarrassed for him rather than for their own lack of support for Hazel.
I blew out a breath and exchanged looks with Tessa who was shaking up a cocktail. We shared a nod that said, “time to call Marty.” Marty and Marine Morgan owned The Rooster and the only motel in town, the Bare Buckle Motel, which sat on the far end of town.
When I first arrived in Willows, worried that he would find me, I hid out on the Riggses farm.
Agatha and Bill never once asked me to leave or join them for family dinners with their son.
They gave me my space in an old cabin on the property.
Christian still didn’t know I lived on his family farm for a year.
No one did. Not even my brother. I asked Agatha and Bill to keep it that way.
I was so petrified of being found. They let me call the shots on my healing and what I was willing to share.
When a year had finally passed with no sign of Clayton, I felt like I could finally step out on my own and decided I wanted to start a life here.
My first outing was to get a new cell phone and trade in the Jeep for a used one.
I drove it off the lot and went straight to the Willows Rodeo where I heard my brother was competing.
I was comfortable knowing I was one of many, blending in with the crowd.
I waited around the bucking chutes until the bull riders showed up.
When Kale spotted me, a huge grin on his face, I knew I’d made the right decision.
Overjoyed by the surprise, he didn’t ask me anything more after I told him I just wanted to see my baby brother ride …
and, “Oh, by the way, I’m thinking about moving to Willows.
” We exchanged numbers, he gave me the address of his apartment, and introduced me to his friend, Christian Riggs.
The son of my saviors. My heart skipped a beat that day when I saw Christian’s dimpled grin — that was before he opened his mouth …
Kale didn’t question my decision to move here.
He didn’t talk to our mother and stepfather, so I wasn’t worried he’d send word I was in Willows.
With a new phone number, there was no way for my parents to get ahold of me — no way for Clayton to bully them into sharing my whereabouts.
Not that he would. He’d done a fair job isolating me well before I took off.
With my phone, I signed up for once-a-week teletherapy session so I could work through the abuse, trauma, and the debilitating anxiety that he was coming to kill me.
I got a job at the bar, and now after three years of therapy and working, I finally felt like I was finding myself again, rediscovering my strength and power, my ambitions and dreams.
Marty walked in then. He was a big, burly guy in his mid-fifties with a long gray beard that reached his chest.
Chuck Larsen — owner of Thornbrush Ranch — and my brother, Kale, also walked in. Christian followed close behind, making the skin at the back of my neck prickle.
“Hey, Frank,” Marty greeted, sidling up to Frank at the bar. “Can I drive you home?”
“Kicking me out, hey?”
“Need backup, Marty?” Chuck’s deep voice boomed through the bar as he approached.
“Fuck you, Larsen.” Frank practically slid off the stool, his own two feet barely catching him. “All the problems in this town … All my problems are thanks to you. You let them take away the last good thing in my life — my Hazel girl.”
Chuck’s shoulders stiffened at Frank's biting remarks, but his face remained stoic, his mustache not even twitching. He knew better than to be bothered by Frank’s inebriated tirade.
Frank pulled his arm away from Chuck as if he was about to touch him. “I’d rather take my chances with Marty here.”
Kale and Christian both stood on either side of Chuck, their hands shoved in their pockets like Chuck’s very own posse.
My eyes drifted to my brother, his dark brows pinched, turning his smooth-shaven face into a dangerous glare.
Christian’s dark-blond hair curled on the ends where it was still damp from a recent shower.
His emerald gaze was alert. The set of his mouth revealed his dimples, looking no more intimidating than a bumble bee.
Fuzzy and cute but prepared to sting. Penetrate you, pump their poison.
Best to just leave the bee alone, even if it was annoying and you wanted to swat it away.
All three men stood their ground, watching Marty escort Frank out of the bar.
“Cowboys.” I scoffed under my breath, resuming the wipe down of my area and washing the cocktail shaker.
“Maybe you should eighty-six him,” Christian suggested, leaning over the bar while I dried the shaker with my towel. He was referring to our eighty-six list by the register — those we refused to serve.
I returned the shaker to the work counter. “He hasn’t done anything egregious enough to be added to the list. We always cut him off and send him home before it gets too bad.”
I looked up then, my eyes immediately connecting with Christian’s who had the dopiest smile on his face.
Those fucking dimples, only shadowed by the light scruff along his jaw.
Delicious scruff that I still felt against my cheeks and throat as I broke my one rule: I don’t kiss.
Yet I still felt it months later like a whisper of a ghost.
Fucking sappy weddings and champagne. I blame you.
And it only made Christian even more insufferable than he was before. I’ve had to suffer the rest of the summer and now half a fall with him reminding me.
“My usual, baby,” he ordered with a wink, leaning against the bartop with his long corded forearms, while he gave me a look that he hoped made my panties melt.
I rolled my eyes, leaning down to open the beverage fridge and pull out a bottle of light beer for him, popping the top and setting it down in front of him.
“You’re a peach.” His smile never faltered.
“I’ll open a tab. Go take your longneck where you aren’t interfering with my work. I can’t make tips with you hovering.” I shooed him away toward one of the high tops where Kale and Chuck sat.
“You love me.” His dimples deepened, the muscles flexing on his arms as he pushed off the bar, taking his beer and heading back to the guys.
“Sage, if that’s true, you sure have a fucked-up way of showing it,” Tessa deadpanned when she stepped up beside me to grab the other two beers for Kale and Chuck.
“He’s been flirting with you for years. You’d think he’d take the hint if you’re not interested.
” Tessa and I usually shared the same shift schedule since I started at The Rooster, and she’d been witness to Christian’s countless attempts to woo me.
“He’s a stubborn ass and maybe just a little bit arrogant. Probably hit his head a few too many times getting thrown,” I said, almost feeling like I had to make an excuse for him, to defend him.
“I went to high school with Christian and Jude. Christian liked the chase. He seemed to like the girls that played games, but as soon as they gave it to him, he dumped them. Saw it with all the buckle bunnies he’s dated over the years, too. Christian Riggs is a heartbreaker.”
I gnawed the inside of my cheek, considering her words.
Maybe he was a player. Or used to be. In all the time I’d known him, I’d never once seen him date anyone, only playing wingman for my brother, who was absolutely a fuckboy.
I didn’t think that was Christian though, because the dude looked absolutely hopeful that he was breaking down my defenses.
I suppose it was my own fault. I broke my own rule.
I shouldn’t have agreed to dance with him at the wedding.
I shouldn’t have agreed to take that extra bottle of champagne to his truck so we could drink and dry hump each other.
I was too hot and buzzed to think straight.
Even when his mouth felt fucking good, his tongue swirling my pulse point, teeth scraping my bottom lip, I didn’t once try to push him away.
Finding out that Christian was a damn good kisser and that he tasted like the mints he popped was trouble.
No one knew the number of canvases I destroyed because they reminded me of him.
He annoyed the hell out of me and the most irritating part of it all was that I couldn’t get him out of my head.
My good friend, Lina, may have said, “What happens at the bonfire stays at the bonfire,” but apparently Christian had yet to get the memo. Because now he actually thought he had a chance with me and he was even more persistent than ever before.
But there was a lot he didn't know about me. That no one knew about me, that needed to remain hidden. My life depended on it.
But the most glaring of all …
I was damaged. I wasn't worried about him breaking my heart because I’d only break his.