Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Mercy
S omething burns through me at the way the pretty young woman looks up at him. With her dark hair piled up on her head and her full lips coated in shiny red gloss, she's got a slim figure with perky boobs and it's obvious she knows men like looking at her.
Lance laughs at something she says, and her hand traces down his arm.
Does Lance like looking at her? I can't tell.
But I don't like looking at Lance looking at her, and I'm not sure what to do with the unwarranted jealousy that flares inside me, so when Lance's eyes find mine and I see they're filled with a silent plea for help-- I don't waste time rushing over to rescue him.
"Hi, I'm Mercy."
I hold out my hand to the woman and suffer her limp shake, as Lancer's arm drops over my shoulders.
"Veronica." The petite brunette puts too much sugar into the smile she gives me in response.
I bet she goes by "Ronnie." She probably spells it with an "i." She probably dots her "i's" with little hearts.
My arm snakes around Lancer's waist like I own him, but it's not the annoyed little furrow that appears between Veronica's perfectly bladed brows where I'm touching him that gives me the smug sense of satisfaction; it's the way Lance stands up a little straighter and moves a little closer to me.
Okay, it's also the way Veronica's expression goes all confused and disappointed as it sinks in that the handsome cowboy in front of her clearly isn't interested.
"It's been nice chatting with you, Ronni," Lance tips his hat at the pouting woman and doesn't let go of me as we take our place at the counter and he orders me one of the island style lagers and makes sure they drop in an extra lime wedge.
"She was cute," I work at sounding casual as I squeeze lime into my beer.
"Eh." Lance shrugs, giving me a funny look.
"What? She was into you, Lance."
Lance studies me with an expression I'm not sure how to interpret. Then he downs half his beer in one gulp.
"She's not really my type."
Something between us feels off today. Like every word spoken between us is hiding a thousand more than neither of us is saying.
"Skinny little brunettes with perky boobs aren't your type?" I tease. "Because I'm pretty sure girls like that are every man's type."
"Not every man."
Lance leaves that hanging between us, along with what I think is the tiniest of grins at me that has me feeling confused and a little off balance.
Before I have a chance to rib him anymore; hopefully to bed down the squirmy feelings that this conversation has started inside me, and maybe get him to give up more details on what he means, the band breaks into the opening chords of one of our favorite songs.
Barely giving me time to empty my plastic cup and drop it in a nearby trash can, Lance pulls me in to the open area in front of the bandstand where the grass has been worn to bare dirt in most places by the footsteps of dancers throughout the years.
Taking my hands and pulling me into the circle, I easily fall into step with Lance as we two-step around the rough dance floor.
"Didn't know you could dance, cowboy."
Lance laughs, as the band transitions into another lively tune, this one better suited to a western swing which we easily adjust to.
"Didn't know you could dance, either, Mercy Jean," Lance tells me as he spins and dips me.
"How is it that you know my birthday, my favorite color, and what time of the month to bring me chocolate, but you didn't know I could dance?"
Lance's hand holds mine above my head with enough clearance that I can spin without knocking my hat off, then he grips me strategically and drops me into a deep plunge that takes me almost to the ground.
The unexpected move has me gasping for breath and gripping him by the forearm for security as he holds me just inches from the grass with one hand under the back of my neck.
"I won't let you fall, you know." The usual twinkle in Lance's eyes softens to something different, as he steps over my body in a fancy dance move I don't expect before gripping my arm and pulling me back to my feet so fast I get dizzy.
At least; I'm pretty sure it's the dancing that has me dizzy.
"I'm not used to getting dipped like that," I explain, as Lance pulls me against him and keeps us moving in time. "I'm not exactly light, you know."
Lance
" T hat's silly, Mers." I like the feel of her in my arms when I pull her in to step around the dance floor together, but I command myself to push her out and let her spin again before taking another greedy chance to hold her close.
"You don't weigh that much."
If I'd known she liked to dance, I'd have found a hundred excuses to get her in my arms like this.
I love watching her face light up with every spin and the way she giggles every time I dip her.
"Going down again." I warn her this time, and the way she trusts me to drop her low now that she's over her bullshit about being too heavy for the fancier moves, has me feeling some ways that are too dangerous to get used to.
Mercy's almost a full foot shorter than me, and sure, she's got curves-- curves that have had me mesmerized since my awkward fits and starts into noticing them way back when puberty first hit-- but she hardly weighs anything.
Not when I spend most of my days pitchin' hay bales and wrangling cattle.
Besides, pulling Mercy back up to me each time I drop her low to the ground is the best kind of torture; letting me imagine what it would feel like if I could lay my lips against hers every time I pull her back into my arms.
The song gives way to another, this one is a slow one.
The lead singer breaks into sultry lyrics about Tennessee whiskey, doing a damn good job of it too. He's got the voice for it.
Couples move into the spaces around us, wrapped in each other's arms, some of 'em crooning the words along with the singer as they sway.
Mercy melts into my arms and I think I've died and gone to heaven when she looks up at me with happiness still coloring those baby blues of hers.
Then the world stops all around me and that might include my own heart.
Stretching up, tilting her head back, closing space between us like it's something she does all the time, Mercy pulls me down to her like she's about to kiss me.
And I just stand in place like a stunned cow until the brims of our hats bump against each other, knocking mine askew and sending hers tumbling to the ground.
Quick as lightning, Mercy chases down her hat and has put a good six feet of space between us by the time I snap out of my stupor.
"So what time is the thing tonight?"
I'm still standing on the dance floor, rooted to the spot and trying to wrap my head around what just happened, but Mercy's practically half way back to the hotel already.
"Starts at seven."
I'm not sure she can even hear me answer her, she's walkin' so fast.
Jogging after her, I slow my pace before I catch up all the way.
All these years of imagining that moment and every possible way it could happen-- and when it did, I blew it.
Now she's walking so fast I can hardly keep up with her and when I get beside her, she won't look at me.
"We still have a couple of hours," I point out. My brain's spinning, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do.
"Exactly."
I didn't think it was possible for Mercy to walk any faster, but she manages to pick up the pace, making me work to keep up with her.
"It never takes you two hours to get ready for anything."
I'm only half teasing. Trying to get things back to normal between us and wanting to slow the hell down and ask her what that was about back there at the same time.
Ask for a fucking do-over.
Fall to my knees in front of her, beg for another chance, show her how things are really supposed to be between us.
Mercy finally slows down, but when she turns to smile at me, it seems downright bashful.
"Yeah well, you never asked me out on a fancy date before."
The usual sass is back in her voice, telling me she's just joking around, but there's a pink tint to her cheeks that has me thinking maybe it's time I let Mercy know how I feel.