Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Mercy
L ance responds to my quip with silence.
Dammit. Why'd I have to say "date?"
It was supposed to be a joke. The kind we've been volleying back and forth between each other for most of our lives now.
"So I figure I'll just hang out down here, and when you're ready, you can come down and switch places with me?"
I'm talking too fast and can't meet Lance's eyes when we get inside the hotel lobby. I just gesture absently toward the sitting area where I can hide in a corner and doom scroll videos on how to live through the most embarrassing moment of your life.
"Uh, yeah sure, okay," Lance mumbles as I practically shove him toward the elevator doors. "You could hang up in the room if you want, you know--"
"Just text me when the shower's free, and I'll swap places with you."
"Yeah, fine." Lance is looking at me like he's worried about me. Hell, I'm worried about myself. That's why I can't go upstairs with him, even if it's just to hang out in that tiny little sitting room while he gets ready.
I've made a big enough fool of myself already today, I don't need a chance to do any more stupid stuff.
The elevator doors close between us, with Lance giving me a hard glare that says his brain is busy wondering if he should say whatever it is that he's thinking.
"Mer--" He suddenly takes a step forward, but the doors close completely, cutting him off before he can even finish the first syllable of my name.
When the doors don't open back up, and I hear the mechanisms inside working to pull the car up to the higher floors, I finally let myself exhale.
Settling into an overstuffed arm chair in the lobby, I pull out my phone and try to distract myself.
We've been friends since we were six. It's not the first awkward moment between us. Just the first time one of us got caught up in a moment and tried to kiss the other one.
It's not going to end our friendship. Probably. But I suddenly wish we had those separate rooms.
Half an hour later, my phone buzzes with a message from Lance saying the shower's all mine.
When I unlock the door to our room, he's standing in front of the mirror, expertly pulling his tie into a neat bow.
He's shaved the day's worth of shadow off his jaw, and is fully dressed, except for the jacket and the polished, black cowboy boots sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed.
"Hope I left you enough time," he chides, poking a little fun at me for needing time to do more than throw my hair in a ponytail and brush my teeth for a change.
Lance brushes past me as I switch places with him and head for the shower.
He smells like the leather and spice scent of the cologne he's been wearing since high school and I'm struck by how I've come to associate the scent with manliness.
He even put product in his hair, that wax that he works through it when he's feeling fancy, that leaves his hair looking not quite combed.
"Get out so I can get ready," I give a playful shove to his arm, not at all shocked by the solid muscle hidden under the fancy dress shirt.
It's just not fair how fast a man can get ready. Lance sits on the end of the bed to slip his boots on, then stands and slides his arms into the tuxedo jacket.
Definitely not a rental. The tux is cut way too perfectly to fit his muscular physique, and break just right across the boots.
Not that I'm surprised, the O'Leary's are the richest ranch family in Slow River, they don't need to rent their suits.
Funny. I never really think about that. To me, Lance is just my best friend.
A guy I've known since we were kids. Part of a good family with brothers that give each other hell and always have each other's backs.
Just another valley rancher with a Stetson that's got at least one permanent hoof print on it, and calluses on his hands.
Looking at the man standing in front of me now, twenty years of platonic friendship flies right out the window.
Butterflies I never knew were living in my stomach suddenly get restless, and heat pools between my thighs in a way I've never experienced before-- certainly not while looking at Lance O'Leary.
"You clean up okay there, O'Leary." I joke with a long whistle, doing my best to play off the feelings blooming inside me that I'm not sure what to do with yet.
"That's what Ma tells me."
The wink that accompanies his half grin is the same one he's been shooting at me for years, but suddenly, it looks less like the playful old friend I've been joking around with forever, and more like the panty-melting man that the girls around town make heart eyes at when he's hanging out at the bar while I work.
"I'll come back up and get you at seven." Lance reaches for his hat out of habit before seeming to decide against it, running his hand through his hair instead.
"I thought dinner starts at seven?"
"They open the doors and start seating at seven, they won't start serving till later. We can be late."
"Okay then. I'll see you back here at seven."
Finally, he steps out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him as he does; giving me a chance to breathe.
Lance
T his hotel's not fancy by comparison to some places I've stayed in big cities, but it's nice enough to have a bar and a small, homestyle restaurant in it.
Of course-- the dinner tonight will be in the banquet room down the hall, seeing as how we never got around to building the convention hall over at the expo site.
A drink sounds like a bad idea; things are feeling weird between me and Mercy. She's giving me signals that have my brain all mixed up, all the lines that have defined our friendship over the years feel like they're getting blurred.
Still, I find myself heading into the small bar off the hotel's main lobby seeing as how there's not much more to do while I wait.
Looking around at the other men in the bar, it's plain to see that I'm not the only one who stepped out of their room to give a lady space to get ready. Tuxedos line the bar and crowd around high-top bar tables along the wall.
The low hum of men's voices talking shop fills the small bar. Occasionally a burst of loud laughter breaks out and jars me from my thoughts.
A couple of members recognize me and offer condolences about my dad and tell me to pass them along to Ma.
Several guys try to convince me to sit and have a drink with them, but I mostly manage to duck the attention.
"Hey, O'Leary." Riot Ralston walks in with his brothers and a couple of other guys. They stick out among the formal wear in their jeans and button down shirts.
The Ralstons aren't members of the association and, if my grandfather was still around, they wouldn't be welcome to exhibit here at all.
"Riot."
It's a tight greeting, neither of us interested in talking more than the cursory acknowledgment.
"Saw you're here with Mercy." The eldest Ralston brother taps the bar top and puts in his order with the tender in a series of hand gestures and a nod toward the other men that came in with him, who have settled into a couple of tables across the room.
"What's it to you?"
Some folks in Slow River are holding a grudge that's older than they are. The Ralston brothers, and their family's Flying R ranch, are still paying for crimes their kin committed four generations back now.
But when you live in a place where cattle are a way of life for nearly everyone in town, one way or another, rustling is a crime that doesn't die with the men who hanged.
"Nothing." Riot trades his credit card for two tumblers of whiskey, tells the bartender to keep his tab open, and fixes me with a stare as he turns to head back to his table.
"Just thinking you better make your move on that before she ends up with somebody else. She's a good woman, but she won't wait on you forever, you know."
A waitress dressed for collecting tips, carries a tray of drinks over to Ralston's table and before I get a chance to tell him he doesn't know what he's talking about, Riot's following her, with an appreciative fixation on her short skirt-- or rather, what it's barely covering.
Those guys will be drinking the bar dry all night, since they won't be at the dinner.
Speaking of the dinner; I check the time and realize I need to get back upstairs to escort Mercy back down.
In the elevator, I find myself fidgeting with Riot's words ringing in my ears.
Mercy is a good woman. Lord only knows why some other guy hasn't stolen her away from me yet.
I've spent over a decade of my life telling myself that I'd rather keep our friendship safe, even if it meant watching her marry some other man and have his babies.
By the time I'm opening the door to our suite, though, Riot's words have gotten stuck so far into my head they've got roots. I can't let Mercy end up with anyone else.
She's mine. She's been mine since we were six years old. The only man who's putting babies in Mercy's belly is going to be me-- and it's past time I made that clear.
The door to the bedroom is open and when she hears me closing the front door behind me, she comes out to meet me.
The keys fall right out of my hand, landing on the carpet with the soft clink of metal on metal.
All the words I just had ready to tell her dry up in my mouth.
Mercy's wearing a red dress that's low on the top, tight in the middle, and clingy in all the right ways over her curvy figure.
Her long blonde hair is curled and pinned up on one side, so the curls fall loosely down the other. She's got jewelry on; tiny little diamond earrings that sparkle beside her cheeks and a matching necklace with a pendent that drops down to draw attention to her cleavage.
I can't remember ever seeing Mercy in make up before, but she's done it up so that she's completely transformed but not so heavy that it makes her look like someone else.
She watches me go all stupid while I stare at her, and casually lifts one foot to slip on a delicate high heel that's got rhinestones on the straps, then she's balanced on both feet, the transformation complete.
"Don't tell me this is the part where the boy sees his friend in a dress for the first time and suddenly realizes she's a girl?"
Mercy smirks at me, making fun of my gawking until she sees the deadly serious look on my face as I close the distance between us.
"No, Mercy Jean, I've always known you were a girl."