Chapter 8
Collin
When we walk into Backwoods Bar, I’m greeted by a shocking sight. Molly is seated at a table, one short sleeve of her shirt pulled up as she arm wrestles a pig farmer whom everyone knows as Sooey—yes, like the pig call.
I have no idea what the man’s actual name is and have never heard it uttered.
But I do know he’s definitely not using his full strength against Molly, who’s cheating now, using both arms to try and pin his much larger one to the table.
“Oh, my,” Tank says just as Chevy sidles up to us.
The local deputy and might-as-well-be fourth Graham brother isn’t in uniform tonight, though his jeans, boots, belt buckle, and cowboy hat are essentially the same thing he wears when he’s on the clock. Just no badge and gun. Also, there’s a beer in his hand.
“I’m afraid that someone got into the Fireball,” Chevy drawls.
“Which kind? The cinnamon or—”
“The whisky.”
I wince. There’s a weaker version of Fireball with a little more ABV than beer.
But the cinnamon whisky tastes like a fiery Jolly Rancher and is like sixty-six proof.
In other words: deliciously dangerous. Which means it’s a lot easier to drink more than you intend and then find yourself hanging over a toilet with a lot of regrets the next morning.
Molly, now standing on a chair for leverage, finally pins down Sooey's meaty arm. The bar cheers, and someone starts playing “We Are the Champions” on their phone. The big man is a good sport about it, smiling as Molly raises both arms above her head, fist pumping with the kind of wild abandon I think only Fireball can provide—especially when you’ve just cheated your way to a win at arm wrestling a pig farmer.
I realize Molly’s about to lose her balance a few seconds before she does. And I’m right there to catch her when the stool tips and she goes sprawling.
It’s an awkward catch with her forehead knocking into my collarbone and me stumbling back a few steps. But almost immediately, her arms wind around my neck as she relaxes into me.
“My hero,” she says, looking up at me with a believably adoring expression.
I haven’t seen her in an acting role other than our little show today, but the woman is convincing. The warmth in her eyes makes my heart kick into a new speed in my chest.
She’s faking it, I remind myself. Just playing her girlfriend role.
Maybe I should ask her for tips on how to play a part without getting emotionally involved. Because I don’t know how to compartmentalize my feelings.
Especially not when she’s playing with the hair hanging over my collar and looking at me like a human heart-eye emoji.
“How’re you doing there, darlin’?”
Molly grins, and I see the first signs of alcohol haze as her eyes go half-lidded.
“I like that nickname best, but I’m still not sure it’s the right one,” she says, then lowers her voice.
Dropping one hand from my neck and crooking a finger toward me, she whispers, “Before I knew your name, I decided to call you Mr. Biceps.”
I can’t hold back a smug grin. “Is that right?”
“Yep. Don’t act like you don’t know you’ve got great guns.” She finds my upper arm and tries to wrap her hand around it. “See? It’s more circumferamence—circumfratense—circumventerence—”
“Circumference?” I suggest, trying to contain my smile. Fireball Molly is pretty adorable.
“That’s the one! Hey! It’s your dad! Hi, Mr. Biceps’s dad!”
Tank and Chevy wear matching smiles. Though Chevy is trying to look serious. He might be off the clock, but you can’t remove the cop from the man even if he’s not wearing his badge.
But Molly isn’t over the line enough to warrant a drunk-in-public citation.
She’s still living in the land of mild—not serious—regret life in the morning.
Though I’m surprised, as Wolf is usually good about seeing when people are nearing the line and stopping them before they go anywhere near crossing it.
“Hello, Molly,” Dad says. “You’ve always called me Tank, but I kind of like being Mr. Biceps’s dad.” He tugs his sleeve up over his arm and flexes. “I mean, if I can’t just be the original Mr. Biceps.”
Molly cackles. “You should all change your last name from Graham to Biceps. Daddy Biceps then Grumpy Biceps and Happy Biceps.”
She doesn’t have to explain who’s who. James is obviously Grumpy Biceps and Happy Biceps is Pat. I wait for her to get to me, but she doesn’t.
“Hey—which Biceps am I?” I ask.
“My Mr. Biceps.”
Okay, I like that a little too much. It’s a name that has nothing to do with my brothers. Only me. And, I guess, my biceps.
Chevy clears his throat, and he’s wearing his official deputy look. Probably because I’m holding in my arms the evidence of someone who’s been overserved. I consider setting Molly back on her feet, but when she snuggles a little deeper into my chest, I decide to keep holding her.
“Molly, this is Chevy. He’s an unofficial Graham brother and also a deputy sheriff in Sheet Cake.”
“An unofficial Graham? That makes you … Deputy Biceps!” she cheers, and Chevy looks down to hide his laughter.
“I’m not sure these arms can quite stack up to the official Grahams, but okay, sure,” he says. “I’ll be Deputy Biceps.” He clears his throat and gives me an apologetic look. “I don’t mean to pry, but how many drinks were you served this evening?”
Molly makes a dismissive pshh. “Only one. Officially. The rest I just got myself behind the bar.” Lowering her voice, she says, “Wolf said to help myself since I was his guest. He also mentioned showing me his bunker, but I wasn’t sure if that was a euphemism for something …”
Tank snorts, and I roll my eyes at the mention of Wolf’s bunker, a Sheet Cake myth.
At least, I think it’s a myth. Until someone I know and trust personally sees Wolf’s supposed bunker firsthand, I won’t believe in its existence.
Just like Bigfoot. Pat can send me as many possible sighting videos as he wants; I won’t believe such a thing exists unless I see it with my own eyes.
As though summoned by his name, Wolf approaches, holding up both hands defensively. I’m grateful to see he’s wearing jeans under the chaps he had on earlier.
“That account is only somewhat accurate,” Wolf says, and Chevy frowns.
“Hey—you’re wearing pants!” Molly says.
Chevy ignores this. “We tend to overlook your place because it’s over the county line. And usually you don’t overserve or let people drive home under the influence,” Chevy says. “But if you’re not keeping track of your liquor, we might have an issue.”
“I’m not intoxicated,” Molly says, but she stumbles a little over the syllables.
Tank, who I didn’t realize had disappeared a moment ago, reappears with a water bottle and hands it to Molly.
“Thanks,” she says, taking the bottle, “but I already drank a lot.”
“Just drink, Molly,” I tell her gently. “You’ll be glad tomorrow.”
Tank has to help her open the bottle because she can’t twist the top off, and Chevy gives Wolf a pointed look. At any point, I could put Molly down. I don’t.
“I promise I didn’t overserve her,” Wolf says. “And though I told her to make herself at home, I did not mean she should finish off the last fourth of a bottle of Fireball while I was out back breaking up a fight.”
All of us except Molly groan. “A fourth of a bottle?” I ask.
“A smaller bottle,” Wolf says, but even he’s grimacing.
“I’ll get another bottle of water,” Tank says.
“I’m fine,” Molly says. Then hiccups.
And this is how I end up taking Molly home with me.
I’m expecting a whole lot of awkwardness considering my current “home” is Tank’s loft, but my dad makes up some flimsy excuse about needing to head back to his house in Austin. Right now, he’s still splitting time between the home we grew up in and the town he now owns.
Before Tank leaves, he says, “This should give you some time to talk things over in the morning.”
I’m not going to argue with his logic.
Instead, after depositing a softly snoring Molly on the couch, I change the sheets on my bed. They’re not filthy, but it just seems like the right thing to do.
Molly’s still sleeping when I return to the living area and blinks sleepily at me when I start to tug off her cowboy boots.
“Hey,” she says. “You don’t need to do that. I can de-boot myself.”
I chuckle, setting the first boot on the floor. “I’ve got it. Socks on or off?”
“Off,” she says. “My feet need to breathe. They’ve been suffocating in these things.”
She hisses when I peel off her socks, and I wince at the massive blisters on her feet. “Molly! How have you been walking around like this?”
“I got used to the pain after a while, I guess. They’re new. I wanted to look the part for my interview.”
Her other foot is just as bad, and I tell her not to move—not that she looks like she has any plans to—while I gather some supplies.
Chase texts me as I’m filling a large plastic bowl with warm water.
Chase: Hey, do you know where Molly is?
Chase: I both want and DON’T want you to say she’s with you. But I need to know.
Well. This won’t be awkward at all.
Collin: She’s with me
He starts and stops typing, the dots appearing and disappearing on my screen. I could just tell him what happened, but I think it’s best to give as few details as possible, given the situation.
A text from Harper pops up as I’m adding Epsom salts to a bowl of warm water.
Harper: Are you the reason my husband looks like his head is going to explode?
I send her a shrugging emoji and she sends me an eye roll emoji. Then Chase finally responds.
Chase: Is she coming back here tonight?
Collin: No
Chase: We should probably talk about this.
Collin: Anytime. But you know you can trust me, right?
Chase: I thought I could.
Collin: You can
Chase: We’ll see.
Collin: Dude. Remember how you MARRIED my sister? And did I pitch a hissy fit? No I did not
Chase: To your point, did I announce out of nowhere that I was dating her?
Collin: No, you pined after Harper for years while pretending you were just friends