KADE
16
I roll into the gravel lot of Boozin’ Boots just as the neon signs flicker to life, casting a glow that dyes the dusk blood-orange. Eight on the dot. The number of pickups and bikes crammed between the faded lines tells me something’s got the crowd stirred up more than usual. A band, maybe, or some kind of rodeo night. I cut the engine and sit for a moment, watching through the windshield as folks shuffle in and out, laughter spilling into the night air.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, tapping a rhythmless beat on the steering wheel with my fingers. Sage doesn’t need this kind of busy tonight; not when her mind’s tangled tighter than barbed wire with everything that’s happened lately. But then again, if the bar’s jumping, maybe she’ll have less time to dwell on shit.
I push the door open and step out, letting the cool evening breeze wash over me. My boots crunch against the loose stones as I make my way across the lot. I have one goal—nothing’s gonna stop me from seeing it through. I’ll stick around until closing, shadow Sage to her truck, and keep a discreet distance behind her on the drive back. I’m not some goddamn stalker, but her silent guardian. She won’t even know I’m there unless she needs me to be.
But hell, will that even cut it? That gnawing sensation in my gut says it won’t be enough. After my conversation with Rhett, I have a feeling there’s a bigger storm brewing inside the walls of her house, and I have a feeling it’s a tempest named Daddy Dearest. How do you protect someone from their own blood?
“Can’t solve that tonight,” I remind myself, shaking off the thought as I reach the bar entrance. I’m just a man with one aim—to make damn sure Sage feels safe enough to close her eyes when she hits the sheets. Whatever comes next, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.
I can’t shake the image of what I saw when I stepped into her house, unannounced. Something about it felt wrong—too thick, as if it was smothering any life inside. Her bedroom door secured by that damn chair wedged tight under the knob. A makeshift lock. It sends a chill straight up my spine. To think she sleeps in there, knowing she needs to protect herself… What kind of fear must she live with? Is that why she seeks comfort in the barn?
“Can’t do a damn thing about that either,” I mutter under my breath as I grip the door handle, pulling with more force than necessary.
The thick, heavy door resists for a second before giving way, and it’s like stepping into another world—one drowning in noise and dim light. The music hits me first—some twangy tune about lost love and whiskey—cranked so high it vibrates through the soles of my boots. Next comes the shouting, the clinking of glasses, the kind of laughter that only comes after too many shots—the soundtrack of people trying to drown out their own lives for a few hours. And then the smell. It wraps around me, familiar and unwelcome all at once. Stale beer mixed with the sharp tang of sweat and the earthy scent of peanuts crushed underfoot. They could scrub this place top to bottom, and it’d still reek of bad decisions and lost weekends.
“Jesus,” I breathe, scanning the room without really seeing anyone. My thoughts are back on that chair, on Sage, and the shiver that grips me isn’t from the cold. I shove my hands deep into my pockets and start making my way across the room. With each step, I vow silently to myself and to her—whatever it takes, I’ll make sure she’s safe tonight. That’s a promise.
Tugging my hat lower, I let the shadow it casts hide the worry creasing my brow. My gaze sweeps over the room. I’m a hawk eyeing its territory—looking for any sign of trouble that might spill over. The usual suspects prop up the bar, their rough voices blending in with the guitars and fiddles blaring from the speakers. These are faces I’ve watched age over years of hard living. It’s a familiar scene, but tonight, the air feels charged, tense as a loaded spring.
“Keep your shit together,” I grit under my breath, a silent mantra against the unease settling in my gut.
The crowd parts and there she is—Sage, moving with purpose through the sea of bodies. She’s a bolt of lightning in a storm cloud, all energy and raw power. Her outfit clings and reveals, the kind that’s standard issue around here for the waitresses, but damn, it’s tailor-made for her. Those short shorts, bikini top, and cowboy boots—they’re nothing but a tease of what lies beneath. Just thinking about those legs has heat coiling in my stomach.
I’ve had those limbs wrapped around me, felt the slick heat of her, heard her gasps. And fuck me, just remembering how she looked moaning and panting my name—it sends a jolt straight to my dick.
Her movements are hurried yet graceful as she flits from table to table. Her smile never wavers as she takes orders and offers up that country girl charm that these drunk fools lap up. But I see the tightness around her eyes, the way her shoulders bunch ever so slightly when some asshole gets too loud.
“Easy, Kade,” I breathe, trying to quell the urge to throw punches first and ask questions later. “She can handle herself.”
But can she? Really?
My knuckles whiten as I tighten my fist, every muscle coiled and ready. I remind myself why I’m here—to watch her back silently, to follow her home, to make sure she’s safe. To ensure that the chair under her bedroom door stays a precaution and not a necessity.
I keep my distance, let her do her job, but my eyes never leave her. Sage doesn’t need a knight in shining armor; she needs someone who understands the darkness and stands guard at the edge of it. And that’s what I’ll do—silent, steadfast, until the last light flickers out and we’re alone in the night.
I shuffle closer to the bar, my boots scuffing against the sawdust-strewn floor, each step deliberate and heavy. The familiar cacophony of Boozin’ Boots envelops me. It’s a symphony of sin and sweat I can’t seem to stay away from.
Sage scribbles on her notepad with an intensity that matches the way she lives—like every moment’s got to count for something more. Then she’s whirling around, the grace of her turning enough to make my chest tighten, and she hands off her order at the bartender’s service station. Billy’s absence hangs in the air, almost as tangible as the smoke that used to cloud this place before the laws changed. Instead, it’s Jeb manning the fort tonight, his eyes flickering up to greet me with a nod reserved for the regulars.
“Evening, Kade. How’s it going?” Jeb’s voice is as smooth as the whiskey he pours, but it’s just background noise to me now.
“Hey, Jeb.” My reply is terse, clipped even. I’m not here for small talk. “Just water, please.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sage’s gaze landing on me, quick and sharp as a predator spotting its prey. She knows I’m watching, always watching, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of locking eyes. Not yet. We’re playing a game only we know the rules of—a game of glances and tension you could cut with the knife Jeb uses to slice those damn lemons and limes.
I sink onto the barstool, my elbows resting on the cool surface of the bar, feeling the weight of her stare like a physical caress. But I’m stone, I’m the fucking mountain, immovable as I keep my attention fixed straight ahead. If she’s looking for some sign, some acknowledgment, she won’t find it yet. This cat and mouse shit between us, it’s a dance we’ve been perfecting since we were kids.
And goddamn if she doesn’t wear it well—the chase, the heat, the unspoken promise. It’s all there in the way she moves, the way she breathes, the way she pours herself into every godforsaken task in this dingy dive bar. She’s fire and ice, sweetness laced with venom, and part of me wants to be stung over and over again.
“Water,” I reiterate, just in case Jeb’s forgotten what I’m about. I’m not here to get buzzed—I never am. I’m here on a mission. A mission that starts with keeping my head clear and ends with making sure Sage is protected—no matter what lurks behind her front door.
“Sparkling or tap?” Jeb’s question hangs for a moment, a choice between the fizz of bubbles or the quiet of still. I lift an eyebrow, a silent conversation in the brief exchange, and he gets it, the corner of his mouth turning up in a knowing smirk.
“Right. Sparkling it is. One sec,” Jeb says with that laid-back drawl of his, as though time moves slower behind this bar, and the world outside these walls isn’t pressing in with its weight and worries.
He grabs the fixed gun with practiced ease, that worn handle no doubt familiar as any tool to a tradesman, and cool water starts to fill the glass with the cadence of rain hitting a tin roof—if you strain your ears enough. It’s a soothing sort of noise, one that almost drowns out the echo of the bar if I let it.
“Thanks,” I murmur as the glass is set before me, heavy with the promise of sober vigilance.
I can still feel the heat of Sage’s gaze lingering, even though she’s turned away, pretending to be caught up in the ebb and flow of the bar crowd. My fingers curl tighter around the glass. The coldness seeps into my skin, a stark contrast to the warmth that’s building within me, stoked by every swaying step she takes.
As the last of the water slides down my throat, I steel myself for the long night ahead.
The clink of ice cuts through the din, my fingers tracing the condensation beading down the side of the glass. I’m halfway to another sip when Sage’s voice slices across the bar, casual with an edge that’s all challenge.
“You gonna say hello to me, Kade?”
That voice—it’s got this husky timbre that could coax a confession from a saint. I don’t turn right away, letting the tension simmer. Ice melts on my tongue as I hold the cold liquid in my mouth.
Sage glances my way, the corner of her eye catching mine. It’s a look that could mean nothing or everything, and damn if she doesn’t know it. Her fingers, those long, slender digits that have traced fire over my skin now curl around the rim of a tray laden with drinks begging to be served.
She should be moving, weaving through the crowd like some kind of honky-tonk angel, but she’s not. Instead, she’s anchored, rooted by a stubborn need for me to give her that nod of recognition.
As my mind replays every heated moment we’ve shared, I draw in a breath that’s more than air. It’s the electric charge between us, thick enough to roll thunder through my veins. I can almost taste her beneath the stale scent of beer and peanuts, a flavor that’s pure Sage—wild and sweet and goddamn addictive.
I take my time, letting the pause stretch, then finally relent, giving her that slow tilt of my head she’s waiting for. It’s barely a movement, but it’s enough. Enough for her to know that yeah, I see you, Sage. Always have. Always will.
The thick layer of foundation she’s caked on can’t mask the yellowish tinge I know is lurking beneath, a testament to the life she’s survived. It pisses me off—the molten lava in my blood simmering—but it’s her call how she handles it.
“Evenin’, Sage,” I whisper, fingers grazing the brim of my hat in salute. My words are simple, but they carry the weight of everything unspoken between us.
Her response gets cut off by a holler from across the room. “Sage! We don’t have all night!”
The impatient shout severs the building tension. It’s not right, her being rushed when she’s clearly dealing with more than her fair share of demons. But this isn’t the place nor time to dive into that mess. Not with prying eyes and wagging tongues itching for the next piece of gossip to spread through the dusty trails of our small town.
I raise a brow, the gesture as much for her as it is a reminder of reality biting at our heels. “You heard them. They’d like their drinks.”
Her lips twitch, a rebellious spark igniting in those deep-set eyes that always seem to be challenging the world. “ Okay, but…” Her voice trails off, hesitant, and it’s clear she’s got something on her mind that’s eating at her more than the impatient calls for alcohol.
But that conversation, whatever it is, will have to wait. There are rules in places like this, and this watering hole isn’t the ground for heart-to-hearts or laying out your soul. Not with the jukebox wailing its country sorrow and the clatter of pool balls playing counterpoint to the hum of voices steeped in liquor and smoke.
“Later,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument, hoping she understands that later means just that—there will be a time, and it’ll be ours.
Her shoulders stiffen, the tautness in them telling me she’s not happy about it, but she nods once, curtly.
“It’ll wait. I don’t plan on leaving until you do tonight.” My words are low, meant for her ears alone amid the rumble of the rowdy crowd.
She pauses, and, for a heartbeat, she looks as though she might crumble under the weight of whatever’s eating at her. Her lips part, vulnerability flickering in those deep-set eyes, but then the shutters come down hard. She snaps her mouth shut as she strides away, the clomp of her boots beating out a rhythm against the floorboards worn smooth by patrons over the years. This floor has stories lodged deep in its grooves, tales of joy and desperation, soaked in beer and blood.
I watch her weave through the crowd, balancing that tray as if it’s second nature. There’s gotta be a way to smooth out the jagged edges life continues to throw at her. I’d do anything to keep her from needing to barricade her bedroom door and from having to layer on makeup to hide bruises she doesn’t deserve.
As I sit on the barstool, nursing my drink, I know I won’t rest until I’ve figured out exactly how to do that. Sage leans over the table, all grace and efficiency, placing drinks before each patron. To them, she’s the last drop of water in a desert, their gazes heavy with thirst that isn’t just for the booze. A flash of fury ignites within me, a primal urge to protect what’s mine. No hands reach out, but if they did, well, let’s just say there’d be hell to pay.
I watch, muscles tight, as she moves from table to table, the ever-dutiful waitress. But my mind’s back in her room, stuck on her door, and how it screamed of fear and a need for safety. And now, here she is, putting on a show, pretending all’s right when we both know it’s not.
My skull echoes a promise that hangs in the air, thick as the smoke that curls above the heads of the drunks lining the bar—later. When this charade of normalcy fades and the real shit begins, we’ll talk. It’s gonna be a long night, but I’m planted here, steadfast as an old oak, until she’s ready to leave. We’ll deal with what lies beyond the neon lights and rowdy laughter, where the shadows hold truths much darker than what’s poured from a bottle.
Until then, I wait. The dim bar lights cast a glow on her tanned skin, highlighting the curves hugged tight by those damn jean shorts. I let out a low groan, feeling it vibrate through my chest like the rumble of an engine in need of a tune-up.
This is a game she’s mastered, every step she takes just knots my insides tighter. There’s something so damn entrancing about watching her move, but with it comes this surge of something darker, something possessive that I keep tamped down deep inside.
She finishes her loop, her boots clicking against the floorboards. The sound is a damn metronome to the beat of my heart. She slides over to Jeb, who’s busy mixing someone else’s poison, and lays out a ticket covered in her scrawl. Her handwriting has personality, all big loops and quick slashes, like everything about her: bold and unapologetic.
My eyes don’t leave her as she does a slow scan of the room, her head turning on that slender neck. She’s searching for something, or maybe someone. For a moment, the idea that she might be looking for me lodges itself in my gut, an unexpected warmth spreading through my veins. But no, she knows where I’m stationed, and her gaze moves past me without a hitch.
Then she just stands there, still as the calm before a storm, not rushing off to the next table or disappearing back into the shadows of the kitchen. She’s just there, at the edge of the bar, and I can feel the pull of her with every fiber of my being.
I take another sip of water, the coolness doing nothing to ease the heat unfurling inside me. Watching her is a kind of torture and pleasure all rolled into one—a hunger that never quite fades. And as she lingers by the bar, thumb rubbing absentmindedly over the edge of the counter, I know it’s gonna be a long damn night. I lean back on the stool, my boots propped up against the rung. She’s a storm in a teacup, that girl, all fire and brimstone wrapped up in a package that could make a preacher man forget his Bible verses.
“Hey,” I call out to her when she’s done passing out drinks. She looks over, and I swear there’s a flicker of something soft in those eyes before her expression morphs back into her work face.
“Kade,” she says, her voice threaded with the wear of a long shift. “What’s up?”
“Got a proposition for you,” I start, tipping my hat back a bit so she can see me straight. “And no, not that kind. Get your mind outta the gutter, darlin’.”
She smirks, but I see the tension in her shoulders ease. Good. That’s good. It means she trusts me enough to joke around, and trust is something I know is hard-won with Sage.
“Shoot,” she invites, leaning her hip against the bar, arms crossed .
“Figured I’d follow you home tonight,” I say casually, watching her reaction closely. “In case Toby decides to come back.”
Her eyes widen, just a fraction, before she huffs a laugh. “Toby? He’s probably halfway to Timbuktu by now.” But there’s a tremor in her laughter that tells me she isn’t as sure as she’d like to be.
“Maybe,” I concede with a shrug. “But maybe not.”
“Kade—” Sage starts, but I cut her off with a raised hand.
“Nonnegotiable, Sage. Besides, friends look out for each other. And we’re that, right?” What we’ve got is tangled up in too many nights of watching her and too much skin to just be friends. At least for me.
“Friends,” she agrees after a beat, her gaze steady on mine. “Thanks, Kade. Really.”
“Anytime, darlin’,” I reply, and mean it. “Now, go sling them drinks before Jeb here docks your pay.”
Sage laughs, the sound rich and real, and it does funny things to my chest. She’s quick to get back to work, at ease as she moves among the tables. But every so often, she throws a glance my way, engaging me in a silent conversation, one we’ve been having without words for a while now.
I spend the rest of the night keeping an eye on the crowd and a closer one on Sage, even though I know Toby won’t ever be coming back. The dirt on my ranch knows it, too, packed down and undisturbed, just as it should be.