Chapter 6 #2
Mikey chuckles. “Moe caught him with his trousers halfway off and ran him out, but not before nearly breaking a cue over his bare ass.”
Caleb, still pink cheeked, waves everyone off, nodding his begrudging agreement that he’ll steer clear of the pool area.
Raymond whips out a wallet from his back pocket, slips out a card, then pushes it across the bar toward Moe with a conspiratorial smirk on his lips.
He takes two of the shots Moe’s already poured and hands them to Mikey and Caleb, who then turn around and pass them farther back.
In an impressively efficient maneuver, they all hold their own shot within seconds.
Grace can smell it from where it sits in her hand, and it takes a good effort not to actually gag.
In the rare event that she does drink, it’s usually beer, maybe a strawberry margarita if the occasion calls for it.
Hard liquor has never been her first choice.
But all the hands are smiling like kids on Christmas morning as they raise their glasses up.
Loudly, proudly, and with a little extra twang added to his vowels, Raymond declares, “All right, boys and girls. Let’s get ha-ha-ha-hammered. ”
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
A retro jukebox in the corner of the bar runs through almost every kind of country song imaginable, from Garth to Kenny to Reba and Shania.
Slow songs, two-stepping songs, twirling songs, line dances.
The ranch hands filter on and off the dance floor between rounds of beers and shots, and by the third hour at Moe Willie’s, everyone seems to be perfectly toasted and relaxed.
Grace stands at a high-top table and watches in awe as Pierce expertly twirls a woman around the dance floor to “Friends in Low Places.” The woman squeals in delight when he dips her, her dark curls scraping the floor.
Mikey and Alec stand across from Grace, arguing about football, or maybe baseball—some kind of sports statistics she doesn’t care about.
Caleb is standing dutifully on the opposite side of the bar from the pool tables, sipping a neat whiskey and playing darts with Harrison.
Raymond—Grace searches the premises for a moment before finding him with a rope in one hand, a shot in the other, and a doe-eyed girl caught in his lasso.
With the look she’s giving him, Grace can’t help but wonder if Raymond’s some kind of local rodeo celebrity.
The half-drunk Shiner Bock bottle weeps condensation while Grace idly picks at the label with her thumbnail, half listening to the guys droning on about RBIs and half scanning the rest of the bar.
The alcohol has made her cheeks warm and her limbs a little heavy, and she knows it’s probably time to switch over to water, or she’s guaranteed to feel like absolute shit in the morning.
The song switches to something slower, a classic Randy Travis, and she’s stepping away to head to the communal water jug when a man sidles up next to her at the table.
Her first impression of him is he’s got a lot of cologne on—it isn’t bad; it might even be nice if it didn’t smell like he applied it with a garden hose.
He’s tall but not hulking, and his smile seems genuine enough.
White teeth stark in comparison to his suntanned skin, and a straw hat tucked over a head of neat, short hair.
A Coca-Cola cowboy. Her least favorite kind.
“Hey there,” he says, tipping his hat to her.
Grace smiles flatly. “Hey.”
“Buy you a drink?”
Her eyes dart over to Mikey and Alec, who have both miraculously paused their heated conversation to intently, not subtly, size up the visitor. Grace gives them a covert, tight shake of her head. They accept her signal, and she turns back to the stranger. “I’m switching over to water, actually.”
“I see.” The man nods. He looks older than her—there are little strands of gray in his beard. He’s undeterred by her initial denial, and his smile widens. “A dance, then?”
Grace hesitates. She’s danced with men before, and it’s never been too pleasant of an experience, especially when it leads them into thinking they’ve got some entitlement to her time afterward.
But “Forever and Ever, Amen” is one of her favorite songs, and three shots of Jack Daniel’s are amplifying a voice in her head—one that sounds suspiciously like Maryann—telling her, Live a little, goddammit.
“All right,” Grace agrees. “But I’m leading.”
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
In the three-minute length of the song, Grace learns the man’s name is Vince.
Vince is divorced, from Albuquerque, and he’s passing through town on his way to an auction.
He has soft hands, and his boots are shiny enough that she can almost see her own reflection, but he’s a decent dancer, though he only lets her lead for a single verse before taking over.
Grace stops herself from rolling her eyes as her feet start to shuffle backward instead of forward, and it’s right about then that she starts to tune out his unsolicited autobiography.
Her eyes drift across the bar over Vince’s shoulder, clocking the starch-pressed, too-neat lines of his button-down.
She searches the room, looking for nothing in particular, until she reaches the pool tables and does a double take.
Leaning against the corner of one, pool cue in hand, is Crew.
He’d been out on the porch of the main house with Cooper when they left, and he’d waved everyone off, telling them not to do anything stupid. The other hands didn’t seem fazed by him not joining, so Grace hadn’t thought much of it.
But she’s thinking about it now—because here he is, leaning forward on the table with a long arm outstretched over the cue, laser focused on his target.
Cooper stands to his left, shaking his head in disbelief as Crew’s lips move, maybe calling the pocket, maybe trash-talking his brother, who seems fully unconvinced that he’ll make whatever shot he’s about to attempt.
Crew is steady and still until he shoots, and then the cracking echo of the cue ball hitting another sounds throughout the bar. He smirks.
Shot made.
Crew stands, circling the table to work out his next move, and Grace continues to stare at him, blatantly ignoring Vince’s hand at her waist and his beer breath wafting between them.
Crew chews on the inside of his cheek as he considers, and when he’s made his way around to an unobstructed new position, Grace can’t help but admire the way he looks in the black jeans he’s wearing.
She’s never seen those before, nor has she seen the black pearl-snap shirt that hangs over his gigantic shoulders.
The getup is distracting enough—it takes her a few seconds to realize he’s also not wearing a hat.
It’s a rare sight, his hair; there’s no way that man puts any real time and effort into it, but it’s somehow perfectly styled, and the inky-black hue of it shines under the ancient Budweiser lamp.
He takes another step and then goes completely still.
Grace’s breathing hiccups when his eyes suddenly leave the table and, in the span of a heartbeat, find hers across the bar.
She chides herself for the reaction for a brief moment—the man was nice to her and helped her pop her shoulder back into place. It’s no reason to get breathless.
But she also doesn’t look away.
He stands, pool cue held lazily in front of him, maintaining her stare.
“So, what do you think?”
She swings her head around to look at Vince, who is staring at her with eyes too eager and slightly bloodshot. “What? Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“I was sayin’, we could go back to my hotel if you’d like,” he repeats, kinking a brow.
“Oh.” She looks down to hide her immediate discomfort at the suggestion. Rejecting men always is such a crapshoot, and she’s annoyed that he’s putting her in a position to have to do it. “That’s kind of you, but I don’t think so.”
His steps slow slightly, losing the beat of the song. Grace looks up to find him…surprised.
“Really?” He laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “I mean, of course, that’s fine, but—”
Grace’s eyes flit to Crew again, almost involuntarily. He’s taking another shot at a ball. Not looking at her.
“You just seemed like you were interested.”
She looks back to Vince. “In going home with you? Because we danced?”
“Well, yeah,” he replies, shrugging. They’re hardly moving now, standing near the edge of the dance floor. “That’s usually how this goes.”
Any pretense of politeness goes out the window at his words. Grace’s patience for men who can’t accept no for an answer has never been in hefty supply. She drops his hand and takes a step back. “Not with me. Sorry.”
This time, the emotion that flickers over Vince’s face isn’t surprise—it’s anger. He steps into her space abruptly, the tip of his nose nearly touching her own. Grace’s hands fly up to his chest, pushing backward.
“So, you’re the teasing type, then,” he says menacingly, reaching for her hips. His pride is hurt, and he’s clearly not used to that.
She grits her teeth and bites out, “Don’t touch me.”
The command only spurs him on, and there’s a hand at her bicep now, squeezing roughly. His eyes are wild as he says, “I’ve never been a fan of being teased. Maybe we should go out to my truck and settle this.”
“How about you back the fuck off?” a voice booms. It cuts through everything—the music, the murmur of the patrons, the thudding of Grace’s heart.
Somehow, Crew has found his way across the bar and is now standing between her and Vince.
How he got here as quickly as he did is one of nature’s mysteries—his impossibly long legs lending to quicker strides, maybe.
“Who’s this?” Vince barks, his chest starting to puff out. The effort to look more masculine is comical and futile.
Crew isn’t just taller—he towers over Vince, dwarfing him into more of a wiry schoolboy than a man.