Chapter Twenty-Seven
Axle
I’m halfway through my fifth beer when my phone buzzes.
I ignore it.
I’m doing the right thing tonight. Staying home and keeping my distance.
Charli’s words from earlier today replay over and over again in my mind.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“You need to be very careful.”
I haven’t been. In fact, I’ve been reckless.
So, tonight, I’m staying right here.
I take another drink and stare out at the dark Wyoming night through the open window. Cool air slides in.
Nights normally end with Doc and me on one of our back decks or in a damn pillow fort on her floor, talking softly, laughing easily, and pretending there’s nothing dangerous growing between us.
But that’s over. Starting tonight, I’m staying in my own cabin.
Watching my own TV. And keeping Jovie where she belongs—out of reach.
My phone buzzes again.
Fuck. Harleigh is relentless.
I tap the screen and open the text message to tell her just that when a photo comes through.
A bright pink drink on a scarred wooden bar.
Doc: Not a spritzer.
I snort.
I should ignore it, like I have all the other messages my brother and cousin have sent tonight.
I should, but …
Me: That looks like fucking Kool-Aid.
Doc: It’s a Pink Senorita.
Me: They serving liquor at the park now?
Doc: Nope. We are at the honky-tonk.
Me. Oh hell. The Storm girls got you drinking tequila?
Doc: Maybe.
Me: That’s a yes.
Doc: Actually, a handsome cowboy bought it for me.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
Me: Cabe should’ve gotten you whiskey.
Doc: Why?
Me: Because that’s a real drink that will put hair on your chest.
Doc: Cabe didn’t buy it.
Doc: Do I need hair on my chest?
I groan as an image of her in that teeny white bikini top flashes in my mind.
Me: No. Your chest is perfect.
A beat.
Doc: How would you know?
I pause.
Me: River.
That’s all I give her.
Three dots appear and disappear. Several minutes pass. Then …
Doc: I like the hair on your chest.
I choke on my beer.
Me: Do you now?
Doc: Yes.
Doc: I want to run my hands through it.
Silence stretches. I need to shut this down and turn my damn phone off for the night.
It buzzes again.
Doc: Oh my God. I didn’t just send that.
I grin into my palm.
Me: Oh, yes, you did.
Doc: It’s the shots’ fault.
I knew it. The Storm women and their tequila shots.
Me: Take it easy on the shots, Doc. You’re not used to it like my cousins.
Doc: You’re bossy.
Me: You like it.
Doc: Maybe.
That’s it.
That’s where I should stop.
Instead, I sit there, staring at the dark phone like an idiot who’s forgotten how to breathe.
I shove it into my pocket and stand up.
My cabin suddenly feels too small. Too quiet. Too empty. I begin pacing.
My pocket vibrates.
Doc: Axle?
I start to ignore it, but then I read back the messages.
Me: Who bought you the Kool-Aid?
Doc: What?
Me: The pink drink.
Doc: I told you, a handsome cowboy.
Me: What cowboy?
A second later, another picture comes through. It’s her, her face flushed from dancing or tequila, and some asshole with a shit-eating grin. She’s looking at the camera, but his eyes are fixed on her.
Doc: This one. His name is Alex.
Me: Where’s Cabe?
Doc: He and Royce are kicking Alex’s friends’ asses at pool.
Alarm bells start going off.
Are they distracting the boys for him?
That Torso Killer doc really fucked with my head.
I tap Cabe’s contact and bring the phone to my ear.
Voicemail.
Of course.
“Dammit,” I mutter.
I call Micah.
He answers on the third ring.
“Ax! What’s up?”
“Where are you?” I ask.
“The Soused Cow.”
“Do you have eyes on Jovie?”
A pause.
“Yeah, she was right here.”
“She still there?”
“Um, no.”
“Where is she?”
Another long pause.
“She’s at the bar, talking to some guy,” he says.
My stomach drops.
“What guy?”
“Some slick wannabe cowboy. New hat. Expensive boots. Looks like a douche.”
“Get her the fuck away from him,” I snap.
Micah exhales like I’m overreacting. “She doesn’t look in distress, Axle.”
“I don’t care. Just do it.”
A beat.
Then, “All right. Chill.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a moment, then grab my keys, and I’m already halfway to the door when my phone rings again.
Micah.
I answer. “Yeah?”
“She’s fine.”
“Where is she?”
“Back at the table with me, Harleigh, and Porter.”
That stops me.
“Good.”
“Yeah,” Micah says, voice amused now. “And for the record, that guy and his friends are assholes.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “What happened?”
“He didn’t want to let her go. Kept talking, getting a little too familiar with her.”
My jaw flexes. “And?”
“And I poured the drink he’d bought her in his lap.”
I can hear the grin in his voice.
“Stood toe to toe with him,” Micah continues. “Told him he was done. He finally got the message and backed the fuck off.”
Something in my chest eases … just slightly.
“Good,” I say. “Don’t let him near her again.”
Micah laughs. “Yeah, well, you’re welcome.”
I exhale, running a hand over my face. “Tell Cabe to keep eyes on her, for fuck’s sake. Anything can happen to a girl in a bar.”
“I will,” Micah says. “And, Axle?”
“What?”
All amusement leaves his voice.
“She’s fine. Do you really think with me, Royce, Cabe, and Porter here, we’d let anything happen to one of the girls?”
I don’t answer right away. Because he’s right. Hell, even Harleigh would kick the shit out of anyone who tried to take advantage.
“I know you wouldn’t,” I finally say.
“What the hell is going on with you?”
“I just got some weird texts from her and overreacted.”
“That’s a problem. Don’t ya think?”
“Yeah. One I’m working on.”
We end the call, but I’m already looking at my keys again. Because overreacted is putting it mildly. I was ten seconds away from driving into town, five beers in, and pulling her out of that bar myself.
That’s the problem.