7. Arizona
CHAPTER SEVEN
Arizona
The Silver Bit is so crowded tonight I have to turn sideways to make it through the door. Every table is full, people line the walls with drinks in hand, and conversations bounce off the wood-paneled walls in a way that makes the whole place feel twice its size.
Balancing my guitar case against my hip, I weave through the crowd toward the stage.
“Well, look who decided to show up.”
Riley’s grin stretches from one end of the bar to the other.
A wave of cheers follows his announcement.
I stop short and stare at the room. “Y’all are being ridiculous.”
“That’s exactly what famous people say,” Betty Lou calls from her table.
A few people clap. Somebody whistles.
I laugh despite myself and continue toward the stage. The small platform sits beside the fireplace, familiar enough now that I don’t have to think about where to put my feet.
Still, as I settle onto the stool and rest my guitar across my lap, a knot forms in my stomach.
I adjust the microphone and glance across the room while the conversations gradually fade.
That’s when I spot Red.
He’s leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who seems to spend half his life glaring at people. The sight of him sends an unexpected flutter through my chest.
Near the front, Emmett catches my eye and offers an easy smile that somehow manages to be both warm and a little shy.
I smile back.
Then I find Willy. He’s sitting backward on a barstool, hugging the backrest and grinning like he’s already heard every song I’m about to play.
The fool catches my eye and winks. I have to bite back a laugh.
“Alright,” I tell the crowd. “If this performance crashes and burns, remember I’ve still got a truck and a full tank of gas.”
Several people object.
“Not happening.”
“We’d hunt you down.”
“Encore!”
My stomach does an embarrassing little somersault.
Riley points toward the audience. “Hear that? You’ve been outvoted.”
The room erupts again.
I shake my head and start playing.
The first song comes easily. By the second, the conversations have disappeared entirely.
Every face in the room is turned toward the stage, people tapping boots beneath tables or nodding along to rhythms they’re hearing for the first time.
During the third song, a few couples drift onto the open floor anyway, swaying together without worrying whether they’ve ever heard the lyrics before.
By the fourth, the entire place feels connected, every smile, every laugh, every note feeding into the next. It’s impossible not to get swept up in it.
Then I reach a song I rarely perform.
My fingers pause against the strings. I wrote it outside a rundown motel in Nebraska after driving through the night. I glance down at my guitar before starting the opening chords.
I begin to sing.
It’s a song about highways stretching beyond the horizon. About packed bags and rearview mirrors. About convincing yourself that freedom and loneliness are the same thing.
It’s about watching other people plant roots while you keep driving.
As I always do.
When I reach the final chorus, I can feel dozens of eyes on me. The attention should make me nervous. Instead, it makes it harder to hide from what the song is really saying.
The last note drifts away.
Nobody reacts. The entire room seems to hold itself in suspension.
Then the applause hits.
Cheers burst from every corner of the tavern. People whistle and a few pound their palms against the tables hard enough to rattle glasses. Betty Lou stands up and starts clapping over her head like she’s leading a revival meeting.
Heat floods my face.
I laugh, ducking my head as the crowd keeps going.
“Alright, alright,” I call out. “You’re making this weird.”
That only earns another round of cheering.
“Thank you. Seriously. Y’all have no idea what that means to me.”
The rest of the evening slips by faster than I expect. Requests fly my way and people buy me drinks I never quite finish.
Somewhere along the line Willy convinces half the room to sing backup on a song they’ve never heard before, and somehow they all commit to it with alarming confidence.
By the time I finally close my guitar case, the clock is creeping toward midnight.
Most of the crowd has headed home. Riley is stacking chairs, and Betty Lou is giving unsolicited life advice to a young couple trapped within listening distance.
I escape through the back door before anyone can rope me into another conversation.
The night greets me with a welcome drop in temperature. I shift my guitar case to my other hand and head across the gravel behind the building, enjoying the relative peace after several hours of performing.
String lights from the patio spill across the ground in scattered pools of gold.
I make it all of three steps before a familiar voice finds me. “There she is. The woman of the hour.”
I close my eyes. “Willy Kane.”
He places a hand against his chest. The expression on his face suggests I’ve just announced him as the winner of a prestigious award.
“Always nice to hear my full name. Makes me feel like I’ve either done very well or very badly.”
“What are you doing back here?”
“Waiting.”
I stop walking and stare at him. “For me?”
“Absolutely not.”
His answer arrives far too quickly.
I narrow my eyes. “Willy.”
He sighs dramatically. “Fine. You caught me. I was actually waiting for a raccoon.”
“A raccoon.”
He offers me a one-shouldered shrug. “Big local celebrity. We’ve been trying to coordinate schedules for weeks.”
“Of course.”
“He keeps canceling. Total diva.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
His grin appears. “You were incredible tonight.”
The sincerity catches me off guard. “Thanks.”
“No, I mean it.” His usual mischief hasn’t disappeared, but it’s stepped aside enough for me to see he’s serious. “That song near the end? You had half the room looking like they were questioning every life decision they’ve ever made.”
I laugh. “That’s quite a review.”
“I’m telling you what I saw. Betty Lou looked ready to leave her husband and start a new life in Montana.”
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “You don’t have to keep flattering me.”
“I’m not flattering you.”
“You flirt with literally everyone.”
He considers that. “That’s fair.”
Before I can gather my thoughts, Willy’s hand settles against my cheek.
The touch catches me completely off guard.
His palm is warm, rough in all the ways a rancher’s hands ought to be, and when his thumb brushes beneath my ear, a shiver runs through me.
The gesture feels unexpectedly tender coming from a man who usually hides behind jokes and crooked grins.
Then he kisses me.
The confidence of it steals whatever protest or witty comeback I might’ve managed. My eyes stay open longer than they should because my brain seems incapable of keeping up with what’s happening.
My pulse pounds against my ribs. Heat rushes through me so quickly it leaves me dizzy.
He makes a gritty, grateful sound and then his hand is right there under my skirt, callused fingers sliding along the inside of my thigh like he’s known the territory for years.
My panties are still damp from the heat of performance, and there’s no mistaking the desire painted onto his face as he traces the edge of the fabric. He hooks it aside with one resigned tug.
My breath hitches. I’m half-expecting him to say something, some disastrous quip about curiosity and cats, but he’s quiet now, totally focused, his mouth shifting to the curve of my jaw while two fingers nudge between my slick folds.
The intrusion is demanding, but delicate. I feel every whorl of his skin, every hesitation before he pushes further, careful like he’s reading me with his hands.
I clutch his shirt, twisting it tight in my fist. The wall behind the Silver Bit is rough. I brace a knee against the red brick for leverage as he works his way deeper, scissoring and curling until my legs nearly give out.
I can barely keep myself upright.
The wind hums low across the empty lot. I draw it in and shiver, equal parts relief and ruin.
“Fuck, Willy,” I mutter.
He slides another finger inside and uses his thumb on my clit, and the combination is so perfect I want to tell him he’s never allowed to leave town again. He grins into my shoulder, teeth nipping skin just above my collarbone.
“C’mon. Show me how much you liked singing your song.”
I’d punch him if I wasn’t so busy bucking against his hand. My knees are shaking as I climb, ever higher, unable to stop myself.
When the orgasm comes, it slams.
The force of it catches me completely off guard, crashing through me hard enough that I slap a hand over my mouth to keep from making more noise than I should. The world blurs around the edges as wave after wave rolls through me.
Willy keeps me pinned, uses every trick I never knew I craved. His palm twists, his fingers relentless.
If anyone stumbles onto the patio right now, they’ll find me with my head thrown back, coming apart on a wave so bright it hurts.
The lights overhead flicker and blur, softening everything but the hard heat between my legs and the taste of old sweat and salt on my tongue.
He finally pulls his hand free and rests his forehead against mine. For a minute, we just breathe together, my pulse banging against his chest like a second heartbeat.
I cannot believe how hard I’m shaking. I can’t believe he just did that, right out in the open, not even five yards from Riley’s kitchen window.
“I’m never topping that performance,” I say, still gasping. “My entire life has peaked. Cancel the rest of the shows.”
Willy laughs. The sound vibrates through both of us. “I’ll let management know.”
“There is no management.”
His grin returns in full force as he brushes a kiss against my mouth. A kiss that makes my whole body tremble all over again.