Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
For a second, I sat there, absolutely baffled by Felicity’s question. I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
Kyre?
“Who?”
“Kyre,” she repeated. “The name you called out just before I woke you up.”
I shook my head vehemently. “I didn’t say anyone’s name.”
I couldn’t have. I never talked in my sleep. And even if I did, I didn’t know anyone with that name. Hell, I wasn’t even sure Kyre was a name.
Felicity chuckled at my denial. “Oh, trust me, sweetie. You did.”
Oh, shit. She wasn’t lying.
The last couple of seconds of the dream flashed in my mind, replaying in perfect clarity. My back against the tree, my legs around his waist, he’d taken me hard, and I’d…I’d called out his name.
Except I couldn’t have. Because I didn’t know his name.
As far as I was concerned, he didn’t have one. He was just my dream alpha. Giving him a name would have been one step closer to admitting he was real. And there was no way in hell I was about to do that. Not to myself, and definitely not to Felicity.
“I don’t know,” I said, hiding my burning red face by looking out the passenger side window. “I guess it was just some weird collection of sounds my brain came up with in the moment.”
“That’s the second good dream I’ve had to wake you up from this week,” she noted, sliding her eyes off the road to shoot me a sideways glance. “Does that mean we need to find you some brawny cowboy to hook up with while we’re up here?”
Definitely not. “The only thing we need to do while we’re here is work.”
“Sure, sure,” she nodded in agreement. “But we won’t be on the job every second of every day. At night, we’ll have plenty of time to go to the bar and find you one of those tight jean-wearing ranch hands who can teach you how to rope and ride.”
“Oh God, Felicity!” Cheeks burning bright red, I reached across the car and playfully smacked her on the shoulder. “Quit it!”
“What?” She burst out laughing. “I’m just trying to look out for you, girlfriend.”
“By embarrassing me?”
“It’s not my fault you’re so repressed.”
“Modest—not repressed,” I countered. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Felicity looked unconvinced. “Because from where I’m sitting, they both lead to the same place: with you only getting laid in your dreams.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh, really?” Her smile turned smug. “Because I can’t remember the last time you brought a guy home.”
Pulling my arms in across my chest, I shrugged. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“And the last time you spent the night outside the apartment was when you went to visit your sister in San Diego over a year ago.”
“I’ve been busy.” Damn. I sounded defensive, but I didn’t realize this was a sore spot until Felicity started poking at it. “I have other things to worry about besides my love life.”
“You had other things,” she corrected me. “But now that you’re no longer working sixty-hour weeks and exhausted all the time, you deserve to have a little fun.”
“And I will,” I assured her. “But I’m not sure my idea of fun is a one-night stand with a redneck.”
“No?” She shrugged. “Maybe a soldier is more your type—strong, silent, able to take orders. I get it.”
I was just leaning over to smack her again when we passed the Welcome to Goldhill sign on the side of the road. A second later, Felicity made the turn onto Main Street, and all thoughts of teasing and hookups left my mind.
For someone who’d barely travelled outside of the LA metro area, the little town seemed as foreign as an alien world.
The tallest building was two stories high, and, aside from the rusted tin-and-plaster service station on the corner, everything was constructed of wood.
Even the sidewalks were lined with lumber planks instead of concrete.
The whole place might have been mistaken for an old west movie set if it wasn’t for the anachronistic modern details—trucks parked in front of storefronts, sputtering neon signs, fluorescent lights shining through windows.
I tried my best not to gape out the window like the tourists I saw every day on Hollywood Boulevard, but it wasn’t easy.
My mind spun as I tried to imagine what it must be like living in a place where there were only six streets total…
and half of them were unpaved. A place without buses, 24-hour convenience stores, or stoplights. It must be quiet. Peaceful even.
Or maybe just dull.
Even though it was barely past seven in the evening, most of the storefronts we passed were already locked up tight, their windows dark. The only places still open were a grocery store, a diner, and a rundown honkey tonk.
“Here we are,” she chirped brightly, pulling into a spot in front of the bar before throwing the car into park.
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t understand. “Where are we exactly?”
“The place where we’re staying.” She pointed to the name spelled out on a flaking and peeling decal that dominated the front window. “Deke’s Goldwood Tavern.”
The corners of my mouth pulled down hard, my heart sinking. What had I gotten myself into?
“Felicity, this is a bar.”
And a rough-looking one, at that.
“Yeah, a bar that rents out the rooms above it,” she said, like that was completely normal.
“But…but we can’t stay at a bar,” I sputtered.
“Don’t be silly,” she laughed. “It’ll be fine. Besides, it’s the only hotel around for fifty miles.”
She had to be joking. This couldn’t be the only place. There had to be a chain motel somewhere along the twisty, backcountry road we’d come in on. I didn’t care how seedy it might be. As long as it didn’t give me splinters just from looking at it.
But apparently, Felicity was dead serious. She’d already opened her door and was grabbing her bags from the backseat. Grumbling, I unclasped my seat belt and followed.
What other choice did I have? We were hundreds of miles from LA. It wasn’t as if I could catch a cab back home. And even though Deke’s Tavern looked sketchy as hell, it was better than spending the night in the car.
Even though it was a Saturday night, I didn’t expect the only bar in Goldwood to be busy. It was a tiny town, after all. So, I was genuinely surprised when a couple dozen heads turned our way when we walked through the front door.
I wasn’t a diverse group of patrons. Everyone inside seemed to fall into one of three groups. There were soldiers in their fatigues huddled around the pool tables, farmers in plaid standing across from the dart boards, and a few dusty fellas that looked to be regulars lining the bar.
And then there was us.
Forget working at the front desk of a Beverly Hills hotel or attending a black-tie gala in a discount dress.
This was the most out of place I’d ever felt in my life.
Shuffling across the sawdust-covered floors of this backwater bar, I could feel the burn of each judgmental stare.
It was bad enough to make me wonder if maybe that cab ride wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
But apparently, I was the only one who noticed our less-than-friendly reception.
As usual, Felicity had no trouble striding right through the silent gauntlet of glares up to the bar.
“You need something, darlin’?” The bartender looked up from the end of the rail where he’d been talking with a local.
“Yeah,” Felicity answered, her voice carrying calm and confident through the dead air. “Our room key and a couple of cold beers.”
“You must be the one who called yesterday,” the bartender said. Pulling out a water-stained sheet of paper from beside the register, he looked down at the list of one. “Felicity Waite.”
“That’s me,” she said, gracing the whole place with a smile capable of melting the polar ice caps.
And apparently, it worked. Because while the bartender turned around rummage through the keys, the usual sounds of a bar slowly started back up again. Billiard balls clicked, glasses clinked, and the low, comforting murmur of conversation started back up in the empty space behind us.
“I have you down for a full week in a double room,” the bartender said. An old-fashioned hotel key ring dangled from his fingers. “That’ll be twenty-one hundred. Cash.”
“What?” My eyes nearly popped out of my head. “Felicity, that’s ridiculous.”
This place was most definitely not worth $300 a night.
But Felicity just shrugged.
“Don’t worry about it.” She counted the money out of her handbag, along with an extra couple of twenties, and slid the bills across the bar. “Would you be kind enough to take our bags up to the room while my friend and I enjoy our beers?”
The bartender’s gaze slid from Felicity to the cash, then back to her. After a second, he shrugged. “Sure. Why the hell not?”
“Thank you,” Felicity said, setting our bags down around the side of the bar while the bartender poured our beers. Then, after she settled herself down on one of the well-worn vinyl stools, she patted the one next to her. “Come on over, Sophia. Have a drink.”
The second my ass was down, I leaned in toward her. “Felicity, what the hell are you doing? That’s a whole month’s rent.”
And that was for a two-bedroom back in LA. Not one in the greatest neighborhood, sure, but still a hell of a lot better than this place.
Even now, I could clearly hear the old, weathered wood creaking and groaning as the bartender stomped his way up the stairs. It felt like the whole building was one good gust of wind away from crumbling into a heap of toothpicks and splinters.
“What do I care?” she answered blythly. “Our producer is the one paying the bills, remember?”
“Producer?” the man on the next barstool leaned in. He was an interesting-looking man, around the same age as the bartender, with scruffy hair and deep grooves bracketing his mouth and forehead. “Are you ladies with the news or something?”
“We’re podcasters.”
“Oh.” The lines cutting into his brow deepened. “Uh…what’s that?”
“It’s like a radio show, but with video,” she tried to explain.
The man arched a scraggly brow. “So…television?”
“Not exactly,” she tried again. “It’s on the internet.”