Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
SADIE
Lucky’s is nothing like what I expected.
I pictured a run-down, hole-in-the-wall sort of vibe. I should’ve known better than to assume.
The place is huge, with a dance floor that stretches out under a canopy of moving lights. The music is so loud I feel it in my chest, bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat. It feels more like a nightclub than a small-town bar, but it still has its charm.
Lydia tugs me toward the long bar lining one side of the dance floor, weaving through bodies swaying to the music.
She waves down one of the bartenders, who saunters over with a smirk. His dark hair is styled just a little too perfectly, sleeves pushed up to show off forearms he clearly works on, confidence dialed a notch too high.
“What do you want?” he asks, leaning across the bar.
Something about his grin makes my skin itch, but Lydia plays right into his game, fluttering her dark lashes at him.
“Two double tequilas,” she says sweetly.
My stomach twists.
He pours the drinks and slides them over, eyes still locked on Lydia. “You still owe me.”
Lydia scrunches her nose and passes one of the glasses to me. We clink, and I knock mine back. The burn hits instantly, fire clawing down my throat. I wince and shudder.
“I’m not letting it go this time, Lyd,” he adds, not taking his eyes off her.
“Do your job, Brantley. You have patrons to tend to,” Lydia says, shooing him away.
He shakes his head before turning his attention to a rowdy bachelorette party. They’re all wearing light-up penis headbands. I swallow another cringe.
I glance at Lydia. “What was that about?”
She waves it off with a smirk. “That’s just Brantley. He’s harmless.”
I look at him again, trying to figure it out. He’s clearly into Lydia—that’s obvious, even from across the bar—but I feel like I’m missing something.
An arm wraps around my waist, warm and familiar. I glance up at the same time Emmett leans in close, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“I wanted to tell you earlier,” he murmurs, voice low and unhurried, “but you’re killing me in this outfit, not-girlfriend.”
A different kind of heat flares inside me, pooling low in my stomach. I lean into his chest, breathing in the warm, woodsy scent of his cologne.
“If you’re lucky,” I tease, “I’ll let you buy me a shot.”
He grins and flags down Brantley to order another round. He passes one to me, the other to Lydia, who’s now cozied up under the arm of a guy in buffalo plaid.
Brantley narrows his eyes as Emmett hands me the drink, but doesn’t say anything. Emmett keeps his arm looped around my waist, fingertips lightly pressing into me as I down the shot. It’s slightly less awful this time, and a buzz begins to hum softly beneath my skin.
That warmth cools abruptly when I spot Wesley making his way through the crowd. He’s flanked by Lane and Landon, and I can’t help but notice the difference between them.
Landon moves like a force you can’t ignore—broad-shouldered, tall, sharp cheekbones, and dark eyes. Lane is quieter, like Wesley, but there’s an intensity in the way he scans the room.
His eyes flick to me for just a beat too long before they slide lower, lingering on Emmett’s hand settled on my waist. I follow his gaze and when I look back up, my eyes lock with Wesley’s. His jaw locks, the muscle in his cheek tensing.
The weight of Emmett’s hand shifts. Nothing really changes, but it feels different now—wrong somehow. It’s heavier, like I’m almost too aware of it.
My eyes dart toward Lydia, willing her to look over and rescue me. But she’s engrossed in whatever story plaid guy is telling, her head tilted back in laughter.
I should’ve been more mature and talked to Wesley when he offered.
Now I’m stuck in limbo, between almosts and awkward tension, unsure of how I’m supposed to act around him.
I’m probably overthinking it. He’s likely already forgotten about everything—because it wasn’t anything to begin with—and moved on.
Why would he even dwell on almost touching?
I’m sure he has done a lot more with plenty of girls, and the few moments between us—if you can even call them that—are completely meaningless to him.
Not that they meant anything to me—but still.
As the guys meet us at the bar, my lungs constrict. I try to look anywhere but at Wesley—and fail. His eyes are fixated on Emmett’s arm around me and his mouth tightens, a faint flicker in his dark eyes that gives him away.
“Hey!” Emmett calls over the music, his hand tightening over my hip. “Look who finally made it!”
I try to create some distance between us without making it obvious, but his hold is firm.
Landon claps a hand on Wesley’s shoulder and shakes him playfully. “Didn’t think you knew what fun was anymore, Wes.” His wide grin reveals deep dimples in each of his cheeks.
I bite down a smile and shift my focus away from all things Wesley.
“Hey, Lane,” I say, teasing. “Didn’t think this was your scene. Thought you valued your peace and quiet.”
He gives a low huff and glares at me, but I catch the slight lift at the corner of his mouth before he turns away. A small victory.
The guys launch into a story about an “ornery donkey,” and I lean into Emmett’s side, ignoring the burn of Wesley’s gaze. I pretend I don’t feel it. Pretend I’m unaffected.
Pretend. Pretend. Pretend.
Lydia finally spins back to our group, a tray of shots held high like a trophy.
“Don’t say I never do anything for you dickheads,” she grins, passing out glasses and lime wedges. She hands me the fullest one with a wink. “That asshole would not shut the fuck up. If he mentioned his frat brothers one more time, I was going to slam my face into the bar.”
When she offers one to Lane, he lifts a hand. “I’m good. I’m driving.”
Emmett lets go of me just long enough to grab his. “To Lyd—saint, savior, and supplier of tequila!” he calls, raising it high.
We clink glasses, laughing as we toast. I lick the salted rim slowly, catching Wesley’s eye as I knock the shot back and suck on the lime.
Before I can set my glass down, Emmett grabs Lydia’s hand and spins her toward the dance floor.
“I get the first dance!” he shouts, disappearing into the crowd with her.
Their laughter blends with the pounding bass, and the absence of Emmett’s arm leaves my skin cool. But it doesn’t last long.
Wesley pushes away from the table, clearing his throat and flicking his eyes toward the bar. “Gonna grab another,” he mutters, voice flat, slipping away before anyone can stop him.
Landon claims the empty chair behind us, turning it backward with an effortless confidence to face a pretty brunette wearing tortoise-shell glasses.
Lane steps forward, clearing his throat and holding out his hand.
My eyes drop to his open palm, then back up to him. His smile is subtle but sincere as he tilts his head toward the crowd.
This is probably a bad idea, but I slip my hand into his anyway, letting him lead me onto the dance floor.
“Oh shit,” Landon mutters as we pass him.
The lights shift to a deep, moody blue as Lane pulls me close, his hands settling low on my waist.
I relax into him with a sigh. Of course he smells amazing—smoky sandalwood and something faintly sweet.
He twirls me around, then catches me again. “You okay?” he asks, watching me carefully.
I nod, wrapping my arms around his neck. He’s taller than me, but I fit easily into his space.
The lights dim further. “Tennessee Whiskey” hums through the speakers and the dance floor fills with swaying couples.
Lane lowers his chin to the top of my head, and I feel the quiet rumble of him humming along.
I press closer and his arms tighten around me, thumb brushing lazy circles over the sliver of bare skin on my back.
“This…was a dangerous choice,” he murmurs against my ear. His voice is low, teasing, but there’s a weight behind the words. “I warned you to be careful, didn’t I?”
“Pretty sure you just said the guys can be a little much, which I can handle, like I said.”
“Mmm. And me?”
I smile. “What about you?”
His grip tightens. “You think you can handle me?”
The warmth in my bloodstream starts to swirl. My head feels floaty and my knees wobble slightly, but Lane is there. Steady.
I look up at him. His hazel eyes are soft, a little stormy.
For a fleeting moment, I wish they were amber.
But they’re not.
Because Wesley didn’t ask me to dance—Lane did.
“I didn’t think you were the rowdy type, Laney,” I tease.
His gaze drops to my mouth, voice rough. “I’m not. But I am the type who doesn’t walk away when he sees something he wants.”
“What do you want?” I whisper.
He leans in, his breath brushing my cheek. “I want to take you out to my truck.”
I draw back just enough to see the intent behind his words. His eyes are dark but patient. Waiting.
And I want to say yes.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Take me.”
He doesn’t hesitate, weaving us through the crowd, our fingers threaded together.
We pass the table where our group had been. It’s mostly empty now—just Landon still flirting with the brunette, his dimples on full display, and some guy I vaguely recognize from the bunkhouse.
Lane leans toward Landon, hand brushing the small of my back as he raises his voice just enough to be heard over the music.
“We’re gonna get some air.”
Landon glances up, eyes bouncing between me and Lane, smirking before turning back to the brunette. Lane flashes him a grin and gently tugs me toward the door.
The night air hits cooler than I expect—a sharp contrast to the heat still vibrating between us. He guides me across the gravel lot toward his truck.
He opens the passenger door and I climb in, my heart hammering against my ribs. I watch him round the hood, the faint light from the bar catching on the edge of his jaw before he slides into the driver’s seat.
Everything feels quieter out here. The muffled bass from the bar fades into the background, replaced by the soft, synchronized rhythm of our breathing.