Chapter 4 Whiskey and Whiplash
Chapter four
Whiskey and Whiplash
Cash
There’s something about a Saturday night in Wilder Creek that gets under your skin.
Maybe it’s the way the neon sign outside Dusty Spur flickers like it’s winking at you, or how the thrum of steel guitar from the live band playing some George Strait, wraps itself around your spine and settles somewhere low in your gut.
I nurse a whiskey at the end of the bar sitting with a couple of ranch hands, my elbows resting on the worn wood, half-listening to the band now playing cover music of Waylon Jennings rolling through the air.
The place is packed, locals shoulder to shoulder, boots stomping in rhythm, beer flowing like water.
It’s loud, gritty, and familiar. Line dancers on the floor stomping their fancy cowgirl boots with fancy hats.
The kind of place where nothing changes.
Until she walks in.
I spot her before she sees me, Avery Blake, in jeans that fit like a damn prayer and a tank top that doesn’t belong anywhere near this much sawdust. Her hair’s pulled into some messy thing on top of her head, loose strands framing her face in a way that makes it hard to look away.
She’s got her best friend Harper at her side, chattering in her ear, and the two of them wade into the crowd like they own the joint.
I swirl the ice in my glass, watching.
Avery used to come here in high school, back when she was all polished smiles and expensive lip gloss, sipping cherry Cokes while pretending she didn’t want to dance. Now? She’s still out of place, but she doesn’t seem to care.
She moves through the room with a kind of stubborn grace, chin high, eyes scanning the crowd like she’s daring someone to tell her she doesn’t belong.
I wonder if she remembers the last time she was here, senior year, when she showed up in heels and a borrowed denim jacket, danced with Tyler McCoy just to make a point, then vanished before midnight.
Or maybe she’s thinking about the rumors that flew around after, about her daddy pulling strings to keep her out of trouble, about her never coming back.
I should look away. Should keep my damn focus on the glass in my hand and the reason I came out tonight, which has everything to do with getting away from the thoughts she’s been planting in my head like weeds.
But I don’t. Because I’ve been trying not to think about how she looked hammering that fence post into the dirt like her life depended on it. About the smudge of dirt on her cheek and the stubborn set of her jaw when she squared up against the work.
About how, for the first time since she came back, I almost didn’t hate her. My fingers tightened around the glass, the cool press of it grounding me as something hot and unwelcome bloomed in my chest.
She’s laughing at something Harper says, and that sound, light, warm, completely unfiltered, wraps around the band’s twangy chords like a damn lasso. My chest tightens, and I take another sip of whiskey to burn it down.
Then she sees me.
Her eyes catch mine across the room, just for a second, but it’s enough. There’s a flicker of something behind that guarded gaze. Recognition. Tension. Heat. Maybe a challenge. I raise my glass in a lazy salute, and her lips twitch into the ghost of a smirk before she turns away.
I exhale slow, dragging a hand down my face.
Trouble. That’s what she is. Always has been.
And judging by the sway of her hips as she heads toward the dance floor, she knows it.
A fiddle cuts into the air, sharp and high, and the crowd surges forward.
The band kicks into a two-step, 'Dust and Desire,' a crowd favorite that always packs the floor, that gets boots moving. Couples pair off. Laughter bounces off the walls. And me? I stay rooted to my stool, trying not to notice the way Avery spins in Harper’s hands, laughing like she’s light as air.
The ranch hands notice my distraction and seize the opportunity to elbow me with their snide remarks how this little city girl has me all twittered.
I wave off their remarks all while trying not move towards her.
Trying, and failing, not to feel the pull.
Because no matter how far I lean into bitterness, or how much I remind myself she doesn’t belong here anymore... there’s a part of me that still wants to ask her to dance.
I don’t plan to get up.
But when Harper winks and nudges Avery toward the bar, toward me, I swear my legs move before I tell them to.
She’s halfway through ordering a drink when I slide in beside her.
"City girls don’t usually drink Shiner Bock," I say, keeping my tone casual. "Trying to impress the locals?"
Avery turns, and damn if her smirk doesn’t light something dangerous in my chest. "No, but clearly it’s working."
Her eyes flash with something between amusement and challenge, and it takes everything I have not to grin. The bartender sets her beer down, and she lifts it with one delicate hand, clinks it against the edge of my glass.
"Truce for one drink?" she asks.
"One," I agree, even though we both know it won’t stop there.
We drink in silence for a moment, the buzz of the bar wrapping around us like smoke. The band launches into another song, slower this time, 'Whiskey Skies' and the crowd shifts, couples swaying, the energy softening.
I glance at the dance floor. Then back at her. "You still remember how to dance?"
She raises a brow. "I remember how you used to try."
I chuckle, low and rough, and take her beer from her hand, setting it behind us on the bar.
"Come on then. Let’s see if I’ve improved."
Her hand slips into mine, warm and hesitant, and I lead her through the crowd to the edge of the floor. The moment we start moving, everything else fades, the laughter, the clinking of bottles, even the ache that’s lived between us for years. I get a thumbs up from the ranch hands.
She fits against me in a way that’s too easy. Too natural. One hand on my shoulder, the other in mine, her body warm against mine as we sway in slow circles.
Her scent, something sweet and warm, like vanilla and summer nights, curls through my head, makes it hard to think.
"You’re not so bad," she says softly, gaze flicking up to mine.
"You’re surprised?"
She shrugs, a teasing gleam in her eye. "A little." The bar’s warm glow catches the flecks of gold in her eyes, and her fingers tighten briefly in mine, sending a pulse straight up my arm.
I spin her gently, and when she twirls back into my arms, closer than before, our eyes lock. There’s no more teasing. Just heat. Sharp and sudden and far too dangerous.
Her breath hitches. My grip tightens.
And in that moment, I know I’m screwed.
Because it’s not just old memories dancing between us anymore. It’s something new. Something wild.
And I want more.
We step off the dance floor and return to my seat at the bar with Avery following, a little breathless, both of us pretending that didn’t just shake something loose inside us.
"You planning to moonlight as a dance instructor now, or was that just beginner’s luck?" she asks, leaning against the bar beside me, her voice playful.
I chuckle and signal the bartender. "Only if you promise not to sue me for stepping on your toes."
"You didn’t." She arches a brow. "Which surprised me. Though you were always good with your hands."
That stops me cold.
I glance at her, and she just smirks, sipping her beer like she didn’t just throw a match into the powder keg between us.
"You always talk like that to the guy who’s fixing your fence?"
"Only when he deserves it." Her grin widens as she spots Harper on the dance with some cowboy.
We fall into a familiar rhythm that feels like old times.
I tease her about her rhinestone-studded phone case, and she roasts my worn leather boots.
She throws in a dig about my pickup truck being older than Emmy, and I counter with a jab about her city driving and the dent she already left in the ranch gate.
Somewhere between the laughs, our shoulders brush. Once, then again. Neither of us pulls away.
"You know," she says, sliding her gaze to mine, "if you’re trying to make me feel like I don’t belong here… you’re doing a really terrible job."
"Not trying anymore," I murmur.
She blinks at that.
And hell, maybe I am screwed.
Because all of this, this banter, this heat, this slow tug back toward something I thought was dead and buried, is dangerous.
And I want more of it anyway. Maybe because it feels like the only real thing in a world where everything else changed.
Or maybe because for all her polish and stubbornness, she's still the girl who once climbed into my truck with a scraped knee and fire in her eyes, and I never really stopped wanting her.
"So what exactly do you do with those hands when you’re not fixing fences and spinning unsuspecting women around dance floors?" she asks, one brow arched.
I lean in, slow and smug. "Wouldn’t you like to find out."
She lets out a laugh, low, surprised, and genuinely amused. "You’re flirting with me. Badly, but still."
"I’m rusty," I say with a grin. "Haven’t had much practice since a certain city girl ran off to college and forgot how to use her phone."
She narrows her eyes. "Low blow. I was busy getting a degree."
"In what? Breaking hearts and avoiding calls?"
"Communications," she says with a wink, and damn if I don’t laugh out loud.
There’s something easy about this. Too easy. Like we never skipped all those years of silence.
She nudges me with her elbow. "Careful, Bennett. Keep smiling at me like that and I might start to believe you actually like having me around."
I meet her gaze head-on. "That’s the real danger, sweetheart. You just might be right.
We slip out the side door of the bar, drawn by the need to escape the heat inside just for a moment, and maybe something else we don’t want to name.
The summer air outside is thick and warm, carrying the smell of mesquite and horses from somewhere beyond the lot. Overhead, stars scatter across the black sky like someone spilled salt on velvet.
The gravel crunches under our boots as we wander a little, drinks in hand, silent at first. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that builds tension with every second.
Avery glances over at me, her profile lit soft by the glow of the porch light behind us. "Didn’t think I’d ever see you dance again."
"Didn’t think I’d have a reason to."
Her eyes flick to mine. "Was it me, or the Shiner Bock?"
"You," I say without hesitation.
She stops walking. "You’re being nice," she says, almost suspiciously.
"Don’t get used to it."
She laughs. A quiet, breathy sound that sinks into me. Her gaze drops to the space between us, barely a breath apart now. And I can feel it. That slow burn coiling tighter. That gravity we keep pretending doesn’t exist.
Her voice is softer when she speaks again. "So what now? We keep pretending there’s nothing here?"
I take a step closer.
She tilts her face up to mine, her breath catching as her eyes meet mine. The air between us hums with heat, her breath smells faintly of honey and hops, and the space feels charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.
I reach up, almost without thinking, and brush a strand of hair from her cheek. Her skin is warm. Smooth. Too damn close.
Everything stills.
Her lips part slightly. Her breath mixes with mine. One step closer and I’d be kissing her. One second longer and I might do it anyway.
But I don’t.
Instead, I let the moment hover.
I want it. God, I want it. But I can’t.
Not yet.
Because if I start, I might not stop.
Her hand is still on my chest when I finally step back. Slowly. Like peeling off something I don’t want to lose.
She blinks, confused, maybe even a little hurt. "Cash—"
"You make it really hard to remember why I was supposed to hate you," I say, voice low.
Then I turn and walk away before I do something we’ll both regret.
Because if I kiss her now, it won’t be enough.
And I’m not sure I know how to want her halfway.