7 #2
Chancing my own death, I trace a finger over her high cheekbone. The feel of her is enough to unravel me. “I missed your face like hell, Trouble.”
The old nickname makes her flush, and she tries to step away, but I hold tight. “Don’t call me that.”
I ignore her. “Come home.”
“For Dakota?”
“No. For me,” I rasp, deciding to be honest.
Anger and something like pain flare in her eyes. “If you wanted me home, you had your chance.”
I frown. “What are you—”
“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but I see you already have one.”
At the gruff voice, we both turn. Quickly, Fallon slips her hand from beneath mine, recoiling like a snake rudely woken from slumber.
I curse under my breath at the interruption.
Bull rider Cole Weston and his cronies stand there. He and Fallon have been trading barbs in the paper. She’s the first woman—the first person—to give Weston a real run for his money.
Fallon’s presence and popularity rocked the rodeo world. Cowboys hate her guts, because she’s a woman on their turf. Hell, I’ve heard the whispers myself. And I make damn sure to put everyone in their place concerning Fallon McGraw. She deserves to be here. Even if I hate that she’s riding bulls.
Fallon sighs, and she and I move away from the bar to stand in the middle of the floor.
“Surprised to see you here, Weston.” The edges of her lips curl. “Slummin’ it.”
Weston chuckles. His gaze flicks to me. “Who’s this? New bodyguard?”
I roll my eyes, irritated. All Weston wants to do is psych out Fallon. There’s real money to be made in this event, and he doesn’t like anyone cramping his style.
Fallon ignores the jab. Keeps her cool gaze lasered on Weston. Inside, I know she’s steaming.
She scoffs, gestures at the cameraman behind Weston. “Need a camera to stroke your ego?” She bats her eyes. “Wait, I forget, they’re here for me, not you.”
Weston’s face darkens.
I smirk. Cole might be a legend, but Fallon’s the star, and he fucking hates it.
“I couldn’t help but stop to see if you decided to show up or turn out tomorrow.”
Fallon arches a brow.
Weston’s bark of laughter quiets the bar. Cowboys crane their necks, beers forgotten. Everyone eager for action, a fight.
Fuck.
“I guess you didn’t hear the news of the draw.” Smug smile on his face, Weston looks toward Pappy. “Pappy, I’m surprised, keeping the news of the draw from your girl. Although, it wouldn’t be the first time you kept secrets from your client.”
Tension falls over the bar like a blanket.
Fallon blinks then recovers. “They drew bulls?”
Face darkening, Weston says, “Earlier tonight.”
“None of that, Weston. Trying to scare my girl.” Pappy swaggers to Fallon’s side, shoving a drink into her hands. “Drink this,” he orders, “and let me handle it.”
For once in my life, I agree with the fat bastard.
Weston looks to the cameras. Grins. “Maybe she is scared.”
Fallon’s nostrils flare. “I’m never scared.”
She isn’t. It’s what terrifies me.
“Don’t,” I warn her. Weston’s baiting her. Fallon gets on her bulls blind. It’s the mental mindset of a cowboy.
She twitches beside me. It’s like waving a red flag at a bull. She can’t back down. She won’t. It was a problem when I trained her, and it’s a problem now.
“He’s trying to psych you out,” I tell her, yanking her back against me.
“Fuck it,” Fallon says, looking both murderous and petulant. Eyes flashing, she swivels her head to Pappy. “I want to know. Tell me.”
Pappy places a hand on Fallon’s shoulder. “You drew Goliath Jim.”
Fuck.
Horror and panic zip through me.
Across the room, I see Dakota press a hand to her mouth.
Fallon looks startled then exhales. “I got a good one,” she breathes.
Not just a good one. Known as one of the nastiest bulls in the Pbr, Goliath Jim’s average buck-off time is two-point-five seconds. No one’s ever made it past five.
A smirk lifts the edges of Fallon’s bloodred lips. “Jealous, Weston?”
“That bull was supposed to be mine,” Weston growls.
It happens fast.
He takes a step toward her, fists clenched, and I lurch forward, blocking Fallon with my body. “One more step, and I put you through that wall,” I growl.
Behind us, chairs squeak on the hardwood floor. My brothers stand from the table to make their way toward us. Back up.
“No fights,” I hear Davis warn. “This ain’t our town.”
Charlie and I share a smirk. I can count on Davis and Ford to bail my ass out, but the one who’s gonna be sitting beside me in cuffs is Charlie.
Weston looks over my shoulder to jab a finger at Fallon. “You better watch your fucking back before you get hurt,” he snarls
My body tenses at the threat.
Pappy shoves us apart. “My girl’s scrappy, she’s got this.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” I tell Weston.
Weston glares at me but backs a step away.
Fallon wiggles her fingers. “Can’t wait to kick your ass, asshole.”
Hoots, jeers, and hollers go up as Weston storms toward the exit. The crowd breaks up, the cameras zoom out, and my brothers drift back to the table.
Fallon stands stiffly, staring at the exit.
She lets me take her chin, tilting her gaze to mine. “You okay?”
For a heartbeat, it’s just us. Our breathing. Our heat.
Hazel eyes dim, face open and vulnerable, Fallon opens her mouth. “No. I’m—”
“C’mon,” Pappy says, stepping in to break us apart. “Big day tomorrow. Time to get some rest.”
Fallon’s mouth snaps shut, her eyes narrowing at the order, but she gives a curt nod.
“Fallon, wait.” I snag her arm. I can practically hear the hiss rising in her chest.
Her frosty shell’s back. “I told you once, I’ll tell you again. You don’t get a say in my life, Wyatt. You’re not my keeper.”
Too easy, too desperate, the words slip from my mouth. “Yeah, but I’m your—”
“Don’t,” she warns. She cuts a hand through the air, stopping me from coming any closer. Stopping our secrets. “Just don’t, okay?”
That’s what we do.
We don’t .
Don’t talk. Don’t kiss. Don’t tell the truth.
Fallon’s pissed about something in our past, and I’m pissed about shit I never said or did.
Before I can say another word, she slips out of my grasp and outside into the dark.
I could chase her right now, tell her every damn thing in my heart, but she’s already gone.