Chapter 19 #3
Dad hangs up, pockets the phone, takes a slow sip of his whiskey. Luke’s already half-turned on his stool, scanning the room for trouble or tail—probably both even though he’s got steph back home. The boy just likes to flirt.
“Have you talked to Layla at all?” Luke asks, eyeing me over his glass.
“Does she know about the big win?” he adds when I don’t answer right away.
“I’ll tell her when we get back,” I mutter, throwing back the shot. The burn hits my throat, sharp and welcome. “She’s texted, but I haven’t responded.”
“What?” Luke’s eyebrows shoot up. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to make her leave, or do you want her to stay? I’m going to be honest—you make zero sense when it comes to women.”
His words hit like a slap. Piss me off more than they should. I set the empty glass down harder than I mean to. “I don’t know what to say. I’m not a big texter. I’m not mushy and lovey-dovey—you know that—”
“Make something up,” Luke cuts in. “Or just say ‘thinking about you.’ Jesus Christ.”
I shake my head, stare at the TV mounted above the bar, some football game flickering, and the crowd roaring on the screen.
Dad’s doing the same, quiet, tired lines around his eyes.
He’s been up since before dawn every day this week, same as me.
We probably won’t stay long. Random guys keep hollering congratulations my way—“Nice run, Marshall!”—some slapping my shoulder as they pass.
A few others give me death stares—sore losers, probably. I ignore them all.
“Hey, cowboy,” a pretty blonde says, sliding onto the stool next to me. Tight jeans, low-cut top, perfume strong enough to cut through the bar smell. She smiles wide, leans in close.
I look her up and down—habit, nothing more. “Hi,” I say, not glancing over again, eyes back on the game.
“Congratulations on your big win.” Her hand runs down my thigh—slow, bold, nails dragging just enough to make her point.
“Thanks, honey,” I mutter, throwing back another shot.
Normally, I’d take a girl like this back to my hotel room and let the night end the way it always does, easy, physical, no strings.
That’s the rule. That’s how I keep things simple.
But all I can think about is Layla. Her mouth.
Her attitude. The way she gets under my skin like she’s trying to dig a hole there.
And the fact that I don’t want anyone else, I can’t even fake it long enough to try, tells me exactly how screwed I am.
The whiskey burns clean, but her touch feels wrong.
Cold. Not Layla’s hands, soft, sure, knowing exactly how to grip me like she owns me.
My phone starts ringing in my pocket. I fish it out, Layla’s name on the screen.
My heart kicks hard. Luke’s already chatting up the blonde now, leaning past me, cracking some joke that makes her laugh too loud.
I’m sitting between them, the noise pressing in, and all I can do is stare at the phone, thumb hovering over the answer button.
Debating. Seven days of silence. One stupid “like” on her picture.
One “I know.” What the hell am I supposed to say now?
I slide the bar, put the phone to my ear. “Hey.”
“Oh my god. You answered!” Her voice is surprised, soft, a little breathless. Like she didn’t expect me to pick up.
“Yeah,” I say, low. “Is there an emergency?”
“No. I just wanted to tell you congratulations.” Somber now, quieter.
“Oh. Thanks.” The blonde laughs again, too loud, too close. Layla goes silent on the other end. I know she heard it. Fuck.
“Oh,” she says after a beat, voice flat.
“I’ll let you go. Sorry to bother you. You sound busy.”
“It’s okay, we’re just at the bar—”
She hangs up.
Oh fuck.
She heard the damn bimbo next to me laughing, probably thinking I’m out getting my dick wet with some random after the win.
Lord knows what Layla’s thinking right now, hurt, angry, convinced she’s nothing to me. I stare at the dark screen, stomach twisting. The blonde’s hand is back on my thigh; I shift away, not even polite about it.
I have some explaining to do when I get back.
And Layla has some choices to make. Because I can’t keep living like this—half in, half out, too chickenshit to say what I want.
Too stubborn to text her like a normal person.
Too scared she’ll choose Seattle over me, over the ranch, over this life I’m trying to show her could be hers.
I throw back the last of my drink, set the glass down hard. Dad’s watching me now, quiet, like he knows exactly what just happened. Luke’s still flirting, oblivious.
I stand up. “I’m heading back to the hotel.”
Luke frowns. “Already?”
“Yeah. Long drive tomorrow.”
Dad nods once—understanding. “Get some rest, son.”
I push through the crowd, out into the night air—cooler, quieter, stars sharp overhead.
The bar noise fades behind me. All I can hear is Layla’s voice in my head—soft, hurt, hanging up before I could fix it.
One more night. One more night and I’m home.
And I’m not letting her think she’s anything less than everything.