20
I take a deep breath and approach Fallon.
She’s standing next to the dumpster in the alley, smoking.
Up close, she looks pissed off and violent.
A small silver scar runs down her jaw, her caramel and chestnut hair falls to the middle of her back.
The cut-off shorts she wears show her colorful rodeo tattoos that extend up her hips, accentuating her lean, muscular thighs.
Though we’ve had run-ins, I’m not sure if she’ll be receptive to me lending an ear. Truth is, I admire Fallon. Envy her. Her tattoos and her horses and her freedom. She’s unsheltered and fierce and doesn’t have a ticking time bomb in her chest.
Fallon ashes her smoke when she sees me. “Shit. Don’t tell my dad.”
I smile. “Secret’s safe with me.”
She hums and takes a long drag on the cigarette. Smoke curls in the air between us.
“I’m sorry,” I say, thinking of that woman in the booth, stroking her blood-red fingernails down Wyatt’s arm. If it were Charlie, I’d pick up my shot glass and hurl it at his head. “About Wyatt.”
Fallon offers a one-shoulder shrug. The blazing anger in her eyes is the only telltale sign she’s hurt. “There is no Wyatt,” she drawls with a vigorous shake of her head. “He is an absolute clown shoe I plan to stay far, far away from.”
Not speaking, we stare into the darkened alleyway.
Stars sparkle in the inky night sky. There’s enough moonlight to see the graffitied brick walls and beer cans trashed on the ground.
The scent of pine and summer hangs in the air.
A cool breeze dries the sweat on my brow and I inhale deep, breathing it in.
I’m glad for the break after what happened back in the bar, courtesy of the shots and the fast dancing. I press a hand to my still-thundering heart, willing it to return to a normal heartbeat. One that won’t have me passing out on the dance floor.
The thought is like a taser to my emotions, bringing me down. Tonight is an awful reminder about the truth of my situation. My condition.
I close my eyes.
I’m lying to Charlie.
My heart isn’t fine, will never be fine.
Charlie wants kids. Something I can never give him because of my heart.
I shake my head, angry at myself for even entertaining the thought. It doesn’t matter. We’re not there and never will be.
In eight weeks, I’m leaving.
A crunch of rock and dirt sounds as Fallon tosses her cigarette on the ground and grinds the ember out with her boot. “So. How goes the dance floor with Charlie Montgomery? You two looked good out there.”
“It’s fun. Summer fun,” I amend, not sure why I’m trying to clarify it. Maybe because denial’s easier when you say it out loud. When you allow other people to hear it and give it life.
She considers this, her hazel eyes flittering. “Do you like it here? In Resurrection?”
“I do. I love it.”
“But not enough to stay?”
I hesitate, debating on saying more, saying everything. “No. I can’t.”
“You’re lucky,” she says, longing seeping into her husky voice. “You can leave whenever you want.”
But I don’t want to leave.
This town feels like mine. I feel like I belong. The air’s different here. My heart’s different here, like it pumps harder for the sheer reason of being on Runaway Ranch.
I thought I could do this. I thought it’d be easy. Make some money. Help some ranchers. Have good sex with the grumpy cowboy and then fly the coop.
No strings.
And yet ...
Charlie still wears my ribbon on his wrist.
What does that mean?
Nothing.
It has to mean absolutely nothing.
“What’s it like?” I ask Fallon. “To ride?”
Her hard eyes soften. For a few seconds, she’s quiet.
When she speaks up, her expression is ethereal, dreamy.
“It makes me crazy, but it makes me live.” Passion laces her voice.
“I would die for it. I would die if I could never do it again.” Arching a brow, her gaze lands on me.
“I’m well aware those two things are mutually exclusive. ”
A shiver runs over me. I feel the same way.
“You’ve never ridden a horse?”
“No. Charlie won’t let me.” I take a step forward, looking up at the darkened brothel bathed in moonlight.
Knowing a good photo op for Runaway Ranch’s Instagram account when I see it, I take out my phone and switch it into night-mode.
I look at Fallon. “They’re his horses, you know. I can’t just steal one.”
Fallon smirks. “Well, technically, you could ...”
Just talking about Charlie makes my heart squeeze.
A smile tips my lips as I think back to the growling man I first met at Nowhere.
A cowboy I pegged as cold and unsmiling.
But I was wrong. There’s been so many small moments where his tender actions have chiseled away at the man I assumed I knew.
Charlie bringing me flowers, taking me dancing, wearing my ribbons around his wrist .
..and the sex. The sex isn’t just good—it’s spectacular.
Heart changing.
Charlie’s hard shell is a shield to keep out the things that hurt him.
I’m doing the same thing. By not telling Charlie about my heart, I’m keeping him at arm’s length.
“He’s got his reasons,” Fallon says, and I wonder at the hesitation that crosses her face. “Charlie’s a good guy. I’ve known him ten years now, and he’s ...intense, yeah. But I’ve also never seen him with that look in his eye.”
It doesn’t matter how he looks at me , I want to tell her. Even so, my heart hammers and I can’t help but ask, “And what look is that?”
Fallon smiles. “Like you own every single atom in his body.”
At her words, my breath catches in my throat.
“Oh,” I manage weakly and raise my phone to take pictures of the brothel, trying to chase away the desperate feeling swelling inside of me.
Before I can snap a photo, laughter rings out above us.
I freeze, my eyes darting to Fallon, who shrugs.
Footsteps clang on the wrought-iron patina balcony of the brothel.
A man and woman come into view through the slats.
They’re hard to make out, but the woman has long auburn hair and a husky laugh.
The man’s tall with silver hair and a thin, fox-like face.
There’s a rustle of fabric, the jingle of a belt, the drop of pants. Like a snake, the belt curls through the slats, the gleaming belt buckle catching the moonlight. And then the woman’s sinking to her knees and opening her mouth.
“Holy shit,” Fallon says. “Peep show time.”
“I thought it was a museum,” I whisper, tilting my head all the way back to look up. Moans cut the cool night air.
Fallon’s face is rapt. “Looks like it still operates after-hours.”
Curiosity has me positioning myself to see better. “Do you know who they are?”
“No.” She squints. “Can’t see.” Her sharp elbow digs into my side and I smother a yelp with my hand. “Get a photo. We can zoom in.”
I stare at her in open admiration. “Why?”
“Because I’m fucking curious, that’s why.” She gives me a push forward. “You fuck on open balconies in my town, you don’t deserve privacy.”
She has a good point.
“C’mon, Ruby,” she says and grins at me. “Live a little.”
Keyword: live.
Adrenaline and excitement have me angling the camera at the mysterious couple.
And then I do it.
I snap a photo.
Snickering, Fallon grabs me and drags me back into the shadows. “Wild little rebel,” she hisses, pride resonating in her voice.
I stare at Fallon’s arm looped through mine, her tight grip, her beautifully long fingers adorned with turquoise rings. And I have never felt such a rush of friendship, of cahoots, of safety in my life.
Movement comes from above us, the scrape of the belt as it’s retrieved, and then the laughter and voices disappear as the door slams shut.
Silence strings through the alleyway.
I zoom in on the photo as Fallon stares over my shoulder. “You know him?” I ask.
“Nope.” She seems disappointed. “Well, it’s been a trip.
” Fallon takes a step into the alleyway.
“Baring souls. Catching strangers in clandestine affairs. We should do it more often.” She gives a one-shouldered shrug.
In the shadows and the moonlight, she looks like some wraithlike cowgirl ready to wreak vengeance.
“I’m headed home. Go back to your man, Ruby. ”
“He’s not my man,” I insist, even though her words send a curl of warmth through me.
Her grin’s a flash of amusement. “Whatever you say.”
I watch her stroll off into the night. Then I laugh and shake my head.
I think we’re both liars.
Still musing on Fallon’s words, I walk down the gloomy hallway to the mouth of the bar.
When I turn the corner, a boy steps into my space, barring me from entering the dance floor. He wears a pink polo and a backward cap and is as out of place in this honky-tonk as I was in Nowhere. With a raised brow, he gives me a head-to-toe sweep that makes me feel slimy.
“Excuse me.” I try to push past him. By now, there’s a large crowd on the sawdust dance floor. Charlie must be caught up somewhere in the mass of people.
He forces me back into the hallway and puts his hands on my waist. “We’re dancing tonight.” His voice is slurred with alcohol.
I draw up my shoulders and stand taller, hoping to look intimidating. “I don’t want to dance. Not with you.”
He lets out a short laugh. “First time? Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you, pretty girl.”
My throat bobs, fear prickling my spine. I’d take nasty comments on Instagram any day, instead of the nasty boy leering in front of me.
He crowds my space and my heart speeds up. I don’t like it. He’s not Charlie. He’s not my Cowboy.
“Let go of me.” I give him a shove, but he blocks me in again.
“You heard her. Step the fuck away. Now.”
Charlie’s rough voice has my heart bottoming out.
Polo snorts. “Fuck you, dude—”
Before he can say more, a massive hand’s darting out and grabbing the guy by the back of the neck to yank him away from me. Polo’s tossed into the wall like he’s nothing more than a bag of trash.