14. Callie Rae
Callie Rae
The low hum of country music mixes with the clinking of glass. Brant’s following me through the doors of The Wild Corral, the smell of wood, smoke, and beer immediately greeting us.
My palms land on the belt of my high-waisted skinny jeans when I pivot. “How did you find this place? Is it new?”
Brant slips beside me, and my eyes climb to the weathered metal of the old-fashioned pendant lights. “Sean suggested it,” he answers. “I want to say it opened up a few months ago.”
I redirect my attention forward, and my gaze roams the alleyway of the bar. It’s longer than it is wide. Paved with wood floors and mismatched tables.
Vintage signs and cowboy memorabilia decorate the velvet wall on the left, then I catch the bar counter on the right. People chat with smiles and drinks, the decibel of the sound swelling as the crowd expands.
Brant’s fingers graze my upper arm through my long sleeve. Then he escorts us to two leather stools at the bar.
We both slide onto the red cushions. I hang my crossbody on the hook beneath the bar top, then fiddle with the hem of my smocked crop top. My engagement ring glitters under the dim lighting, and Brant hails the bartender over to order a couple beers.
My eyes lazily trace the large diamond when Brant asks, “Where’s Jesse tonight?”
I quirk my mouth up in the corner, knowing Brant’s question is for me and not him. He’s reminding me that this is all this has to be.
A friendly outing.
“He’s at the cigar lounge with a few other real estate investors. They’ll be talking about their latest business conquests for some time.”
Brant’s sliding a Yuengling Lager to me. I straighten in my seat, grabbing the drink before flicking a section of hair over my shoulder.
“Sounds wild,” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips.
I hike a shoulder, tapping my glass bottle against his. “To each their own.”
Our eyes lock when we take respective sips. My stare sinks to the solid, navy flannel laid open over his white shirt, and I shed a tiny grin.
I set my beer down, and he rests one of his boots on the bottom rod of my stool. His jeans fasten around his thigh as he does, but I focus on the scuffed brown leather of the toe of his boot.
I wonder how many times he made use of them without me.
“Nice boots,” I comment, lifting my eyes to his. “You wear them a lot?”
His gaze pokes down. “Yeah, the ones from high school kicked the bucket my first year in college,” he explains. “I wouldn’t say I’ve worn these a lot, but I’ve been to a few tailgates and music festivals.”
My eyes glimmer with piqued interest. “Stop it. Which music festival?”
His brows gently groove when he answers. “No, there’s no way you were there. Dusty Trails Country Fest.”
I shift my attention to the side. “Agh, no,” I sigh. “I was at the Golden Prairie Music Fest.” We both shuffle in our stools to lean our arms over the counter. “Gosh, could you imagine if we were at the same festival?”
He wipes a palm over his peppered jaw, his corded forearm maneuvering with the gesture. “I’d have to turn in my credibility,” he quips.
I smile when he nestles a fist in his opposite hand to lean his lips against his knuckles. His head turns to me, a spark of confidence triggered inside his eyes.
“There’s no way I’d miss you.”
“You would have if you caught me at the Electric Dance Music Festival in New York City,” I counter before sipping my beer. The malty flavor dribbles down my throat, the liquid brewing more courage. “Fishnet stockings and frayed jean shorts. You would’ve hardly recognized me.”
“Do we have photo receipts of this?” he asks.
I lift the nozzle of my beer to my lips again, gulping the urge to tell him about all of my receipts.
Another time, Callie.
“I’m sure they’re somewhere in my phone,” I answer, and my head pivots his way again. “It was actually the first night I threw up from drinking, so the pictures get progressively more chaotic.”
The corner of his mouth lifts above the spout of his beer. “What else?”
I shake my head. “I mean, that was really it. After that night, I vowed never to drink like that ag—”
“No,” he interrupts. “What other stories are there?”
I staple my gaze to his, our goodbye framed inside his hazel eyes.
“Write me a million stories, Dove. I’ll be waiting.”
Like a bee to honey, I’m reeled into our time capsule. Ready to unveil anything and everything he wants to hear. “I went skiing for the first time in Vermont,” I blurt softly. “It was during winter break of senior year. I went with Aunt Kerri and my half-cousins.”
“Tell me you made it to the green slopes,” he teases.
“I did,” I admit, “but not without falling every ten feet.”
He shines a smirk when he rests his beer on the bar top. “The trick is to just let yourself fall. Don’t think about it, and don’t think about the people around you. They’ll move out of your way.”
My brow perks as I smile tenderly. “You’ve skied?”
“I’ve been a few times with Sean and some other college buddies,” he responds. “We’ve made a few trips to Pennsylvania. Rented a house for the longer weekends.”
I grin, averting my eyes from his and mindlessly spinning the beer bottle between my fingers. “I’ve been to Cancun.”
“With Jesse?”
My stare concentrates on the gold accents on the rich-green label of my drink. “No,” I reply. “A few girlfriends from college. I was twenty-four. We always promised each other a vacation once we graduated.”
“How was it?”
“As amazing as you’d imagine,” I say, my attention still dodged from his. “Turquoise water and white sand. It was paradise.”
“What else?” he pushes.
“I’ve been on a ferry to visit Mohegan Sun.
Got caught up in slots a little too much when I finally got there.
But the rush was worth it, I don’t care what anyone says,” I tell him.
“I went hiking Upstate in the Watkins Glen area. Got to see Taughannock Falls. I won a dance-off in a bar when I was twenty-five. It was a rooftop bar in Manhattan.”
“Oh, tell me there’s a video.”
A chuckle trickles from me. “Sorry to disappoint,” I say, raising my eyes to him. “How about you?”
“I rented a beach house in North Carolina with friends. There were other people our age vacationing in the neighboring rentals, so we meshed groups and threw some wild parties. In fact, some of us wound up skinny dipping in the ocean.” His head briefly tilts to the side.
“Backing out on a dare isn’t really my specialty. ”
My mouth and eyes gape in harmony. “Brant Beckett!”
He peers at me through slitted eyes, his head softly wagging from side to side. “Not my finest hour.”
I laugh, my chest pumping with pleasure before I draw another sip of beer. Then I’m jerking a shoulder as my attention lifts to the vintage light fixtures. “I think you just miss being wild and free.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because I miss it,” I admit.
I inhale, my eyes stitching to the worn metal of the chandelier.
“Are you happy with him, Callie?” Brant’s voice is soft and steady. Lined with purpose.
My heart squeezes, knowing the intentions of his question are pure. He’s making sure I’m okay, and I almost wish his inquiry was driven by selfishness.
It’d be so easy for me to kick my defenses into high gear. Be so simple to attack his character and march away from him. It’d make everything that’s happening in our lives right now far less complicated.
But this is Brant.
He’s always been that ray of sunlight in the middle of the storm.
He’s an anomaly.
My breath falters before I let out any words. “We have our differences like any other couple, but we have plenty of great moments. He treats me well.”
Silence commences, throwing a few more jabs at my heart. “That’s good, Callie.”
I want him to use his smart-ass tongue. His curt blessing pools displeasure inside of me, but there’s nowhere for me to drain it.
“I feel like I need another drink, but I think it’s best to knock my usual limit down to one tonight,” I utter.
“A drink doesn’t need to equate to alcohol,” Brant says before calling the bartender over.
He orders two cups of ice water, and then he’s handing a plastic cup to me.
“Thank you,” I say.
There’s a lemon wedge floating with the ice cubes in my drink, and I take a generous gulp of the cold water.
Jimmie Allen’s “Make Me Want To” echoes from the DJ booth at the rear of the bar. My eyes peek over, catching the cluster of people beginning to crowd the reclaimed wood of the cubicle. The DJ’s cowboy hat bounces as his hand connects with the vintage turntables, and then I’m looking at Brant.
Brant’s chin softly jerks with his question. “You like Jimmie Allen?”
A delighted curve traces my lips. “He’s no Brad Paisley, but yeah, I like him.”
Brant’s already on his feet when I deliver the last word. “Let’s go,” he says, offering his palm to me.
My smile grows when I plant my hand in his. The soles of my cowboy boots hit the wood, and my free arm raises as my hips sway to the dance floor.
Brant releases his hold on me before he turns around. His lips move in sync with the lyrics as his hand maneuvers around me to the rhythm. He’s outlining the silhouette of my body, strobe lights flashing above us as we fall in step.
A spark of heat sizzles through me. His fluidity leaves me as speechless as it did when we danced on the hill across from The 1984 Barn. But this time, there’s this lethal swagger about him. Threatening to swallow me whole and spit me out once the sun sets on the evening.
How many women has he danced with like this?
I need more.
I’m always going to need more.
The country beat reaches its peak in the chorus, and his smile reels me in a dangerous inch closer. My chin inclines just as he gently towers over me. The only barrier is our plastic cups of water cradled at our chests.
His woody scent lathers me in devastation. Ruining me for any other guy who dares to lure me in.
Including Jesse.
It’s risky and reckless. But the thought of slipping away from him right now is less safe. My heart can’t endure his loss again.
Not right now.