Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
SIENNA
My hair was still damp from the fastest shower in history. The fresh bandage Wren had taped over Brock's shoulder looked clean and white under his T-shirt. He'd grumbled the whole time she worked on him, but he let her do it.
Now he was standing under a bright neon beer sign at the bar, arms crossed, looking ready to murder someone. Next to him, three drunk cowboys were loudly reenacting the alley incident, complete with one guy using his fingers as horns and charging at his buddy like a bull.
"I'll take four tequila shots," Colt said, slapping his hand on the sticky bar. "Put them on the guy in the blue Stetson’s tab. He just offered to buy my brother’s drinks."
I stayed tucked safely between Colt and Wren, using the crowd as a shield. The loud fiddles and chatter were exactly what I needed tonight.
As long as I kept twenty feet and a wall of drunk people between me and Brock, I wouldn't have to think about the quiet hotel room. I wouldn't have to think about how a man that rough could touch me so gently, or the heat of his chest under my hands, or how much I didn't want to leave tomorrow.
"He's going to kill them," I said, leaning closer to Wren so she could hear me over the band. "Or he's going to kill Colt."
"Definitely Colt," Wren yelled back, sliding a lime wedge toward me. "But not tonight. He promised me he'd behave for your going-away party."
Your going-away party. There it was again. Every time she said it, something twisted tighter in my chest.
The bartender set our shots in front of us. Colt lifted his glass. "To Sienna! For surviving my brother."
I picked up mine. "To surviving."
I tossed it back. The tequila burned all the way down, but it didn’t touch the heavy knot sitting behind my ribs.
I should’ve been happy. I’d finished the job, and the bonus would come through just in time to cover Mara’s tuition. There was nothing holding me in Wyoming anymore. All I had to do was drink the tequila, keep my distance from Brock, and make it to my flight tomorrow.
People were packed shoulder to shoulder, squeezing past each other with drinks in hand. The air smelled like spilled beer, sweat, and cologne. Boots and denim filled the dance floor, bodies moving wherever there was space.
Colt and Wren disappeared into the crowd to join the dancing. I stayed behind.
When I glanced back toward the neon sign, the cowboys were gone. Two women were now talking to Brock. One of them was laughing, her hand resting on his bicep.
My stomach tightened. Watch his left shoulder. He’s bleeding under there.
Brock took a small step back from both and gave a polite nod before turning away. Across the crowded room, his eyes locked onto mine.
I looked away first.
This was his world. These people got to keep him. Tomorrow I’d be back in a high-rise in Chicago, and this would just become a story I told Mara.
I stared down at the scratched-up bar, suddenly feeling completely out of place. A second later, a solid warmth settled at my back.
“You avoiding me, Starlin’?” Brock’s low voice rumbled right behind my shoulder, cutting through the loud music.
I turned around. “You looked busy.”
His blue eyes locked onto mine. “I was. It sucked.”
He reached past me, grabbed an abandoned tequila shot Colt had left on the bar, and threw it down in one smooth motion.
He set the glass down. “You’re overthinking again.”
"I have to." I kept my voice low. “I'm your PR manager. Whatever almost happened in that hotel room… we need to pretend it didn’t.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. "I'm not pretending a damn thing. We didn’t finish what we started.”
My heart stumbled. “Brock, please. My flight’s at four tomorrow.”
“Your contract ends at midnight,” he pointed out.
“Exactly. So tonight we need to stay professional.” I gripped the edge of the bar behind me, leaning back just enough to keep a little space between us. “Because if we don’t, getting on that plane tomorrow is going to be impossible.”
He looked at my mouth, then back up to my eyes. Before I could throw myself at him right there against the bar and ruin my career, a hand grabbed my wrist.
“Alright!” Wren yelled over the noise. “They’re playing a fast one! Come on, Sienna—you’re dancing with me.”
“Wren, wait—”
It was no use. She grabbed my hand and pulled me straight into the middle of the dance floor. The band was tearing through a fast, fiddle-heavy song, and people were spinning all around us.
“Just step when I step!” she shouted, grabbing both my hands and grinning. “Quick, quick, slow, slow!”
“I’m terrible at this!”
“You just need to stop thinking!” She spun me under her arm. I stumbled, she caught me, and we both cracked up laughing.
For a few minutes, I let myself enjoy it—the music, the spinning, the heat of the crowd. When the song ended, a tall cowboy in a crisp plaid shirt stepped up beside me, hand out. “Care to dance?”
A month ago, I might have said yes just for the experience. Not tonight.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know how to two-step. I'd crush your boots."
He took the rejection well and turned his smile on Wren instead. She shot me a look over her shoulder as she took his hand. I just waved her off with a wink.
I made my way back through the crowd. Brock was right where I’d left him, stuck talking to a man in a white Stetson. He stood stiffly, giving short nods. The guy was talking away, but Brock's eyes were locked on me the whole time I crossed the room.
Then the guy clapped Brock on his left shoulder. Brock winced in pain and looked away from me.
I was only five feet away when someone stepped right into my path.
“Well, if it isn’t Wilder’s little bunny.”
I stopped short. Dawson stood there with a beer in his hand and a smug grin on his face. Without his riding vest, I almost hadn’t recognized him.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to step around him.
He moved to block me again. “You two put on quite a show today. Rollin’ around in the dirt like that.”
“Move, Dawson.”
He took a slow sip of his beer. “I’m just curious. This whole manager thing—does it just mean following him around with your phone, or is throwing yourself in front of loose horses part of the job too?”
“Getting out of the way is usually the goal,” I said flatly. “You should try it sometime. Maybe if you worried more about your own job instead of mine, you would’ve lasted longer than three seconds today.”
His smirk vanished, his grip tightening around the neck of his beer bottle.
“It’s real easy to talk shit from the safe side of the fence,” he said, raising his voice over the music. “But I’ll bet my whole tab you wouldn’t last four seconds on that thing.”
He jerked his bottle toward the mechanical bull in the center of the room.
It was a beat-up plastic thing wrapped in scuffed fake cowhide, sitting on an inflatable mat.
The motor whined as it spun and flung some guy off hard.
The crowd roared with cheers as the operator killed the machine and started resetting it.
I glanced down at my denim cut-offs and low-cut tank top. It was showing way more cleavage than I remembered. Fantastic. This was easily the worst possible outfit for getting thrown around on a mechanical bull in front of the entire bar.
“That’s what I thought,” Dawson sneered.
I looked back at the bull. Its fake, painted-on red eyes stared blankly across the bar. The tequila was buzzing in my veins, and I was tired of playing it safe.
Screw it. It was my last night.
I met Dawson’s gaze, gave him a sweet, dead-eyed smile, then stomped down hard on his toes with my full weight. He grunted as his beer sloshed everywhere. I didn’t even look back. I turned and marched straight toward the inflatable ring.
The operator raised an eyebrow but still helped me over the padded barrier. I grabbed the worn leather horn, shoved one boot into the stirrup, and started to swing my leg over.
I didn’t even get my other leg across the saddle before a hand clamped onto my hip and yanked me backward. I lost my balance, boots slipping on the mat, and spun straight into a solid wall of muscle—Brock’s chest.
His fingers dug in right above the bruise his belt buckle had left earlier, holding me tight. "Are you out of your damn mind? You’re still hurt.”
“I’m aware,” I shot back, even as my side gave a sharp twinge. “But Dawson bet his whole tab I couldn’t last four seconds, and I’m making a point.”
"You don't have to prove anything to him."
His jaw tightened. He looked past me. I turned to follow his gaze.
Dawson was still standing there holding his beer, but the smirk had completely fallen off his face the second he saw Brock’s expression. He took a quick step back, set his beer down on a nearby table, and disappeared into the crowd.
I crossed my arms, the tequila making me stubborn. “It’s just a fake bull, Brock. It’s fine. Let me go back up there.”
He let out a slow breath.
“No.” He stepped in closer, crowding my space so I had to tilt my head up to look at him. “Look at the front row, Sienna.”
I glanced over his shoulder. Half a dozen guys were lined up along the railing, beers in hand, staring.
“Not one of them is here to watch your technique,” he said.
“I don’t care if they’re watching. It’s my last night. Let me go.”
His jaw flexed. That muscle jumped once before he got control of it. But he didn’t release me.
Instead, he leaned down until his lips brushed the curve of my ear. Then he spoke, his voice rough, each word rumbling against my skin.
"You want to ride something so bad." His grip tightened on my hip. "I'll give you something to ride."
My breath hitched. I looked up at him. His blue eyes were locked on mine, like he was waiting for me to push him away.
Instead, I slid my hand over his wrist.
"Okay," I said.
For a second, he just stared at me, like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. I’d never seen Brock speechless before.
Then something shifted in his face. He held out his hand, and I took it.
People were still staring, but I didn’t care. We pushed through the crowd and headed for the door.
The night air felt cool against my flushed skin. The bar noise faded fast as our boots crunched across the gravel. He didn’t slow until we reached the hotel.
Right outside the door, he stopped and turned to me under the parking lot lights.
"You sure about this?" His voice came out rough.
I stepped into him, grabbed his shirt with both hands, and kissed him.
He made a low, hungry sound and pulled me in hard, his arm wrapping tight around my waist. His mouth opened under mine, and the parking lot, the plane ticket, everything that wasn’t him, slipped away.