Page 10 of Boulder's Weight

After a quick shower, I put on jeans and a simple black tank top—nothing flashy, nothing memorable.

I secure my hair in a loose ponytail and add just enough makeup to look put together without drawing attention.

The night air is warmer than I'm used to when I step outside.

Chihuahua's heat is different from Montana's—drier, more relentless, even in the evening.

I walk quickly, eyes scanning my surroundings out of habit.

Looking for exits, for threats, for familiar faces that shouldn't be here.

I don’t know why, though. I’m not going to find anyone. For goodness sake, I’m in an entirely different country.

The bar—La Cantina, according to the neon sign—is busy but not packed.

Good. It’ll be easier to blend in with a decent crowd.

I take a seat at the bar, ordering my usual—a whiskey neat—and let myself relax a bit.

The bartender sets the drink in front of me with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

The whiskey burns pleasantly down my throat, washing away some of the tension that's been my constant companion since Montana.

I'm nursing my second drink when I feel it—that prickle on the back of my neck that tells me I'm being watched.

Instinctively, my body tenses, ready to flee.

I scan the room casually, trying not to look alarmed, when my eyes land onhim.

Fuck.

It can't be.

But it is.

Across the room, leaning against the wall with a beer in his hand, is Boulder.

The fucking prospect from Montana.

The guy I fucked in a bathroom at the dive bar next door.

Jesus, what kind of luck do I have?

For a moment, I consider making a run for it.

But it's too late.

Our eyes lock, and I see the exact moment he spots me.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He pushes away from the wall, making his way toward me with that confident swagger that had drawn me to him in the first place.

My heart pounds in my chest.

This is bad. So fucking bad.

What is he doing in Mexico?

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