Page 7 of Cry, Little Dove

I deserve a little snack, dammit!

Cursing, I flatten the bill against the glass and try again. More buzzing. Then finally, the dim LED display shows a $2 balance. I make my selection and the metal spiral inside the machine turns to release a small bag of off-brand BBQ chips.

I’m about to clap with excitement. My stomach growls like a wild animal and this isn’t a proper dinner, but it’ll have to do. Less food means I’ll get drunk faster, which is a good thing. The crisp packet tilts forward and gets stuck—half caught in the spiral.

“Shit! I can’t fucking believe this!” I whine.

I massage my temples as I scan the motel parking lot and the dark front office. The resident creep must have gone to sleep in the back room earlier than usual, and the thought of waking him to fix the issue makes me wince.

Hoping for a miracle that won’t happen, I press the same numbers on the machine again. Nothing moves. I push against the side and attempt to shake the metal colossus, but it won’t budge. The air rushes from my lungs. Defeated, I lean my forehead against the cool glass, holding back sudden tears.

How silly to be in pieces about a packet of chips.

I won’t cry. I won’t cry. I won’t—

“Do you need help, darlin’?” a deep, smooth voice drawls.

I jump. My ankle rolls and I trip, losing my balance. Before I fall, a firm grip closes around my wrist, pulling me against something hard. And warm.

A body.

More precisely, a broad chest covered by an open, red flannel with a black t-shirt underneath.

My heart turns upside down as I spot a large, rough hand wrapped around my bare arm, keeping me upright. The fingertips and wide palm are calloused, the dry heat of the stranger’s skin searing into me.

A snake’s head is tattooed on his wrist, winding through roses along a thick forearm, muscles cording beneath sun-kissed skin. Its tail disappears under a rolled-up sleeve at his elbow. I bend my neck as far back as I can to meet a green gaze glimmering beneath the brim of a black cowboy hat.

The man runs his free hand over the dark stubble along his sharp jaw, drawing my attention to a photorealistic tattoo of a forest and a broad river on this arm. No doubt it continues beneath his clothes.

Christ,twoarm sleeves? And so far, all his tattoos are black and white, like most of mine. I’ve always had a weakness for guys with ink, but monochrome is my favorite kind.

The slight wrinkles around his eyes deepen as he tilts his head and gives me a lopsided smirk. He seems oddly familiar. Do I know him from somewhere?

His height makes me feel small and despite the alarm bells going off in my head as I notice the hunting knife at his belt, I can’t help the throb between my legs.

Being this handsome should be a criminal offence.

He oozes a dangerous sort of charm, making the hairs on my arms stand. I want to run away and melt into him at the same time. The longer I stare at him, the stronger that vague feeling of recognition gets until realization hits me like a ton of bricks. My lungs stop.

Oh God, this guy looks like he stepped straight from that dirty dream I had last night!

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “I shouldn’t’ve crept up on you like that, but you looked upset.” He has a Southern accent with a twist, like he trained himself to hide his natural speech mannerisms, but they sneak in anyway.

I blink, stupefied, my pulse hammering in my throat.

“Are you alright?” he asks and tugs gently on my arm.

I snap out of my trance, becoming very aware of his fingers still wrapped around my wrist. With considerable effort, I continue to breathe like a normal person and inhale the scent streaming off him. Tobacco. Whisky. Something woodsy with a hint of musk, perhaps cologne.

Delicious.

I have to stop myself from burying my nose in his chest and sniffing him like a weirdo.

I thank past me for using the last few spritzes of my favorite perfume after the shower. It’s an expensive fragrance called “Sinner” I won from a raffle at a beauty supply store. I hope it’s doing its job, making me seem mysterious and seductive to him, despite literally falling into his arms and gawking at him like a deer in the headlights.

“I, uh—the…” Stammering, I glance at the vending machine. How embarrassing. My brain isn’t great at functioning hungover, starving, and entirely scrambled by the gorgeous stranger holding me prisoner. Figuratively.

His grin turns into full-blown laughter, deepening the cute smile lines on his face. I guess he’s in his late thirties.

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