Page 20 of Bad Cowboy, Tennessee

“Bourbon andgin?Mixed together? Now I really am going to puke,” Jesse said.

“Trust me,” I said, “it’s good. The salted lemon rind brings it together.The Revolver. I love that.”

“Don’t tell Ghost Cat about the hidden gun,” Mason said. “You’ll come in here to find it knocked on the floor.”

I snorted.

The running joke at the Hard Spot—myrunning joke, which Kane hated—was that there must be a cat haunting the bar.

Was it really haunted? No. Probably not. But anytime I found a syrup bottle knocked over or a random cabinet left open, I liked to think it was the spirit of the former bookstore owner’s beloved cat. This building used to be a bookstore, and Kane had bought the place and renovated it, making it a homey saloon.

Pretending there was a ghost cat made me happy, and our customers loved it, too. Sometimes it was just a joke, other times I swore it was real.

“Only thing that’s going to berevolvingis the doorway full of gay dudes in Max’s comments,” Andrew said. “Brings new meaning to the nameCocktail bro.”

There was no chance I was the “straightest” guy my friends knew.

A dark thought tugged at the corners of my mind.

Something I wasn’t going to share with the guys.

This morning, I’d jogged over toward my parents’ place. I’d been hoping to find Lily and talk to her one-on-one. Tell her what happened with Draven, and warn her, and inevitably have herignoremy warnings.

But my parents’ entire house was empty. When I went into the guest bedroom, Lily and Draven had both already left for the day, too.

And then on top of the guest room dresser, I’d caught a glimpse of black.

The work shirt that Draven had been wearing last night.

Next to it, there was a small stack of crisp hundred dollar bills that he’d left there, and on top of them, a black switchblade acting as a paperweight.

I reached out and grabbed the shirt in my fist, feeling the undoubtedly expensive, fine material in my hands.

I brought it up to my nose.

I inhaled deeply, bringing in that intoxicating scent. A little bit of vanilla, a little bit of warm clove, and even a hint of whiskey.

Why, why, why am I cursed and blessed with a sensitive nose and tongue?

It was why I had a way with unique cocktail recipes, but… taste and scent could also do wild things to me. And as I smelled Draven’s, first I felt a hot flare of anger.

Selfish fucking asshole.

Terrifying me and then reveling in my fear.

My powerlessness.

And then I took another breath, and the image of his tongue ring flashed back into my mind.

I started to get hard again.

Not a half-chub. Not a coincidental mistake.

I had gotten hard, taking in Draven’s scent, and there was no chance it was just from adrenaline this time. I’d always thought tongue rings on girls were pretty hot, but Draven certainly wasn’t a girl.

For fuck’s sake.

A deep, confused guilt rolled in. His scent was distinctly masculine, too, sharp and imposing at first, but with something soft in the background. Something way too inviting.

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