Page 2 of Ridin' Free
Jealousy implied I wanted what she had.
I didn’t. I knew better.
I wasn’t good. Not like her. Not likethem.
I didn’t deserve that kind of happiness. The contentment I’d managed to find in my life was more than I ever dreamed I’d possess.
I’d learned not to be greedy; therefore, I wasn’t jealous.
On the contrary, it brought me a measure of peace knowing there were good women out there who found themselves in the arms of good men. Men who didn’t lie, manipulate, or bruise.
I couldn’t resent the women around me for their good fortune. I wouldn’t wish the nightmares of my past on anyone.
I was happy for Alexia—even if I thought rustic weddings in fancy barns were ridiculous.
Even if I felt like an imposter in a dress.
Even if the devil inside of me was feeding on my rotten core, reminding me of all I’d never had and all I never would.
I was pulled from my thoughts when someone grabbed the empty chair behind me, put it down beside me, and filled it with his large frame.
Twister.
He was in a pair of black chinos I’d bet all the money in my savings he’d worn exactly twice; both times out of loyalty to the brothers who asked him to stand as a groomsman on their wedding day. The white button-up he had on underneath his kutte was fastened closed during the ceremony, but he wore it open now—revealing the black tank he had on underneath it. The sleeves were rolled up over his forearms, exposing the ink that went from his elbows down to his knuckles.
“You look like you’re havin’ as much fun as I am, which is not nearly enough,” he muttered through a smirk. He draped hisarm across the back of my chair and leaned toward me as he continued, “Wanna get drunk?”
Twister, like most of the Wild Stallions in the Gillette chapter, was an old acquaintance. Seeing as I wasn’t blind, there was no denying he was a handsome son-of-a-bitch. It was the full, thick, russet beard and the overgrown, wavy hair that did it for me.
The hairier the man, the more tolerable he was to look at.
He’d positioned himself close enough I caught a whiff of his scent. Woodsy and spicy, like cedar and amber. There was also the fragrance of leather and his own unique, natural musk.
Wild—like a cowboy.
Wild—like the Stallion he was.
I knew, despite the mischievous twinkle in his dark brown eyes, his invitation was completely innocent. The knife I regularly wore on my hip—the one strapped to my thigh that night—garnered me a reputation on the compound. All the Stallions knew I wasn’t a sheep; neither was I to be toyed with. Not that I imagined any of them found me intimidating. I was five-foot-two and weighed a buck-ten. Even the smallest among them had me by at least fifty pounds. But that didn’t matter. They respected me.
I’d broken up enough bar fights during my tenure at Steel Mustang to earn me that much.
I’d been roaming amongst the Stallions for almost six years, and never once had I partied with them. Not that I didn’t enjoy a drink every now and again—but I tried not to shit where I ate.
Except, at present, I wasn’t behind the bar. I wasn’t even in Wyoming. I was at a wedding. I was in a fucking dress. More than that, I apparently wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping my thoughts off my face. Not if Twister, of all people, noticed.
I glanced back out onto the dance floor. Wrangler whispered something in Alexia’s ear that made her whole face go soft before she curled herself even tighter against his chest.
For a split second, I remembered the man I once called mine—dressed in all black, clean shaven with dark, slicked back hair, standing at the end of the aisle in a Vegas chapel that was every bit as cliché as it sounded.
I blinked and shook away the thought as fast as I could.
God, I hated weddings.
I sighed, redirecting my gaze to meet Twister’s.
“Yeah,” I finally answered. “Yeah, I do.”
He grinned. “Fuck, yeah.”
