Page 3 of Ridin' Free
I didn’t know whattime it was or how much I’d had to drink—only that I’d managed to keep up with Twister thus far, and I was definitely drunk.
He returned to the table with two more shots of tequila, and I groaned as I glanced over my shoulder. There were people still out on the dance floor, but this wasn’t the kind of party that would go all night. I needed to sober up. I didn’t plan on staying in town until morning, and I wouldn’t get behind the wheel drunk.
“One more and I’m done,” I told Twister as he occupied the seat next to mine.
He, too, looked back over his shoulder before he flashed a crooked smile my way. “This party ain’t wrappin’ up anytime soon. What’s the rush?”
I picked up the shot glass, threw back the clear liquid, grimaced as it went down and then grabbed a wedge of limefrom the bowl Twister commandeered earlier. After I sucked out the juice, I tossed the rind on the table and replied, “Wasn’t plannin’ on stayin’ the night. If I don’t stop drinkin’ now, I’ll never sober up.”
“All the groomsmen are stayin’. We each rented out an A-frame,” he said, speaking of the little cabins situated not too far from the barn. “You could stay, too.”
No sooner had he made the offer than he threw his own shot back. As he did it, he didn’t take his eyes off me. I couldn’t tell if it was the tequila or my imagination—but it felt a little like he was coming onto me.
When he slammed his glass down on the table, I watched as his eyes fell to catch a glimpse of my cleavage. I didn’t have much—but I had enough. Not to mention, I was sure he’d never seen me in a dress before. It was nothing fancy. Black, polyester-blend, with a red floral pattern printed on it. The sleeves clung to the middle of my biceps, and the hem hung loose around my black, combat Doc Marten’s. The neck was wide and dipped low enough that he wasn’t looking at nothing.
Nevertheless, it caught me by surprise.
He'd never come on to me before.
As if he could sense my confusion, after he sucked the juice out of his lime, he tossed it over his shoulder, leaned against the elbow he had propped on the table and asked, “Wanna fuck?”
A smirk curled the corner of my mouth as I freed a clipped laugh.
It was the dress. I couldn’t explain it any other way.
I lived in cotton tee-shirts and denim. I wore just enough makeup to fill my tip-jar, and I let my long, red, curly-wavy hair hang loose and untamed because to hell with a flatiron. But that night—drunk, in a dress, and out from behind the bar—Twister thought he saw the woman in me.
I propped myself against my own elbow, leaned in close, and muttered, “You don’t wanna fuck me, brown-eyes.”
“Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t want to,” he countered.
I couldn’t say for sure, but it might have been possible that last shot of tequila woke my libido. Suddenly, Twister’s gaze left me tempted. But the knife on my hip wasn’t the only reason why I hadn’t bedded a Stallion. I’d been scratching that itch one way and one way only for years now.
“Too bad for you, I only fuck men who’re down for a ride,” I told him. “And you don’t strike me as the docile type, Stallion.”
He grinned, revealing a set of perfect teeth as his thick mustache spread wide across his upper lip. He leaned closer still, and all at once, the tequila wasn’t the only thing going to my head.
Cedar. Amber. Leather.
I breathed him in as he said, “Baby, you wanna ride, I’ll be your Stallion. Just say the word.”
Six years I’d known this man.
Never once had I thought about putting him inside of me.
I fucked strangers. I fucked men with half his muscle mass and even less prowess. It had been nearly a decade since I even thought about riding someone as handsome or formidable as him. Men like Twister wanted control—control I was unwilling to relinquish.
Except, I couldn’t help but to consider it.
One night with a real man.
One night with a Stallion.
We both knew that’s all it would be. We were drinking, not bonding. I didn’t know any more about him than he knew about me. So far as I was concerned, the only real reason we were sitting next to each other was because we were two single people at a wedding we didn’t want to be at. The next day, I’d put my denim back on, I’d return to my post, and I’d be nothing morethan the bar wench with the knife on her hip. He would go on being the VP of the Wild Stallions Motorcycle Club and the manager at Horsepower Auto-Supply.
But until then—I couldn’t deny he was offering me a chance.
He was offering me one night to pretend.
