Page 36 of Ridin' Free
He took a step toward me, bent a finger, and traced it along my jaw before nudging my head back.
“How honest you want me to be about what you look like right now.”
I flinched. “What isthatsupposed to mean?”
“Don’t blame you for cryin’, sparky—don’t regret how it all played out, either. And while I appreciate the way you kiss like a ragin’ storm, I know better than to think you won’t kick my ass if I don’t tell you, you look like you’ve been caught in the rain.”
I jerked my chin away from his touch, irritated by how embarrassed I suddenly felt. Though, I couldn’t say I was exactly surprised. I didn’t own waterproof mascara. Crying in public wasn’t a concern I usually had.
Regardless of the fact that he’d already seen the wreckage, I turned my back on Twister as I pulled up the camera app on my phone. With the lens facing me, I did my best to wipe away the mess of my smudged makeup. It wasn’t perfect—and I didn’t carry back-ups in my purse—but I’d survive. The lighting in the bar was shit, anyway.
Satisfied, I pocketed my phone, spun on my heel and forced a fake smile up at Twister. “Better?”
He grinned, the expression completely and utterly genuine. “You’re askin’ the wrong person. You looked good enough to eat thirty seconds ago as much as you do now.”
I rolled my eyes. “Do me a favor, don’t kiss my ass,” I insisted, headed toward the door.
My hand was on the knob when he shot back, “Noted. Can’t promise I won’t bite, though.”
There was a twinge of excitement in my belly at his words and all they implied. As I glanced back at him from over my shoulder, I tried my damnedest not to show it—but when I wrenched the door open and began to make my way toward the exit, I heard his quiet chuckle, and I knew the bastard could tell.
I was halfway down the hall when he called out, “Hey, sparky?”
“Quit callin’ me that,” I insisted, halting once more.
“Why? You keep answerin’ to it.”
He had a point. I really needed to work on that.
“Your out-of-town problem,” he went on to say. “Consider it handled.”
Truth be told, I wasn’t quite sure what it meant to hand my problem over to the Stallions. Not exactly. But I knew one thing for certain—I didn’t really care.
I dipped my chin in a nod, then continued my journey back to the bar.
When I pushedmyway through the swinging door behind the bar, Rodeo was quick to look my direction. “Yo. You good?”
I met his eyes for a moment, and I knew instantly the mental blockers I’d thrown up were so fragile, they were almost useless. I then shot a quick glance at Mustang and found the same stoic look of concern written all over his face.
He wasn’t behind the bar earlier—but it was obvious he’d been given a play by play. For the first time since I started my life over in Gillette, a part of me had been exposed against my will. Rodeo didn’t ask about my mother or the asshole to whom she’d tied herself. He didn’t ask about the scene I made earlier, why Twister carried me out kicking, or where I’d been for the last forty minutes—and yet, I felt stripped bare in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
“Fine,” I muttered, lying for the second time.
Shepherd, who was still seated at the bar, called out, “Wouldn’t mind a shot of whiskey.”
Happy to have the excuse to do something, I reached for a shot glass, grabbed a bottle of our best bourbon, and poured. When I set his order in front of him, he didn’t reach for it.
Pushing it back my direction, he dipped his chin and murmured, “On me, darlin’.”
I stared at him, realization dawning that perhaps these men knew me better than they let on.
Or maybe I’d tricked myself into thinking my shield was bulletproof.
Either way, the knot suddenly lodged in my throat made it hard to swallow.
But I sure as fuck had no intention of crying again.
“Go on,” Shep pressed. “Throw it back.”
