Page 8 of Playing Dirty
I grinned and pulled up a stool. “You realize we’re tracking deer, not insurgents.”
“You never know,” he said, deadpan. “I once watched a raccoon unzip a tent. Smart little bastards.”
Joe emerged from the back room, holding a stained coffee cup—same one he’d had for years. “Ready to order the trail cams, huh? Every fall, the hunting trips are the same—too much testosterone and not enough elk.”
“Hey,” I said, pointing to the catalog, “we’re helping the ecosystem. Population tracking for the wildlife service.”
“Right,” Joe snorted. “And I suppose the jerky in your glove box is just coincidence?”
Sawyer finally looked up. “We’re going with the Stealth Pro HDs. Cellular sync, solar panel backup, and they got infrared tags for night footage.”
Joe gave a low whistle. “Damn. You boys planning to catch Bigfoot or somethin’?”
“Ghosts or women,” I muttered under my breath, flipping through a nearby flyer.
Sawyer didn’t miss a beat. “Same thing sometimes.”
That earned a chuckle from Joe, who shook his head and reached for his order pad. “Alright, I’ll get two of those and pass my discount on to you. Might take a couple of days to get them from the warehouse.”
I nodded and leaned back, watching as Joe scribbled down the info. “No need for the discount. We’re good.”
Joe winked. “Thanks, boys.”
The heater clanked to life above us, fighting a losing battle against the chill sneaking in from under the door.
But it wasn’t the cold that had me off-kilter.
I kept thinking about Callie—how crisp she looked behind the counter today, hair pulled back, voice all business. She hadn’t smiled when I teased her, not really. But something flickered. A shadow of what used to be. Before Matt. Before I opened my dumb mouth and called the guy a loser.
Not that I was wrong. Just… poorly timed.
“You good?” Sawyer asked, breaking into my thoughts.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah. Just thinking about the snow rolling in.”
Sawyer raised a brow. “Winter storm’s supposed to hit tonight. Let me guess, you don’t have a date, and your cat ran away. So, you’ve got no one to keep you warm.”
Joe chuckled. “Bachelor life soundin’ real glamorous over there, Rhett.”
"It has its perks," I said, forcing a grin. "Like not having to explain spending a thousand dollars on new boots."
But the truth? Nights like this, with the wind picking up and the sky turning dark early—it got a little quiet. A little too quiet.
“You two should hit the Rusty Nail. Different vibe than Ropers,” Joe said. “Warm food. Live jukebox. Might even be some ladies there to look at your pretty faces.”
I was about to crack a joke, but Sawyer nodded. “Actually, that doesn’t sound bad.”
I stood and adjusted my hat. “Hell, why not. If nothing else, I can drink a whiskey and pretend my new ranch house doesn’t feel like a cave.”
Joe laughed. “Try not to start any fights tonight.”
Sawyer saluted. “Not unless someone makes fun of Rhett’s new Stetson.”
As we walked out, the wind caught the door and slammed it shut behind us.
For the first time in a while, I wasn’t in a rush to head home.
The Rusty Nail leaned more toward a wine bar than a watering hole, all reclaimed wood and soft lighting with a live-edge counter that stretched the length of the room. Edison bulbs glowed amber above the booths, and the quiet hum of a well-tuned jukebox played something bluesy in the background.
