Page 8 of Chasing Wildflowers
Right at nine, the front door opens and Kam’s voice rings out. “I’m here, bitch!”
I swipe red lipstick across my lips in the bathroom mirror. “In here!” I call, pressing them together to even out the red sheen.
Byron never let me wear lipstick. Said it made me look like a slut and accused me of wearing it for other men. Now, I wear it whenever the hell I want.
Kam appears behind me in the door, her gaze sweeping me from head to boots. “Damnnnn girl.”
After dragging myself out of my bubblebath, I changed into a denim mini-skirt, a white tank that shows just a hint of my midriff, and my favorite black-and-tan cowgirl boots. Cute but simple.
Kam on the other hand is anything but simple.
I laugh, turning toward her. “Damn yourself.”
Kam is a knockout; curly blonde hair, baby blue eyes, curves for days. She could wear a trash bag and still stop traffic. Tonight, in stilettos and a painted-on dress? She’s lethal.
I arch a brow and rest my hands on my hips. “You do realize we’re just going to the local dive bar, not some club in the city?”
She gives her hips a shimmy. “I dress to impress no matter where I go.”
I shake my head, an easy smile on my lips. She’s everything I’m not; authentic, unapologetic, herself. And I love her for it.
Walking intoThe Broken Bottleon a Friday or Saturday night is like walking into a town hall meeting. Every local in a ten-mile radius packs inside to blow off steam and listen to the band play 90’s country covers in the back near the pool tables.
Kam and I weave our way through the crowd, stopping every few feet to chat, our voices barely carrying over the music flowing through the bar.
Rodney’s smug smile slides into place when he sees us approaching. “I thought you weren’t coming out tonight?”
I nod toward Kam and pull a twenty from my pocket, slapping it on the counter. “You try saying no to this maniac.”
He chuckles, pocketing the bill. “Why do you think I bet you?”
Kam shrugs and looks around the bar, her head bobbing along with the music, completely unbothered. “I wanted to watch the band.”
We grab our drinks and make our way to the dance floor, weaving through bodies pressed close, voices raising above the song.
By my third drink, I’m warm, laughing, and loose. Ryan and Brad, regulars from the next town over, find us and ask us to dance. They’re harmless, flannel-and-Levi’s rugged, and we always say yes. It’s easy, fun, and safe.
I’m so caught up in the music, in the carefree rhythm of hips and clapping hands, that I almost forget why I thought I needed a quiet night in.
Almost.
That is, until the hairs on the back of my neck lift. That sixth sense I’ve learned not to ignore. Someone’s watching me.
I lift my gaze and slam into a pair of storm-gray eyes. He’s leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed, unmoving. Those eyes lock onto me, intense and unreadable.
My chest tightens. The crowd blurs. The music dulls to a low murmur. The air turns heavy and thick, making it hard to breathe.
“Who is that?” Kam yells over the band, following my stare.
I don’t answer.
I can’t, because everything inside is telling me that this time, he’s not just passing through. He’s here forme.
Four
Jameson
Music pulses through the bar as I lean against the wall, arms crossed, the beat vibrating through my chest. My gaze zeros in on Lane; right there in the middle of the crowded dance floor, laughing with her best friend, Kameron Reed. Her head tips back, her dark waves catching the neon lights as she twirls, completely carefree.
