Page 1 of His Ex's Little Sister
1
Reid
Ican barely registerthe thrum of the guitar player on stage here at the Whiskey Jacks Saloon. He’s playing country western music, and wearing a plaid button down shirt and fringe along the sides of his tan chaps that cover his jeans, no less. Who can’t appreciate a cowboy in plaid and fringe? There are so few of us can actually pull that off. Usually I’m all about acoustic guitars, but not tonight. At the moment, my mind is on the redhead at the mic. I can’t take my eyes off the subtle swing of her hips as she sways to keep time. My breath stops short at the rise and fall of her chest when she holds a longer note as she delivers what I believe is the sweetest, sexiest rendition of Dolly Parton’sHere You Come Againthat I’ve everheard.
Something in her eyes tells me that she’s had her own experience of the guy described in this song. Maybe that’s just raw talent, the ability to personalize the song as though she has lived through it. But I doubt it. This little lady’s been through the ringer. I just know it from that extra layer of sadness she croons out for the part of the song that talks about him messing with her mind and overtaking her senses. I’d put money on it that she has a sorry-ass sonofabitch in her life, and she keeps breaking up over and over again with that same smug bastard who has her heart wrapped up with pain, disappointment, and lies because she can’tresisthim.
Maybe that dickbag is herpoison.
Well, helloDolly.
I can behercure.
My eyes take their own sweet time grazing down her body. The tan Stetson at the top of her head accentuates the contrast between her creamy skin and her fiery red hair. I memorize the contours of her big blue eyes, perfect little nose, and plump lips. Every feature on her pretty, heart-shaped face and slender neck fits with the others. Even the tiny mole an inch above the left side of her top lip ischarming.
I let my eyes stray past her collarbone to her sleeveless black top that lovingly hugs her breasts, causing the fabric to strain just a little over her nipples. Its V-neck isn’t as deep as I’d like it to be, but it shows just enough cleavage to cause me to want to see more. My gaze pauses at her tiny waist. A black leather belt with copper or brass rivets is looped through her white flared mini skirt. The skirt itself may be puffy, but it only serves to ignite my imagination as it hides her shapely hips and round ass. Even so, I’m still grateful that the skirt ends mid-thigh, allowing me to experience her creamy, smooth long legs that go on for miles and miles until they meet her scuffed, dusty pink-colored Lucchese cowboy boots with the sassy, flowing leather fringes oneachside.
I try to picture how different she might look without the contrasting lights and shadows cast by the stage spotlights tilting down from the ceiling. There’s no doubt in my mind she’ll be just as gorgeous outside under the blinding Nevada sun, or in the dead of night, lying in my bed with her hair fanned out on my pillow and her legs slightly parted as she begs me toclaimher.
Callitlust.
Call itattraction.
I don’t care what you call it, but she has my fullattention.
I silently wish that I’d paid attention to Rusty, the bar owner, when he introduced her earlier tonight. Damn straight I’ll be listening for her name at the end ofherset.
My focus on the hot little number is rudely diverted by a large calloused hand waving in front of my face. That hand is attached to the twenty-six-year-old, six-foot-four Jaden Pratt, my best buddy and the youngest of the four co-owners of Allied Force Security LLCwithme.
“What the fuck do you want?” I ask, pushing his hand away as I give him an impatient, cuttingglare.
Jaden grins, showing off his perfectly straight teeth. He runs the same hand through his light blond hair. “Dude, if you eye-fuck her for much longer, she’s liable to notice. Don’t scare her away before you even get to say hi. Or is crazy-eyed stalker-creep actually the look that you’re going for?” hejokes.
“How about you head over to the corner of fuck off and mind your own damn business?” I grunt, giving him ascowl.
“Keep it down,” Leo Connelly whispers his order from beside Jaden. “What the hell is wrong withyoutwo?”
At thirty-two, and as president of our security firm, Leo’s gruff, no-nonsense baritone voice commands obedience. It doesn’t help that with his stocky yet muscular six-foot-five build, he carries himself as if he’s still Captain of the Alpha Company, Third Battalion, First Special Forces Group where we all served for two tours. Not one of us has ever questioned his leadership, not back when we were out in the field, or now that we’re civilians, or even here sitting in thissaloon.
No one except for his kid brother, Beau. Beau is a slightly leaner, six-foot-seven facsimile of Leo. Same sandy brown hair and eyes, same square jaw, same predilection for plaid shirts, denim jeans and leather cowboy boots, but that’s where the similarities end. Beau happens to be sitting to my right with a cigarette—no, a joint—tucked behind his left ear, partially hiding under his mop-like hairstyle he wears now that we’re ex-military.
“Hush the hell up,” Beau tells his big brother with playful defiance in his eyes, and eyebrows raised high on his forehead. Picking up his beer mug, he takes a big gulp of the brew, shifts his gaze to me and adds in a whisper, “Which one of us do you think she’s into? Seems like she’s been checking out our table since she got onstage.”
I shrug, returning my focus to the stunning woman. The way I see it, I caught sight of her first, so everyone else needs to keep their dicks in theirpants.
I’ve gotfirstdibs.
Then I remember that Beau has a hankering for Betty-Anne, one of the waitresses who regularly works the night shift here at the saloon. She’s a pretty little blonde, but as they’ve been hooking up casually for months, the rest of us kept our distance. That’s part of our code. It’s smarterthatway.
Beau leans back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the floor as he looks around the saloon, probably forBetty-Anne.
Now that everyone at my table has quieted down, I can go back to enjoying the sexy sounds of the woman on stage. I don’t waste any time when she gets to the end of the song. While the crowd gives her an enthusiastic round of applause, I announce to the guys at my table that I’ve got the next round of beers and excuse myself to head to the bar. The sultry country western singer deserves some ice-coldrefreshmenttoo.
Crossing the large, dim room with extra determination in my step, I stop at the end of the bar closest to thestage.
“Another pitcher of beer, Rusty,” I tell the middle-aged owner across the deep mahoganycountertop.
Rusty nods. “Coming right up,” he says, turning to the back counter. He reaches into the lower cupboards and retrieves a cleanpitcher.
