I laughed. “No, I definitely do not drink wine now, but thank you for being so open-minded, cowboy.”
“So beer then?” he guessed.
He’d guessed correctly. “Beer then.”
“My choice?”
“Your choice,” I said, lifting a finger, “so long as it isn’t a cheap one. I didn’t go through seven—almost eight—years of college drinking PBR and Rainier to graduate and still drink cheap beer.”
Chance shoved back from the table. “So beer. But no cheap beer,” he counted off on his fingers. “I think those conditions mean you don’t want the ‘usual.’”
He was talking, teasing me even, making eye contact, and working on a smile. The night was looking up.
“Fine, surprise me,” I said with a wave. “Just so long as its not-cheap beer.”
He nodded, his eyes smiling. “I’ll be right back.”
I watched him weave through the crowd to the bar. Wild Bill’s wasn’t as packed as I’d seen the place, but it was busy for a Thursday night. Summer was just getting into its swing, and the weather was heating up. In another week of two, that place would probably be standing room only. I was glad tonight wasn’t like that though because I got to watch Chance the whole way across the room, not even missing every woman whose head turned as he passed or smiled as he approached.
Chance had always turned his fair share of heads when we’d gone out, and he’d turned down half as many advances . . . in the politest, most sensitive way of course. One night, a girl had had her eyes on him the whole time, and when she worked up the courage to come over and ask him for a dance just to hear him say no thank you and incline his head at me as an explanation, she’d actually cried right there in front of us. Instead of sprinting away from crazy town, Chance handed her the Kleenex from his back pocket and invited her to play a game of darts with us.
Chance knew the meaning of letting a person down gently from the inside out.
When he approached the bar, a couple bartenders came up to help him, shaking his hand and talking as if they were old friends. I didn’t recognize either of them, so that meant Chance had met them since I’d left—which meant he’d come to Wild Bill’s without me. For whatever silly reason, that made me feel a bit betrayed. It was unfounded and baseless, but still . . . this place had always felt like ours. We’d never invited anyone but each other—except for Chase tonight, who’d wound up bailing anyway. It felt like a place I couldn’t go without him and he couldn’t go without me. Except he had, and from the looks of all of the employees coming up and saying hi, he had a lot.
When one of the young cocktail waitresses in a tight T-shirt and a high ponytail bounced up to him and dropped her hand into the same bend of his arm I’d had my hand in half an hour ago, I felt an emotion I wasn’t used to feeling with Chance: jealousy. I wasn’t used to feeling that emotion stir deep inside me, but right now, it was so scalding I felt like it was burning me from the inside out. I felt it rising, about to erupt in flames, when tight-shirt girl beamed at him as if he was the most incredible person in the world . . . because she was right. Chance was the best person in the world, and I didn’t like anyone else knowing that. I wanted that to be my secret.
God, I needed to get a grip. My hands were actually curling into such tight fists that my fingernails were digging into my palms to the point of pain. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen Chance get hit on, but it was the first time I’d cared. Or I’d been worried. Before, I’d always known he’d come back no matter who threw herself at him. Now I found myself doubting that confidence.
The girl engaging him in some sort of conversation was pretty in that cute, perky way. If I took a step back from the bitch ledge, she had a nice smile and looked like an all-around sweet girl. She could have been the female equivalent of Chance Armstrong. She could have been the embodiment of every male dream and fantasy and desire. She could have been the kindest, most generous, compassionate person to ever walk the earth.
I didn’t care—I still wanted to scratch her eyes out.
Especially when that hand fanned up, brushing long strokes up and down his arm. While my body battled the urge to cross the room and remove that roaming hand by whatever means necessary, all my mind could think about was how I wanted him back at my side right that moment. I might have become my worst nightmare—a clingy, possessive girl who couldn’t see straight or think right where her guy was involved. Not that Chance was my guy . . . in a set-in-stone, defined sort of way . . . but Chance, in our own way, had always been my guy.
My eyes narrowed into razor-thin slits when ponytail-beamer leaned in closer, “inadvertently” brushing her endowments against his arm. That was it—she’d crossed a line. This means war. Kicking the rail of the table to vent some irritation, I started for the bar. Was I about to get in a catfight? Was I seriously about to rip a girl’s hand from her wrist if she didn’t take it off Chance? Was I really stooping to this low and about to fulfill the crazy bitch stereotype?
Damn right I was.
I’d made it a whole two steps before someone cut in front of me, blocking my path. “Excuse me.” I barely gave the guy a second look before moving around him.
“You’re not excused,” he replied, stepping in front of me again. His smile crept higher on one side when I bumped into him in my attempt to get around him again. “You’re definitely not excused.”
My eyeballs lifted to the rafters. Chance had shaken off his share of advances at Wild Bill’s, and I’d shaken off almost as many. That was why we usually stuck to each other like glue, but in the whole two minutes we’d been separated, both of us had been hit on. Apparently there were a lot of lonely, horny people in Jackson Hole.
“And you’re definitely about to get your ass kicked if you don’t take your hand off me and step aside,” I said.
The guy’s hand dropped from my arm, but he slipped in front of me again when I went to dodge around him. “What? Do you think I’m afraid of your boyfriend? He’s probably some college pussy who wouldn’t know how to use his fist for anything other than jerking off.”
Another eyeball roll to the rafters. This guy was a few years older than me, but either he hadn’t seen Chance and me together or Chance was his definition of a college pussy with a single-minded fist.
“I don’t need any guy to fight my fights or kick someone’s ass.” I stood up straighter so he could see I was almost as tall as him, thanks to boots with a bit of a heel. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
The guy snorted. “Ha. That’s a good one. The idea of a broad taking care of herself.”
“Wow. Your chauvinism is simply astounding. Good for you.” I lifted my hands and clapped in his face. “I’d be happy to give you a personal education in how this broad takes care of herself.” I was debating whether to go for the hard shove or move straight into the kick to the shins—a personal favorite and one Chance had taught me when we’d first started coming to this place and the advances had begun—when a large frame slid between the two of us.
“Is there a problem?” Chance asked, holding himself in a way that demonstrated just how much size he had on the other guy. By comparison, the guy looked bite-sized.
“Why? You think you’re the guy to solve it?” Bite-Size asked, doing his best to make himself as tall as he wasn’t.
“Yeah, I think I am the guy who’s going to solve it.” Chance’s back was toward me, but I could tell from his voice what his expression was—and it was a look I sure didn’t want to be on the other side of.
“So how you going to solve this problem, hot shot? With your fat checkbook? Your fancy-suit lawyer? Impress me with how you’re going to solve it.”
Not all rednecks were “rednecks,” however, this one was the king. Go me for attracting the biggest asshole in the place.
Chance glanced at me for the shortest moment, as if he was worried I might disappear. His eyes were narrowing as he turned his head back toward the other guy. “I’m going to s
olve it however it needs solving. You’re the one who started this problem. I’m the one who’s going to end it, but you get to decide how that end comes about.”
Chance was never first in line for a fight. He wasn’t the kind of guy who latched on to any and every opportunity to throw down and prove his testosterone was the greatest. But that didn’t mean he avoided them at all costs either. Conn and Chase had been in way more fights than Chance ever had been, but Chance had the better record: undefeated. Probably because when he got in a fight, it was something really worth fighting for.
“Kiss my ass, you piece of shit,” the guy said before spitting on the floor.
And the stereotypes kept flooding in.
“Is that how you want this to end? Me kissing your ass?” Chance’s words were eerily calm.
The guy snorted, flapping his hands. “Man, suck my dick.”
Chance exhaled. “Ass kissing and dick sucking aren’t really my things. So how about I decide how this ends.” Bringing his arm back, he pressed his hand into my stomach, fingers splayed, and slowly pushed me back. If he wanted me out of the way, that meant he was expecting things to get messy. “You can either back up and leave her alone for the rest of tonight and forever, or I can happily help you with that.”
I held my breath as I stepped back, waiting to see what the verdict would be. I was ready to throw myself into the mix and shove my boot up the guy’s ass if need be or wrestle Chance off him before he put the guy into a coma. What happened next wasn’t what I’d expected, but it was undeniably the preferred outcome.
The guy backed away with his arms wide. “You rich motherfuckers think you can do whatever you want to whoever you want.” He spit one last time. “That’s what I think of that.”
Chance watched him disappear into the crowd, waited a few more seconds in case the guy changed his mind and came back, then he turned around. His expression was a stark contrast to what it had been moments ago. He surveyed me like I was spouting blood from multiple limbs. “Are you okay?”
I nodded, smiling. Redneck was taken care of, and Ponytail was back across the room, keeping her hands to herself. “I’m great.”
“Sorry. I should have known better than to leave you alone like that.” After one more inspection, he was apparently appeased that I really was okay.
“And I should have known better than to leave you alone.” My gaze dropped to the bend of his arm that girl had practically been molesting.
Chance smiled. “Agreed. So why don’t we just make a pact not to leave each other’s side tonight.”
It was strange how having him close seemed to even out my breathing while him being away from me had done the opposite. It was counterintuitive. With the way I felt about him, I should have been barely able to catch my breath with him so close. Instead, I felt as if I was breathing more deeply and efficiently than I ever had.
“Agreed,” I said, heading back to our table and staying close to him the whole way. I didn’t let him put the table between us so he could keep me at arm’s reach. I knew neither of us wanted that. “So what did you order us?”
Chance lifted his chin as a cocktail waitress slid a couple bottles onto our table. I was evil for smiling—this one was a couple decades older and had more gray than brown left in her hair.
“Here you go, hun,” she said, winking at Chance.
“Thanks, Sherry,” he replied before she headed to the next table over.
“Are you on a first-name basis with everyone in this place?” I asked.
“I’m not on a first-name basis with saliva guy, and I’d prefer to stay that way.” Chance slid one of the beers in front of me and grabbed the other. “Cheers?”
I lifted my beer, raising an impressed brow at his selection. Not a cheap beer. “Cheers.” I clinked my bottle against his.
After taking a drink, our eyes drifted to the dance floor. Chance’s averted instantly, but mine stayed there.
“Do you want to dance?” I sounded nervous, timid. Yet another first when it came to my interactions with Chance. Before, I wouldn’t have asked. I’d have just grabbed his arm, yanked him onto the dance floor, and laughed as he moved more like a robot than a man . . . but now, man, my palms were almost sweating as I waited for his answer.
“Whether I want to or not is beside the point since I’m incapable of dancing.” His voice was flat, too flat. He was back to wearing the indifferent mask.
“Your lack of dancing skills never stopped you before.”
“No, that never stopped me,” he said and took another sip of his beer. “Before.”
I blew a slow breath through my nose, wanting to scream. “Well, I’m dancing.” I took another sip then slammed my beer onto the table before heading toward the dance floor. “If you want to join me, you’re welcome. Otherwise, I’ll be out here having a good time. You know, that thing you do when you’re with your best friend at Wild Bill’s.”
“I thought you wanted to enjoy your not-cheap beer.” Chance set his beer on the table beside mine and moved away from the table.
“I did, thank you. And now I want to dance.” I pointed toward the stage, winding deeper into the crowd. “And they’re playing my song.”
He shook his head, cupping his hand over his mouth. “You say that about every other song.”
I shrugged, already moving in time to the music. “Because every other song is my song.” I lowered my arm, pointed in his direction, then curled my finger. “Now get your ass out here and dance with me!”
I didn’t say anything else—I didn’t curl my finger again. I just turned around and headed toward the stage. The band had moved on from George Strait to Brooks and Dunn. When I’d first moved out there, I hadn’t known anything about country music other than it wasn’t my thing, but by the end of my first year in Jackson Hole, I could name the title and artist of nine out of every ten country songs on the radio.
I’d made it another few steps before his hand slipped into mine from behind. A smile spread on my face until I felt like one of those grinning idiots I rolled my eyes at.
“Change your mind about dancing?” I said, glancing back at him.
“Didn’t change my mind about the dancing. Just remembered our promise to not leave each other’s side for the rest of the night.” Chance scanned the crowd like he was making sure it was safe before looking at me.
His façade fell for the shortest moment, and in that glimpse, I saw what he’d been hiding for most of the night. It was enough to make me wish he’d never hide it again, but before we’d gone another step, it was already gone.
When we were right in the heart of the dance floor, I faced him. All around us, people were seriously getting down. Some of them shouldn’t have been getting that down, but still, bodies were whipping around in ways that made me wince. Only one body was totally motionless in the middle of it all. Already finding my groove, I lifted a brow at him and waited. Chance shook his head, dropped his hands to his hips, and noted a few stand-out performances nearby, as if to prove dancing wasn’t for everybody.
“Come on,” I mouthed.
“No way,” he mouthed back.
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. The guy who threw himself in front of a charging horse, the one who’d been thrown from so many green horses he lived in a back brace as much as he lived without it, the guy who didn’t show a shred of fear at the actual scary things of the world was scared to dance. He’d never been exactly eager to dance, but he could usually be pleaded out onto the floor for a couple of songs before he retreated to the dartboard or pool table. He knew the employees at Wild Bill’s by name, so he’d obviously been coming here recently, but he just as obviously had not spent it dancing. From the look of it, his last dance had been that summer I’d turned eighteen and bolted. Acknowledging that shouldn’t have made me as happy as it did.
“Please,” I shouted as he stood frozen in an ocean of swaying bodies.
The big “please” guns . . . he couldn’t take it. If at first
I didn’t succeed with Chance, all I’d had to do was drop the please bomb, and he was putty in my hands.
He rolled his eyes then lifted his hands in surrender. Lowering his hands to his knees, he crossed his arms then commenced what was quite possibly the least smooth Charleston ever performed. My own dancing came to an abrupt end as laughter rocked my body until I was gasping for breath. The harder I laughed, the longer he kept going, but now he didn’t just have my attention—he had the attention of some of the other dancers staggered around us.
People pointed and laughed like I was at the big tough cowboy entertaining us with the most shameful Charleston in history. He didn’t care that his performance had earned an audience—he just kept going, seeming propelled by my laughter.
I was close to having tears roll down my face when the song came to an abrupt end. A second later, the guitarist strummed a few soft notes that echoed through the room before his voice followed it. It was one of my favorite songs in the whole world, but there was only one way to dance to it—with a person you cared about in your arms.
Chance straightened, looking back at our table as if it were a lifeboat and he was a breath away from drowning.
Before he could take a step that direction, I moved closer and took his hand. “Dance with me?”
His eyes closed as if my words were painful. “Scout—”
“No, I worded that wrong,” I said as people around us coupled up, swaying to the chorus. “I didn’t mean ‘Dance with me?’ I meant . . .” When I looked at his face, I knew that what I’d been searching for in all the right places with the wrong person had been right in front of me the whole time. He’d been so close, but I’d been blinded to what was there. “I meant . . . I mean . . . dance with me period, not question mark.” I slid my hand around his waist then slid my other up his chest and curled it into his neck.
He was back to the pained expression, like my touch was torture. Like having me close was killing me. Like my hands caused the worst kind of pain a person could know.
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