by Nicole Snow
I snort, trying not to laugh as I glug down another sip of beer.
“I mean, Edison might be Hollywood stuff. He’s a lot more lovable than Bojack.”
“Shit, man, the only thing Edison the horse can’t do is speak,” Grady says, grinning as the oil guys laugh at our conversation.
Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the whole wild story before.
I know Drake and Bella Larkin personally. They’re my neighbors.
As close to real neighbors as they can be, with each of us owning more acreage than the eye can see. They’re good people, and I like them. I’ve caught their boy Edison on my property more than a few times and brought him home after he Houdinis his way out every lock known to man.
Exactly why I’d never blow their privacy by pitching anything about their lives to the industry.
Based on a true story sucks for a lot of folks when it’s their story.
Drake and Bella are too smart for that crap and too busy, practically employing half this town in the oil fields.
“Ridge,” Tobin says in his slightly smarmy, always stern tone. “It’s going on eight o’clock.”
“Oh, is that my bedtime?” I ask, letting out a chuckle, then looking at Grady. “You see what I put up with? I’ll trade you for the kids.”
He rolls his eyes, topping off my beer.
Truth be told, I’m not nearly as drunk as I’m letting on. I just like pulling old Tobin’s tail every once in a while, waiting for the day I might be able to get him plastered enough to stop fussing over damn near every detail of everything.
That’s the good part about being an actor—well, former actor.
I can still turn the charm on and off on demand. The other thing about being an actor, you have to learn to believe in lies, in fiction, in the utterly ridiculous.
Maybe I’ve been doing that most of my life, even before making my first movie.
One thing that’s true is that the winter this year doesn’t want to end. It’s late March, and we’re still getting enough powder to make it look like the second coming of Christmas.
When I moved to Nothing, North Dakota, I’d wanted out of the limelight. A low profile and a chance to remake my life away from California and any gossipy asshole ready to flash a camera in my face.
It was easy to get that here.
I just wish it didn’t come with a metric fuck-ton of winter.
Tobin and I have been cooped up at the ranch for months going stir-crazy. Even the biggest, sleekest places you spend a pretty penny having tailored to your specifications start to feel like prisons when there’s only one person to talk to.
After hearing another storm was due tonight, I’d insisted we go to town, stock up on supplies, and visit other human beings while we can.
Ideally, human beings who don’t spend their Friday nights with an ironing board and Russian lit novels bigger than my head.
Hell, it could be two weeks before we even get mail again.
Not that I receive a lot that escapes being fed to the fireplace, but the whole rain, snow, sleet, or hail brag isn’t true. Not when it comes to postal deliveries in rural North Dakota.
A junk letter offering a chance to win a million bucks in a sweepstakes isn’t worth a mailman sliding off the road and turning up frozen solid in the spring thaw.
I’m only slightly exaggerating. Without a plow, those drifts outside could swallow a person whole until summer.
“Need I remind you, we have groceries,” Tobin says, lifting his eyebrows.
I laugh, loving that predictable and endearing face he makes when he’s really had enough of me for one night but can’t bring himself to tell me off. My eyes wander the bar.
Banter, beer, and good company aside, I can’t shake the sense that something’s off with the vibe here tonight.
Not with me, but with someone close by. It’s not Grady or the oil guys, or even that married couple in the corner enjoying a quiet dinner.
Call it a sixth sense. An instinct I should thank the Army for helping me develop. It saved us more than a few times when enemy combatants decided to make our lives a little more interesting than the monotony of patrol.
Turning, I see the other couple, the girl and the older guy.
She’d caught my eye like a fly in a trap when she walked in, red-faced and bundled up and drumming her boots off. I know I’ve been cooped up in a Dallas winter too long when a country girl who’s a hot mess just looks...hot.
Fuck me.
I know how it sounds.
Desperate, outlandish, probably a little borked in the head. My buddy, Grady, might be the first to tell anyone I’m all of those things, and I might tell him where he can shove it.
The woman was magnetic.
Two pale-blue eyes set in a shapely face, framed by a wavy mane of golden blonde hair she tugged free from her hat.
The cute kind of oval face that makes any red-blooded dude want to stare a little longer.
Long legs made for sin, supple frame, a little extra cushion in all the right places.
I’ve seen enough scrawny supermodels for this lifetime back in L.A.
She wore a puffy white coat, tight blue jeans, and insulated rubber boots that came up to her knees. Black ones. They were so coated with snow when she’d walked in she had to damn near dance on the mat to pry it off.
Seems too snow-packed to have just walked across the parking lot. She hadn’t come inside until later, several minutes after the old man.
I couldn’t even get a clear view at her goods, which tells me right now I’m more buzzed than I should be.
Like hell I’m admitting anything to Tobin, though.
I also can’t decipher the weird look she gave me.
It had its own gravity. This desperate fencing stare that had me pushing my toes into the ground, ready to jump up and approach her if she’d let it linger a few seconds longer.
She didn’t.
Doesn’t mean I stopped keeping an eye on her between doling out plenty of crap to go around for Tobin and Grady.
Magnetic Girl isn’t alone anymore. There’s a third person at their table, a punk with a face tattoo who joined the old man and young woman.
I don’t like it. Can’t shake the sense that this visitor who walked in from the cold earlier isn’t quite welcome.
I don’t recognize them, though. For all I know, they might be locals, or just travelers unlucky enough to be passing through on a stormy night.
I’ve only lived here since late last summer, and due to being snowed in at the ranch, I don’t know that many Dallas folk.
Surveying the scene, I replay what I remember. They’d ordered coffee after walking inside, but she’d gone to the restroom before drinking hers, nearly knocking over Tobin in her rush back. The old man sat alone for a while, fighting back a cough between sips of water. Then came the prick who’s hunched over, glaring across their table at them.
“Hey, Grady.” I curl a finger, instructing him to lean over the bar and come closer. “You know those guys?”
I nod toward the trio.
“Nah, never seen them before. Why?” Grady shrugs his big shoulders. “Guess I should see if they need more coffee. The old guy said he wanted to fill up a thermos for the road. Can’t imagine they plan to go far in this mess.”
I spin my stool all the way around so I can get a better look at them.
Yeah, there’s something seriously off here, no question.
The bald guy seems to be doing most of the talking, running his mouth like he’s the center of attention. The girl keeps shaking her head. The old guy looks thoroughly pissed, like he’d enjoy nothing better than ringing Baldy’s neck, but between his coughing and age, he doesn’t have it in him.
I don’t like this shit. I hate bullies, thugs, or scum-of-the-earth types throwing their weight around.
Whatever else I don’t know about their situation, I know Baldy over there is all three.
“Ridge,” Tobin says with a warning tone, gent
ly jostling my shoulder with his elbow.
He must see the hawkish look in my eye.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything,” I tell him, already planting my feet firmly on the floor.
Then the bald fuck grabs the woman’s wrist.
Change of plans.
“Oh, hell no,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
Grady gives me a concerned look, but it’s already too late.
I’m up, barreling toward them before my brain has a chance to catch up with my stride.
There’s a reason I can’t stand to see some towering ogre jerk a lady around like she’s his toy poodle. And right now, that reason comes back to me in hot, angry red flashes screaming do something!
I know it’s none of my business.
I know it’s ill-advised.
I know Tobin’s about to have a cow—probably a whole damn herd—but he knows we’re throwing down when anybody this dumb punches my magic button.
In seconds, I’m standing next to their table, planting a hand firmly on the goon’s shoulder.
“Let her go,” I snarl.
“Huh? This ain’t your rodeo, cowboy,” the goon says, glaring at the woman. “How ’bout you mind your own damn—”
How about no?
I grab his wrist so hard, bone shifts under my fingers. It’s the same hand he’s using to hold on to hers. I dig my fingertips deep into his flesh, bruising muscle and nerves, applying a cruel, relentless pressure until he’s forced to release her.
Still controlling his muscles with my grip, I lift his hand. “You’ve got no clue where your business ends and mine begins. Want to find out?”
His face becomes a frozen snarl, deep lines twisting that mess of ink up his cheek. It’s like watching a chessboard being twisted in half.
He pulls back his other hand, fixing to take a swing at me.
Bad move.
Growling, I dig my fingers into his neck with the hand still on his shoulder, deep into his nerves.
For some reason, most people think violent nerve pinches are fables. But if you know the right technique...
It’s hard to suppress a satisfied grin.
His head twitches uncontrollably. He tries to sputter out a word, but it dies in his mouth.
Seconds later, his whole upper body is a jerking, confused mess.
“This is what I call a sleeper hold,” I whisper. “I’ve made it my specialty. You have about ten seconds to decide if you want to spend the next two hours on the floor or listen to what I have to say.”
The prick’s dark eyes blink, stunned and confused.
“Your funeral,” I growl, beginning to count off precious seconds. “Five...four...three...”
“A-all right! You fuck,” he gasps out.
I relax my hold ever so slightly, enough to keep him awake but still under my control.
Finally, I turn to the girl, who looks like she’s staring down a Mack truck flying dead at her.
“You know this guy?” I ask.
She shakes her head slowly, too dazed to speak.
“His name’s Jackknife,” the old man says cautiously. “Jackknife Pete.”
I can’t help it, a chuckle bellows out of me. They might as well call him Two Inch Dick.
“Jackknife Pete, huh?” I mutter, letting his hand fall limply to his side.
Jackknife?
In one fluid jerk, I reach down, flipping up his right pant leg. I find exactly what I’d expected.
A concealed blade. A long one in a leather sheath attached to his boot. Some people are so predictable, they make every bad movie archetype recycled a thousand times look original.
I rip the knife out and toss it behind me, where I know Tobin will retrieve it.
“Do you want him here?” I ask the woman.
“No. Not really,” she answers.
“Who the hell are you?” Jackknife Pete asks, wiping the corner of his mouth. I guess he’s reached the rabid drool stage of anger. “Why are you butting in where you don’t belong? You stupid?”
Hardly, but it looks like I let my hold slip too much. Shame.
I intensify the pressure on his neck again, drilling my thumb in deep, one flick away from blocking half the blood flow to his brain.
Between the Army and years of acting, I’ve played many roles. Right now, though, I’m thinking this woman and the old man need a little chaotic good.
“I’m the dude you’ll answer to if you ever touch her again,” I bite off.
“W-what? You don’t even know—”
The next sound out of his mouth is more like a wild hog stuck in the mud. My thumb stabs into his neck, deeper, until he’s twitching again, unable to speak.
“You have no fucking idea who I am, or who I know, Dickless Pete. So let’s not pretend you do.” This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I can feel the adrenaline rush kicking in. “For all you know, I could be her husband. Imagine how much I’d love to kick your ass straight into a snowdrift then.”
“S-she’s not—”
“Married?” I give him another quick pinch, watching his eyes roll back with delight. “Not yet. We haven’t set a date.”
There’s a loud, grinding sound behind me. I don’t even need to turn around to see.
It’s Tobin, clearing his throat—utterly mortified at the load of bull I’m improvising by the second.
Whatever, fine. I guess my valet doesn’t deserve a heart attack tonight, so I ease off Pete’s shoulder the tiniest bit, heeding Tobin’s warning.
The scumbag gasps for air, shuddering as real feeling comes back into his upper body, chasing away the numbing dance of a thousand needles.
I know what he’s experiencing. It’s like being stabbed with a flurry of white-hot pins by a mad scientist trained in evil acupuncture.
“This is getting old. I’m ready to call it a night. Time for you to leave,” I say, giving Pete a helpful shove away from the table.
Too much. He topples right over and almost falls on his face, but his knees catch him in this stricken, crouching position.
Wiggling, shrugging, it takes him two tiresome attempts before he gets to his feet.
Not in any mood to wait longer, I grab his arm and drag him to the door.
“You idiot, you’ll be sorry!” Dickless Pete grumbles, seething.
“I already am sorry to ruin my evening with a face as ugly as yours,” I tell him as I throw the door open.
“You don’t get it. Those deadbeat assholes owe us, and now they’re trying to skip. We had an agreement!” he hisses.
I don’t even lift an eyebrow.
Whatever this agreement is—if it exists—can’t be legal. Even the most aggressive debt collectors are bound by consumer protections. And I’m pretty sure there isn’t a loophole that involves stalking your borrowers into a goddamned bar and getting grabby with a lady in public.
“Then go ahead and look me up. I’ll tell you where you can shove your agreement, little man.”
I push him, flinging his bulky body through the door so hard he struggles to catch his footing.
And fails.
I watch the bully go spinning and plant facedown in the snow, waving his arms helplessly to get up. When he finally peels himself out of it, he hightails it to a black SUV he’d left running. I also notice an old Ford with a horse trailer hitched to it not that far away, plus a few older beat-up trucks belonging to the oil guys.
The one with the trailer must be the old man and woman’s vehicle. I shut the door, and as I turn around, I tell Tobin. “Keep an eye on him. Tell Grady, too.”
Tobin nods, moving to the window near the door and looking out over the frost line on the glass.
A second later, I see there’s no need to clue Grady in. My friend was watching the whole time from behind the bar, his jaw set, ready for a fight.
He lifts his chin, as if he’s just waiting for me to say the word.
I flash him a thumbs-up. No need to involve the minuscule Da
llas police force if everything’s under control. Not on a night like this when they should be helping people broken down on the road before they turn into popsicles.
I walk back to the table. “Where you folks headed?”
“Montana,” the old man says. “Miles City.”
The woman stares into her coffee cup. Can’t tell if it’s the run-in with Pete that’s left her shaken or something else.
No way in hell can I let them go to Montana like this. It’d take hours just to hit the state line in this storm, let alone chugging on to Miles City. That’s not even weighing the fact that Pete would be hot on their tail, first chance he gets.
Between the storm, their old truck, and that sorry sack of thug, they wouldn’t make it ten miles up the road before something horrific happened.
“There’s a motel in Dallas,” I say. “About five miles west of here. You can follow me there, if you’d like.”
The old man opens his mouth to speak, to protest, but starts coughing instead.
Shit.
“Thanks,” the woman says quietly, laying a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We could actually use something like that. The storm’s worse than we thought.”
“Is he your father?” I ask, nodding their way.
Sadness fills her eyes as she nods back slowly.
She’s still looking at her old man, not me. This deep, sudden sadness wells up and douses my heart. Something about the unconditional love that never fails between a parent and their kid, despite it all, maybe.
“Want to tell me why that charming gent I escorted out of here is so interested in following you?” I ask.
Her eyes widen. She shakes her head. “Listen. I really appreciate what you did, stepping in, but—”
“Ridge.”
The harsh urgency in Tobin’s whisper has me turning around and moving back to where he’s standing by the bar.
My lip curls. I glance out the window and see a shadow stalking around in the snow. Undoubtedly the goon near the horse trailer.
Apparently, the jackass hasn’t had enough yet.
“Give me that knife,” I tell Tobin.