by Max Monroe
“We’ve got plenty of Budweiser, but I’m not serving any more to you.”
I’m drinking Budweiser?
Surely, normal Budweiser didn’t taste like it’d been brewed just for me by heavenly, alcohol-loving angels? Maybe it was a special edition kind of Budweiser, and that was why he was being so fucking stingy with it.
“Okay, I get it,” I responded, and my lips crested up into what felt like a big old grin. “You’re trying to save the special edition shit.”
“Huh?”
I laughed. Lou was funny. I sure liked him a lot. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me, and you can just give me something else. I’ll drink whatever ya got, Louie Louie.”
He shook his head again, but Jesus it was too fast. His head morphed into two heads, and I feared if he kept moving like that, he’d shake it straight off his body.
“I’m not giving you any more drinks tonight.”
“Oh, shit, did I miss last call?”
“Nope.”
“Then…?”
“I’m cutting you off, sweetheart,” he said. “You’ve had enough for the night.”
I pouted again. “But I’m not done.”
“I’m afraid you are done.”
Man, Louie Louie was being a bit of an asshole.
Cutting me off for the night? What in the fuck was that about?
“Your sister’s in town now, right?” he asked, and I nodded, my face resting in my hands.
“You betcha.”
Sigh. My sister was the best sister. I loved her more than anything in the whole world, even when she was trying to have serious conversations with me about the alpha-bastard I never wanted to think or talk about again.
“How about you give me your phone and let me give her a call?”
“No, thank you. She’s probs sleepin’.” I waved him off, but my eyes fixated on the way my fingers looked like jelly as I did it. Holy moly, I hope these hands of mine go back to normal in the morning.
“Is this your phone?” he asked, and I looked away from my weird, wiggling and floating in the air fingers to find him holding up a cell phone.
I shrugged. “Who knows.”
“It’s got a picture of you and your sister on it. It’s safe to say it’s yours, sweetheart. What’s your passcode?”
“Passcode?”
“The number you type in to unlock the screen.”
“Nine…five…four…three…two…one…”
“That’s six numbers,” he said, the little mathematician. “It’s only supposed to be four.”
“Oh,” I said and tapped my fingers across the top of the bar. It was a bit wet and sticky and made me giggle when my pinkie finger felt glued to the surface.
“Ivy?”
“Present!” I yelled, and it reminded me of being in high school. I laughed at the outrageous thought.
“What’s your passcode?”
I squinted my eyes and looked at him closely as I tried to remember whatever the fuck he kept asking me about, but when the next song on the jukebox started playing, I knew I needed to dance.
Yeah. Dancing. That’s exactly what I need to do.
“Let’s dance, Louie Louie!” I shucked off my sweater and threw it toward him. “I fucking love this song!”
“Ivy! Wait a second,” he called toward me as I shimmied my feet toward the dance floor.
“Be back later, Lou!”
I danced. And other people started to dance. And then it felt like everyone was dancing.
Boy, oh boy, I liked all these small-town folks.
They were my friends.
My new best friends.
Maybe I could talk one of them into snagging a beer from Louie Louie for me.
Fan-fabulous. Wait…Fabutastic? Fantabulous?
Meh. Whatever. It’s a brilliant idea.
Enveloped in the dark, I was so close to much-needed shut-eye I could nearly touch it. The quiet caressed my skin like a cool summer breeze, soothing my tortured soul and filing down the jagged edges of my mind.
It had been one hell of a rough day.
And the silence within my house was a restorative draught after the frenetic rush of the day. It surrounded me like a fresh, pristine, white blanket of snow on a winter’s day and smoothed away the roughness.
I’d been in bed for all of twenty minutes, but my eyes had fallen closed just as sleep started to take over. I drifted further and further toward slumber, but far off into the distance, the faintest ring started to fill my ears.
But I couldn’t focus on it, couldn’t rationalize what it was.
Vivid colors and figments of dreams swirled through my mind like a kaleidoscope as my subconscious hopped into the driver’s seat, more than ready to take over for the next several hours.
But again, the ringing.
It got louder.
Louder.
Until I realized it was my phone.
Goddammit. I should’ve put that fucker on silent.
With a heavy sigh, I opened my eyes just enough to snag my cell off the nightstand. The screen was a fuzzy mess of green and black and white, and I couldn’t make out shit. So, without the ability to actually screen the call, I answered by god-knows-which ring.
“Hello?” I said, voice gruff with fatigue, and closed my eyes again as I did.
“You sleeping, Levi?”
“Considering I’m talking to you, it’s safe to say I’m not sleeping,” I muttered, not even busying myself with the fact that I still had no idea who was calling. “Although, I sure was giving it my best effort about thirty seconds before you called.”
“Ah, shit,” he responded. “Well, sorry to wake you, but I need a phone number from ya.”
“First, remind me who I’m talking to.”
“It’s Lou,” he said, and confusion was laced within his voice. “Don’t ya got my number saved in your contacts?”
I pulled the phone away and checked the time.
1:30 a.m.
Jesus Christ. I was supposed to be at the station at seven in the morning.
“Let’s skip the pleasantries and get straight to it, Lou. What can I help you with?”
“You know Ivy Stone’s sister, Camilla?”
My eyes popped open wide of their own accord. “Yeah…I know her. But why are you asking me if I know her?”
“Well, I was hop—” he started, but he paused, and a female voice filled the background.
“Louie, Louie! I need a-nother drank!”
“Everything all right, buddy?” I asked, and his answering sigh told me all I needed to know.
It sounded like Ruby Jane’s was really reading him the riot act in the form of obnoxious and heavily drinking patrons.
“Not exactly,” he added but then paused again. “Hold on for a sec, will ya?” he asked, but I honestly couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or the drunk in the background. “Ivy, I already told you. You’re cut off for the night.”
Wait a minute…did he just say Ivy?
“Aw, Louie Louie! Stop bein’ so mean to me!” Despite the slur distorting her words, I knew that voice, and like a racer out of the gates, I was up and sitting on the side of my bed before I even realized the gun had fired.
“Lou? You still there?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he responded, and a groan-like sigh filled my ears. “I was hoping you had Camilla Stone’s phone number so I could tell her to come pick up Ivy. I’d take her home, but the bar won’t close for another hour, and I just don’t think it’s a good idea if she hangs out here any longer. The girl needs to call it a night, if you know what I mean. Just don’t want her doing anything she’d regret in the morning.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I said, and my legs were already in motion, heading toward my walk-in closet to throw something on.
“Huh?” Lou questioned. “No need for you to come down here. I’m sure I can get her sister’s number somehow. It’s a damn shame she’s got one of those passcodes on
her phone. Otherwise, I would’ve already found it. Not to mention, she’s claimin’ she forgot the damn passcode…”
“Lou, just keep her there. I’ll come get her.”
“Well, okay, I—”
I didn’t give him any more time for chitchat. I ended the call with a quick goodbye and slid on a pair of jeans as I did.
About a minute later, I was downstairs, slipping on my boots and jacket and grabbing my keys off the kitchen counter.
I wasn’t wasting any fucking time.
The idea of an intoxicated Ivy at Ruby Jane’s had my stomach all tied up in knots.
She wasn’t much of a drinker. I knew that much about her. And I felt fucking horrible over the fact that her newfound love of alcohol had come only three weeks after I’d really fucked things up between us.
It didn’t feel like a coincidence.
God, if something happened to her before I got there, I would feel responsible.
I knew she was an adult and she could handle her own shit, but it was pretty fucking hard for me not to feel like I had some sort of part in this.
The wheels of my truck spun in quick succession as I slipped the gear into reverse and backed out of the driveway. Once I reached the end of the gravel, I swung my truck out onto the main road, flipped it into drive, and headed toward the center of town.
Like a bat out of hell, I drove a good fifteen miles over the speed limit and didn’t let up until I was pulling into Ruby Jane’s parking lot.
Considering it was a Friday night, the bar—and parking lot—was filled to the brim.
Ivy won’t be the only one needing a ride home tonight.
It wasn’t hard to deduce the obnoxious state that lay behind the front door from the parking lot. The steady boom of bass from the jukebox and riotous laughter and chatter echoed from the otherwise tiny building. It made normally quiet as a mouse Cold, Montana seem like there was an actual rave being held inside the center of town.
Instantly, my mind flashed with visuals of the random, asshole men in town who’d be sitting in the wake, waiting to pounce on a too-drunk Ivy.
Nausea churned in my stomach.
Fuck.
Please don’t let me walk into anything that will make me lose my shit, I prayed silently. The last thing I needed was to end up in some sort of bar brawl because some asswad townie was taking advantage of her.
Knuckles clenched around the worn handle, I swung open the door and stepped inside.
I didn’t even have time to take a calming breath before my senses were assaulted by the smell of booze and sounds of drunken gibberish and loud as fuck music playing through the speakers throughout the bar.
But it wasn’t the normal playlist I’d come to know from our little town of Cold.
It was something more relevant, the beat strong and modern and fast-paced, and the female singer’s voice sexy and sultry as she sang about someone being on her mind.
Generally, the music selection revolved around Skynyrd, Garth Brooks, Carrie Underwood, and sometimes, when people were feeling a little frisky, some Zeppelin or AC/DC.
If there was one certainty in Cold, Montana, it was that these small-town folk always stuck to the classics. Pretty sure Chief Red would have a goddamn stroke if he’d walked into Ruby Jane’s and had his ears filled with Justin Timberlake singing about bringing sexy back.
I looked toward the bar and met Lou’s eyes.
Immediately, he nodded toward the jukebox at the back of the bar.
The instant we’d replaced the old, shabby style jukebox for a more modern, sleek design that actually accepted credit cards instead of coins, the bar patrons of Ruby Jane’s had made good fucking use of it.
And obviously, right now was no different.
The only exception was that apparently Ivy Stone was involved in tonight’s music selection.
I furrowed my brow and moved through the crowd of patrons drinking and laughing and singing along while their eyes stayed fixated in the opposite direction of the front entrance.
Once I waded through the sea of drunk and buzzed, the crowd parted slightly, and my boots almost flew out from under me when I caught sight of a mane of fiery red bouncing around as Ivy sang into a makeshift microphone—an empty beer bottle.
I glanced over my shoulder and noted just about everyone in the fucking bar was watching her shake her little hips and slur out whatever words it was she was singing.
Jesus Christ. This is not good.
The other women in the bar appeared to be entertained, even belting out the lyrics right along with Ivy, while way too many of the men seemed far too pleased with the view.
A part of me couldn’t blame them. Ivy Stone was no doubt the most beautiful woman ever to step inside of this city’s limits, but the most prominent part of me, the one whose rage was starting to boil inside his veins, was real fucking pissed.
With a quick flex of my knuckles, my fists clenched of their own accord.
Fucking perverts. If I hadn’t been so focused on getting Ivy the fuck out of the bar, I would’ve been tempted to throttle each and every one of the assholes staring at her with carnal intentions in their eyes.
She was clad in only a thin, nude camisole, a pair of tight jeans, and knee-high boots, and I had a feeling she’d shucked her sweater at some point in the evening.
My gaze moved over her body, noting the very prominent swells of her breasts and the hardened state of her perfect nipples so easily seen through her shirt.
If it was possible, I grimaced and scowled at the same fucking time.
Jesus. I have to get her out of here like two hours ago.
To my left, I spotted Mikey Randall, a twenty-one-year-old little asshole who spent most of his days smoking pot and drinking booze when he wasn’t busy cooking burgers at the diner. He smiled over his beer bottle and all but licked his fucking lips at his view of Ivy. The instant he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, lifted it in front of his face and pointed it directly at her, I nearly lost it.
Quick as a whip, I snatched it out of his hands.
“What the fuck?” he muttered and turned on his heels until his irritated and very hazy gaze met mine.
“Consider this a warning,” I said, staring him and the rest of his asshole buddies down. “If I see any of you trying to film her or take pictures of her again, you’re going to have to deal with me.”
They just stared at me, and with a sharp inhale and exhale through my nose, I leaned even closer to them.
“We clear?” I asked, and it was then they decided to offer a response, nodding and muttering their understanding.
I glared at them for another long moment, half tempted to throttle a few of them just to ease the rage that coursed through my veins, but I knew they weren’t my priority.
Like a boomerang, my gaze swung back to Ivy.
I had to get her out of here.
But I had to find a way that didn’t include me tossing her over my shoulder like a caveman.
Although, that plan was sounding more and more appealing the longer I stood in the middle of this fucking circus.
Without hesitation, I strode up to where she stood, still dancing around and singing at the top of her lungs, and I made my way to the jukebox without her even realizing I was there.
“Ohhhhhhh! Ohhhhhh!” she belted out, and if it was possible, my grimace grew deeper.
Jesus Christ. What a mess.
With my back toward Ivy and my gaze scrolling the jukebox, I noted she was currently singing along to “On My Mind” by Ellie Goulding. I’d never heard of it, but damn, as I listened to her screaming out the lyrics, they sure rang loud and clear.
But despite the relevance of the song, it was time to turn it the hell off and get Ivy out of there before she did something she’d regret in the morning.
Maybe my reasons were slightly selfish, but fuck, I hated seeing her like this. Intoxicated. Zero inhibitions. Completely unaware of the way the sleazy men in this bar were gawking. N
ot to mention, she was revealing a hell of a lot more than she would if she were sober.
Four quarters into the jukebox, I chose another song, a much fucking slower song, and over the crowd of people, I met Lou’s eyes at the bar.
I nodded toward him, and without any hesitation, he switched off Ivy’s performance choice. When the smooth and slow opening beats of Lionel Richie’s “Hello” filtered through the speakers, the entire bar damn near skidded to a stop.
“Louie Louie!” Ivy shouted toward him, but he just shrugged.
“Sorry,” he called back. “Felt like it was time for a change.”
The rest of the crowd moaned and groaned their annoyance, and I used that time wisely to lure Ivy away from that fucking jukebox.
“Hey, there,” I said, and her hazy emerald gaze lifted to mine. “How about we walk outside for a minute and get some fresh air?”
Surprise registered on her face, furrowing her brows and pushing her perfect mouth into a little O.
“Huh?” she questioned, blinking several times in confusion.
“Just come outside with me for a minute. Camilla wants you to come home.”
“She said that?” she asked, and I nodded. “Oh, shit,” she muttered to herself. “I told her I’d only have one drink, but I had lots of drinks. I’m such a shitty sister.”
“She’s not mad,” I reassured, and with my hand at the small of her back, I led her toward the bar.
“She’s not?”
“Nope,” I answered, voice soft and cajoling. “Let’s get your stuff, and I’ll take you home.”
“My car is here. I needs a car.”
“I’ll make sure someone drives it home for you tonight.”
“Whatever,” she muttered, and to my surprise, it didn’t take much effort to get her sweater and jacket back on and her drunk little ass outside to my truck.
I should’ve known it was too good to be true, though.
The instant I opened the passenger door, her green eyes went from blissfully unaware to glaring. “I don’t want you here,” she spat. “You’re a fucking asshole, and I’m done with you.”
Straight to my chest, she metaphorically sucker-punched me. Even three sheets to the wind and slurring, her words still packed a shitload of power.