And if it wasn’t—if Landry had actually meant what he said...
A sweet, piercing tremor zipped through Ria.
Watching her face, Landry chuckled. “You’re even prettier when you’re asking yourself what I’m up to,” he said. Then he tightened his grip on her hand and squired her into the dim, noisy, throbbing heart of the Boot Scoot Tavern.
Ria’s eyes took a few moments to adjust to the shift from fading daylight to a sort of cozy gloom, but when her vision returned to normal, she saw that the legendary watering hole was almost exactly as she’d imagined it would be. The space was jam-packed with people in moods ranging from sullen to out-and-out jolly, the high volume of the jukebox shook the walls and the floor like a giant pulse, and multicolored lights flashed from the top of the music machine, putting Ria in mind of a strange alien craft either coming in for a landing or getting ready for liftoff.
Waitresses in skinny jeans and sexy tops wove their way among several tables, deftly balancing beer bottles and cocktails on tiny round trays, laughing and joking with the clientele. Couples danced, wherever they could find an open space amid the throng. Pool balls clicked smartly somewhere nearby.
Already overstimulated, Ria blinked, uneasy but, at the same time, fascinated. She’d been in bars before, of course, but this one had its own rowdy charm, seeming mysterious somehow, and not quite part of the real world, a secret place within a secret place. Brigadoon, with boots and cowboy hats instead of kilts.
She breathed the whole scene in, savoring it, unsettled by it.
Things happened here, Ria thought, things began and ended. People fell in love, and sometimes out again, within these walls, beneath this rickety ceiling. There were stolen kisses and fistfights. Promises were made; promises were broken.
Landry finally nudged her out of this strange reverie, and that was a mercy, because Ria was starting to scare her solidly pragmatic self with all those woo-woo thoughts. She only missed the magic, wished she hadn’t let go of it, for the tiniest fraction of a second.
“Let’s get something to eat,” Landry suggested, close to her ear. “I have a feeling we’re going to need our strength.”
Miraculously, a table for two was open, and Landry, still holding Ria by the hand, led her through the crowd, nodding as folks greeted him, swapping actual “hellos” with some of them.
Although Ria had lived in Parable County as long as Landry had, and knew many of the people they encountered, he seemed to be acquainted with every single one of them, male or female. The odd sensation that she didn’t belong, that she was essentially a stranger in a strange land, returned, with a vengeance, crashing over her like a tidal wave.
Ria, normally a sensible person, tried to identify what she was feeling—was she excited, scared? Neither and both. Clearly, self-analysis was getting her nowhere.
When they finally reached the table, which was small and round, tucked into a corner and splashed with colored light from the jukebox, and Landry had pulled back Ria’s chair, playing the gentleman, she allowed her knees to do what they’d been threatening to do from the moment she’d opened her door to him earlier in the evening—which was buckle like a couple of overcooked noodles.
Now that she was seated, somewhat breathless from the crossing, Landry moved to the other side of the table and sat.
They were facing each other, and their knees were touching.
Ria half expected to spontaneously combust, from just that much physical contact, and perspiration tickled the skin between her breasts, itched between her shoulder blades. She squirmed a little on the vinyl-seated chair, bit her lower lip while she considered scooting back an inch or so, in order to break the charged connection coursing between her body and Landry’s, then back again, as though they were playing catch with a ball of lightning.
There was a problem with the plan, of course. Two problems, actually.
The move would be too obvious, especially in such a small space, and Landry might take it as a concession of some kind, count it as another victory, like the two kisses—had there really been just two?—that had stopped the earth, at least for Ria. On top of that, there wasn’t that much room to maneuver—her back was to the wall, figuratively and literally.
“Relax,” Landry said, watching her with amusement in his too-blue eyes. Or had he only mouthed the word, or even just thought it, employing some telepathic version of texting? It was hard to tell, now that she’d evidently fallen down the rabbit hole. This way to Wonderland.
A smiling waitress approached, dressed like all the other women in the bar, but chubby enough to shoot down the size-minus-two theory. She asked if they wanted food, and handed them each a stained vinyl menu when Landry answered with a yes.
Realizing she had about as much personal autonomy as a single sock tumbling end over end in a clothes dryer—or Alice, plunging toward a place where rabbits wore pocket watches and playing cards painted roses red—Ria was reeling again. Hoping no one would notice, she pretended to be absorbed in the list of specials paper-clipped to the inside of her menu. The words scrambled in her brain, backward, upside down and all-around unintelligible. Was it possible to become dyslexic between one moment and the next?
Ria might have gone right on obsessing, in the privacy of her own head, that was, for the rest of the night, if Landry hadn’t reached out, taken her menu, set it aside and closed strong hands over hers.
“Ria,” he said—or mimed, or thought— “take it easy, will you? Everything’s all right, I promise.”
His touch soothed and riled her up another notch, both at once. Now that their hands were linked and their knees were touching, the circuit was complete, and the electricity went from crackle to zap.
The waitress, who must have slipped away into the noisy void at some point, resurfaced with a tray holding two draft beers bubbling and foaming in glass mugs big enough to serve as umbrella stands.
Ria’s eyes widened. She didn’t recall ordering a drink, mainly because she hadn’t. She’d gotten sick on red wine back in college, and had steered clear of alcohol ever since.
Landry must have ordered for her while she was zoned out.
Not that she’d zoned back in yet. Here in Briga-saloon, or Wonderland, or whatever it was, the rules were different. She was different.
Landry smiled at her, left his hands right where they were, his palms warming all ten of her fingers, and exchanged a few words with the waitress, who nodded, returned the smile and disappeared again.
“I hope you like fish and chips,” Landry said, leaning in until his face was just a breath from hers. His aftershave, subtle and probably expensive, suffused her senses, made her a little dizzy. And the electricity was getting stronger, circulating faster, almost visible.
“Fish and chips will be fine,” Ria replied briskly, straightening her spine. As if she actually had any say about anything.
Landry grinned, watching her intently, seeing, she feared, everything she was trying so hard to hide, now that she’d officially lost her everlovin’ mind. One glimpse of the Mad Hatter or the Red Queen, Ria thought, and she was out of there. Gone.
Having made up her addled mind about that much, at least, she freed her hands, used them to lift her mongo mug of ice-cold beer and hold it out a little way, as if to say “Cheers.” Then, after taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she took a big swig of the stuff. It wasn’t bad, actually, so she followed that gulp with another. And another.
Landry, his eyes reflecting the grin resting light as a hummingbird’s feather on his sexy mouth, lifted his own mug in response. Unlike Ria, he took his brew in sips, not mouthfuls, seeming to savor each one.
Easy enough for him to do, Ria thought, drinking way too much, way too fast. He wasn’t on edge, wasn’t the least bit rattled, now, was he? No, sir. Landry Sutton was at home in the Boot Scoot Tavern; he knew everyone there, was completely at ease in his own skin. And he wasn’t guzzling his beer, either.
She, by contrast, wanted t
o take a swan dive into hers, and she was unquestionably rattled, a regular maraca keeping time with a fast beat.
After a few minutes, the beer began to fulfill its promise, calming Ria down a little, smoothing out some of the rough edges, pushing back the thumping music and the madding crowd. Which, by the way, surely exceeded the legal limits of occupation, and therefore presented numerous hazards.
Where was Sheriff Boone Taylor when you needed him?
The food arrived, interrupting Ria’s most recent spin cycle. The meal consisted of chunks of breaded fish and gigantic fries intermingling on greasy deli sheets tucked into plastic baskets dulled by long and consistent use.
Having downed most of her beer by now, Ria ordered another.
Landry didn’t comment—not that she could have heard him over all that ruckus if he had. The jukebox had been silenced, only to be replaced by a live band, equipped with amplifiers, electric guitars and belting out some serious twang.
The lyrics were familiar, poignant and oddly comforting—faithful old dogs breathing their last, trucks breaking down, train whistles piercing dark and lonely nights, Mama passing on before she ever got that washing machine she’d been promised and, of course, the inevitable prison term, admittedly deserved.
Landry did raise an eyebrow when another five-gallon drum of draft beer came to rest in front of Ria, and one corner of his damnably kissable mouth quirked up, too. Then he sighed visibly, if not audibly, and began to eat.
Ria nibbled at her meal—it was quite tasty, if you didn’t mind trans fats, salt overload and plenty of preservatives—but she mostly concentrated on drinking more beer. She was starting to feel good.
Where had this stuff been all her life anyway?
Presently, the food baskets were removed, Ria’s barely touched, and Landry, looking cheerfully rueful, pulled Ria to her feet and elbowed out a place for them on the dance floor. He held her close, and she allowed herself to enjoy the hardness and the heat of him, the masculine scent of his cologne and the skin beneath it, the sensation that he was not only guiding her through a slow dance, but holding her up.
Not, of course, that she was drunk. Far from it—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this bold, this free, this sexy.
Landry’s breath was a warm tease against her ear, and sure enough, the tingling started up all over again. “Maybe we ought to get a little fresh air,” he whispered.
“I like this air,” Ria replied. The Boot Scoot, for all its strange magic, was neutral territory.
If Landry Sutton thought she was going to fall for the old “fresh air” trick, he was way off the mark. Did he actually think she didn’t know that, once he got her outside, under the stars, he’d probably kiss her?
And if that happened, Ria knew only too well, she’d soon find herself on her back in that extended-cab truck of his, saying yes when the right answer was definitely no.
Landry laughed again, and she felt the vibration of it, a rumble rising in his chest.
“‘This air,’” he countered in a husky drawl, his mouth close to her ear again, “isn’t going to sober you up.”
“Are you insinuating that I’m—intoxicated?” she asked, offended.
“I’m not ‘insinuating’ anything, woman,” Landry answered. “I’m flat-out stating a fact. You’re not just intoxicated, you’re looped, three sheets to the wind, half in the bag, in your cups—”
“Are you through?” Ria inquired, swaying slightly. “Or are there more clichés coming my way?”
Just then the music stopped on a vibrating drumbeat that faded slowly and left a still-quivery hush in its wake.
Landry was grinning at her. “Probably,” he replied easily, “but none of them come to mind just now. I could check the thesaurus app on my phone if you’re curious.”
“I am not curious,” Ria informed him coolly. “And I want to sit down.”
She was relaxed, yes. She could admit that, at least to herself. She might even be a little tipsy. But she was most certainly not drunk, she was sure of that, even though she’d never felt precisely this way before and thus had nothing to measure her present delightful condition against.
Well, there had been that one incident in college, but that surely had been a fluke, a youthful lapse of judgment. She’d had too much red wine at a party and, by the grace of God and a legion of guardian angels, she’d landed—alone—in her narrow dormitory bed, willing the room to stop spinning and tilting from side to side and, okay, praying for death.
This was a different situation. Years had passed, and she wasn’t that shy girl trying so hard to fit in anymore. She was a grown woman now, strong, sure of herself, in control.
Back at the table, fresh mugs of beer awaited, thin sheaths of ice slipping down their sides. That waitress deserved a big tip, in Ria’s opinion.
Landry sat her down in her chair—it was a little disconcerting that he felt the need to do that—then took his own, across the table from her.
Their knees were pressed together again. Ria, skittish before, allowed herself to enjoy the sensation. Actually, she reveled in it. Wanted more.
The band riffed its way into a soft ballad, underscored with a buzz of static from the amplifiers.
“Highbridge was right,” Ria thought she heard Landry say, just as he shoved the splayed fingers of one hand through his hair, arousing a sharp desire to reach out and retrace that same path with her own fingers.
“About what?” she shouted, in order to be heard. She cared what Highbridge thought of her, after all.
Landry pretended to wince, but a kind of sad amusement flickered in his eyes. “He said this was a bad idea,” he answered.
Then, with a rueful shake of his head, he pushed back his chair abruptly and stood, pried some bills from a front pocket of his jeans and dropped the currency on the table. It was plenty, for all the beer and the food, the accountant in Ria noted, from a remote and rational nook in her brain, even including a generous gratuity.
Clearly, she concluded, they were leaving. Well, good. The place was loud and hot and way too crowded, and if she had an inner cowgirl, there’d been no sign of her tonight.
Just to remind Landry that he didn’t give the orders, Ria stalled, chugged more of her beer, thinking it would be a shame to waste the stuff, with all its medicinal properties.
Finally, Landry gently removed the mug from her hands, set it back on the table and escorted her through the blue-jeaned, booted multitudes, out the door and into the parking lot.
That first buffeting faceful of cool, fresh air clarified matters with a wallop.
Ria couldn’t deny it now—she was definitely drunk.
What she wasn’t was sorry, because, for once, nothing hurt. Over the past few years, Ria had gotten so used to hiding a broken heart that she’d almost stopped noticing the ever-present ache.
“You need coffee,” Landry told her, wrapping an arm around her waist and half carrying her back toward his truck. “The more the better.”
Ria looked up at the stars, billions upon billions of them, and marveled as though seeing the night sky for the first time in her life.
“So beautiful,” she said.
They were beside Landry’s truck a moment later, and he’d been occupied, supporting Ria with one arm and releasing the door locks with his free hand. When she’d spoken, though, he’d gone very still, and looked down at her for a long time. Then, his voice grave and gritty as sandpaper, he’d said, “‘Beautiful’? Absolutely. It doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m seeing right now, though.”
The remark confused Ria, but she was still blissfully blotto, so she didn’t ask Landry what the heck he’d meant by it.
Maybe she was afraid he’d come right out and tell her. For now, all she really knew was that she didn’t want the coffee he’d offered moments before. She didn’t want to sober up, either—not yet. Her heart and brain were swathed in soft bunting, she had a pleasant buzz going, and, for the next little while anyw
ay, all was right with the world.
Landry shook his head, as though he’d asked himself a silent question and not liked the answer, opened the passenger-side door and hoisted Ria unceremoniously onto the seat. He leaned across her to catch hold of the seat belt, buckled her in.
She started to sing.
Landry shut the door, sprinted around to his side and got behind the wheel. “If you have to throw up,” he said quietly, even gently, “give me some warning so I can pull over to the side of the road.”
“Well, that was certainly a romantic thing to say,” Ria replied, between choruses of the only drinking song she knew—“Ninety-six bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-six bottles of beer—”
Landry chuckled, started the truck’s engine. “You skipped ninety-seven,” he said as gravel crunched beneath the tires and the headlights pushed back the sultry darkness.
Ria started over from ninety-nine.
Landry gave a groaning laugh and drove out of the parking lot, onto the street beyond.
Besides houses and a couple of trailer parks, they passed at least one café, called the Butter Biscuit, without stopping, so Ria figured Landry must have changed his mind about the coffee, which was fine with her, because she didn’t want any. Besides, happy as she was, and compelled to sing at the top of her lungs, she knew she was in no condition to set foot in a public place.
She had a reputation to consider.
She’d gotten all the way to seventy-four in her beer-on-the-wall song when Landry suddenly pulled into the drive-through at a burger place. There were no other vehicles in line.
“Stop singing,” he said, not unkindly, before he rolled down his window to place an order at the speaker box.
Ria stopped, and it was kind of a relief, though she was concerned about losing her place in the song. She settled back in the seat, heard him ask for two coffees, black with a shot of espresso, just before her eyelids drifted downward and she slipped into a dream she wouldn’t remember.
Big Sky Secrets Page 14