by P. Dangelico
“I’ll teach you.”
I push aside the same tired voice I’ve been hearing all of my life that tells me I’m going to make a fool of myself. I don’t have to be perfect. Not tonight. I’m thirty-three years old and I don’t know what fun is. It’s high time I fix that.
“Okay, let me go to the ladies room first.”
On the other side of the room, a trendy vintage neon sign points me in the right direction. Once I get there I do my business, apply more lip gloss, and gleefully get ready to make a fool of myself on the dance floor. All goes well.
The problem presents itself as soon as I step out of the ladies room. Where I find Mr. Urban Cowboy from the booth next to ours leaning up against the wall, thumbs hooked into his tooled belt, wearing a decidedly sly grin.
“Hi.”
“Hiya,” I reply, suddenly uneasy.
“Is that your boyfriend?” No beating around the bush with this one.
“No,” I answer honestly.
“Didn’t think so.” Urban Cowboy smiles wider.
“Hey,” comes a firm shout from afar. An angry giant looms large down the crowded, narrow hallway. People give him a wide berth as Dane quickly closes the distance between us. Suddenly alert, Urban Cowboy drops the lazy charmer act and pushes off the wall.
“Fuck off,” is directed at the cowboy, who is easily two inches and fifty pounds smaller. Dane’s voice is low and angry, marked with the promise of violence. Even I get goose bumps and I’m in no danger.
Urban Cowboy hesitates for a beat before deciding that I’m more trouble than I’m worth. He slinks away quietly, after a shrug aimed at me. Probably for the best.
“What is your problem? Seriously? Are you feeling faint? Is it heatstroke? Because that would be a legitimate reason for the crap you’ve been pulling since we walked in. Otherwise you’re just being a jerk.” I storm past him, in a hurry to get back to Levi and take him up on his offer.
“Some strange dude’s mushroom head is not gonna be poking my son. If anybody is gettin’ that honor, it’ll be me.”
My feet stop so suddenly I almost topple over.
Mushroom head? The man has lost his ever-loving mind. And in public no less. I turn and take a moment to collect myself, to put a lid on the unusual flare of temper he’s managed to elicit in me. I thought that was impossible and yet here I stand, blood boiling.
“I have no idea where this hostility is coming from. But I suggest that you go home and sleep it off.”
“You want sex. I’m happy to help you out.”
Help me out? As in a pity fuck? I gave him a chance, drew the line in the sand, and told him nicely not to cross it and he trampled it––along with my feelings. Now the gloves are off.
“You think I need your charity? I’m not your type, remember? Any one of those three guys at the next table would be happy to help me out.”
“Over my dead body,” he mutters, stepping past me and effectively cutting off any chance I have of escape.
“That can be arranged,” I grind out as I jerk to the left. He blocks me. “Get out of my way, Dane.”
His expression switches from frustration to pain to irritation so quickly I can hardly keep up. He’s struggling with something and I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is.
“Stell…I…” He takes off his ball cap and runs a hand through his hair, biting on his lower lip. “Let me take you home.”
“Jesus Christ, I came to have a little bit of fun! This is going to sound like a foreign concept to you, but I haven’t had much of it in my life. Can you allow me just a little fun? I don’t think I’m asking for much.”
Shoulders sagging, he finally steps aside. I pass without a backward glance. Common sense tells me this isn’t the end of it.
Chapter Nineteen
Dane
I swear on all that’s holy I’m gonna have a stroke tonight if I see one more sonovabitch smile at Stella like he’s picturing her on her knees.
Levi’s teaching her to line dance. She’s terrible for Pete’s sake. The woman’s got two left feet. And it doesn’t look like she cares either. Those two have been laughing it up for the last hour while I sit here at the bar pounding beers and plotting the murder of anyone who gets near her.
“Penny for your thoughts, darlin’,” a familiar voice singsongs. Nothing like your best friend busting your balls to take a mood from bad to worse. He slides onto the recently vacated stool next to mine.
“As the owner of this fine establishment, don’t you have work to do?”
He eyeballs the empty shot glass in front of me with suspicion.
“Every good business owner knows how to delegate.” This delivered with a side-eye and a smirk.
I continue picking away at the label of the beer bottle, eyes aimed down to keep from becoming a victim of Noah’s ruthless examination. “Fair warning. I’m in no mood, Callahan.”
As much as I try not to glance at the dance floor, I lose that battle in seconds, drawn to her by a power that I’m coming to understand I have zero control over.
“What crawled up your ass, sweetheart?” My narrowed-eyed gaze moves away from Stella but not fast enough for Noah to miss. “Girl trouble?”
The bartender slides a beer in front of him. Noah tips his head at the guy, then takes a chug of the brew.
“What am I, a fucking teenager? I do not have girl trouble. Stella is not my girl. She’s the mother of my child.”
When I don’t get an obnoxious reply, I look over. Next to me Noah’s wide shoulders quake, his face swollen from containing the laughter dying to burst out of him.
“Get it out, asshole.” I catch the bartender’s attention. “Another Jäger.” He pours one without delay. I knock it back, the burn no longer uncomfortable but welcome. Feeling anything other than this underlying rage is good.
A loud boom of laughter rises above the music, even above the noise of the crowd. “Look, I’m gonna help you out ’cause I love you and generally you’re a good guy.” He wipes tears of laughter away from his eyes. “For entertainment value, I’d like to see you eat shit for as long as possible, but I’m feelin’ charitable tonight.”
“Is this the part where I tell you to go fuck yourself?”
“Not yet. Okay, here goes.” He takes a deep breath, fighting back more laughter. “You’re in love, you dumb motherfucker.” After which, he punishes me with a shit-eating grin.
“This is the help you speak of? This is you being charitable? I told you I wasn’t in the mood for none of your rubbish.”
“I’m serious, Dane.”
I take a good long look at my friend. He is serious. “Where’dya get that hairbrained idea?”
“Anyone that’s ever suffered from unrequited love can read that condition on your face from five counties away.” His gaze drifts off, his throat working as he takes another swig of beer. “Present company included,” he mutters.
“Unrequited?” This bullshit demands an eye roll. “Now I know you’re messing with me.”
“Are you sleeping with her? Did she profess her love for you? No? So then it ain’t requited––that makes it unrequited.”
I can’t be in love. God help me if this is what love feels like.
“I can’t be in love. I don’t have a good opinion of it, but it can’t feel this bad.”
He slaps me on the shoulder. “Brotha, ain’t nothing special about love. It’s a condition. Like eczema, or erectile dysfunction. And like any condition you can treat it, make it better, but it will never fully go away. That right there,” he says tipping his beer bottle toward the dance floor where Stella’s having so much fun she’s apparently forgotten I even exist. “Is the medicine for your pain. Tell her how you feel. Go be with her and you won’t feel crappy no more.”
Maybe I am in love. I’ve always had a bad opinion of it so it makes sense that it should feel this god-awful. Then again I haven’t gotten laid in far too long.
“I’ll tell you what I’m suffe
ring from, the reason I feel like this. I believe the correct medical term is blue balls. I need to get laid and right quick. It’s clouding my judgement.”
Three bar stool over I spot a curvy blonde making eyes at me and in return I give her my best smile. Noah’s eyes shift from me to the blonde and his face loses some of its amusement.
“I know that look on your face, Dane,” he warns, head shaking “Don’t be doing nothin’ stupid. You wrong that woman and there’s no gettin’ back to right.”
The underlying darkness in Noah’s voice gets my attention. He has that look about him. The one he’s been wearing for a decade. It comes and goes and tonight it makes an appearance.
Disappointment and hopelessness are as comfortable on him as an old pair of jeans. What a waste. Another perfect example of the dangers of loving a woman. There’s no talking to him about it though.
I jerk a chin at the blonde and she moseys over.
“Wanna dance?”
“I’ve been waitin’ for you to ask, sugar,” she responds in a baby voice. It grates on my already inflamed nerves.
“Learn from my mistake, Dane. Don’t do this.”
Noah sounds genuinely concerned for me. The four beers and three Jägermeister shots I drank tell me to ignore him. Taking the blonde’s hand, I guide her past a wall of bodies and onto the dance floor.
Three couples to my left, Stella laughs while Levi moves her around. She seems to have gotten the hang of it––this fun thing she wanted so desperately. Matter of fact, it looks like she’s having the time of her life…and it’s not with me.
I want to go over and take her hand. I want to be the one to teach her how to line dance. I want to be the one to make her laugh. But instead I’m stuck on the outside watching them, holding the hand of a woman I don’t know and have no desire to know. How did things get so messed up?
The minute Stella spots us the smile she’s wearing disappears and her feet stop moving. Our eyes meet and what passes between us makes my chest feel tight and my lungs burn, makes me ashamed, makes me want to punch a fucking wall.
That’s when I know I’m in deep. Maybe in love. Definitely in trouble because I may have just ruined this thing between us…I pray not for good. But I’m all in now. I can’t back down. My pride won’t allow it. It’s the alcohol talkin’. That’s what I tell myself.
The next set is a slow song, the live band playing a decent cover of Van Morrison’s Someone Like You. Unlikely choice for a country western bar and yet it works.
I pull the blonde, whatever her name is, closer. Her hand clammy, her perfume overly sweet. We fall easily into rhythm. The blonde’s a good dancer.
I glance briefly at Stella and Levi, standing still while everyone else keeps moving around them. Another couple dances into my line of sight and I lose them. The next time I glance over they’re gone.
My conscience starts screaming at me. That I’m an idiot, that I should’ve listened to Noah, that I blew it.
Panicked, I look around and spot Levi speaking to Noah. They’re looking straight at me. When I scan the room for Stella, I can’t find her. A mix of anger and anxiety surges up. I’m pissed that Levi let her out of his sight.
Leaving the blonde standing on the dance floor without an explanation, I rush over to our table and find it empty. The three dudes at the next table are gone as well. My heart starts to hammer against my sternum hard enough to bust through bone. Where the hell is she?
A spike of fear raises the hair on the back of my neck. I crash through the crowded room, yelling her name. People are staring now. I don’t give a fuck. All I care about is finding her and making sure she’s safe.
She’s not in the ladies’ room so I head for the exit and blast open the doors, startling the guys working security. They leap off their stools and glare at me.
I don’t give a fuck.
Wide-eyed, I scan the parking lot and finally discover her standing near Levi’s pickup truck. The air trapped in my lungs for the last thousand hours hisses out.
“I’ve been lookin’ all over for you!” I yell, storming over to her. I didn’t mean to shout. I don’t shout at women but I’m worked up, the scare she gave me spilling over into my voice.
Her eyes get real big. “You could’ve fooled me. Looked to me like you had your hands full of the blonde––and don’t you dare raise your voice at me.”
“You can’t just take off like that. It’s dangerous for the baby.”
I can’t explain the blonde. How do I explain that I’m an idiot without her thinkin’ I’m an idiot?
Now she looks hurt. I can’t do anything right tonight. I don’t know how to get us back to normal.
We stand there silently staring at each other for a few uncomfortable minutes.
“I’d like to go home, please.”
Her cell phone rings. She glances at the screen and sends it to voicemail.
“Who’s that?”
“None of your business,” she snaps, her eyes narrowed.
“Is it that douchebag cowboy?”
“And if it is? What do you care?”
Those words push me right over the edge of sanity, into irrational fury. “You want fun, Stella. I’ll show you what fun looks like,” I say, on a goddamn roll now. “A good old-fashioned leather belt, some lube, and a bottle of Macallan and we could have us some rugged fun.”
Her eyes flash, the pink neon from the glowing Rowdy’s sign turning her eyes purple. Heat crawls up her neck and over her face.
“You’re vile,” she mutters. “You’re a vile human being. And I use that term loosely. Human being, that is.”
The pink in her cheeks fades, leaving her pale. A jolt of fear hits me hard and fast. What if I’ve gotten her so upset it harms her and the baby? I’ll never forgive myself.
Levi steps out of the bar and makes his way over to us.
“Levi, can you take me home, please,” she says in a small voice. My stomach churns. Those Jägermeister shots are bullet holes in my gut right about now.
“Stella––” I reach out for her but she sidesteps, easily avoiding me, my reflexes having gone to shit.
“’Course I will,” Levi answers, and holds out his hand for her. “You’re taking a cab. Or get Noah to drive you.”
My little bro shakes his head at me.
Without another word, they get into the pickup. Music and voices, women laughing, men joking with each other, spill out of the door as people leave. I stand in the middle of the dusty parking lot watching the people I care about drive away.
The alcohol made me do it. That’s what I keep tellin’ myself. Doesn’t make me feel any better though. Ten minutes later the cab pulls up. Twenty minutes after that I drop onto the couch in the family room with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue in hand.
Chapter Twenty
Stella
He never made it to our room last night. I don’t even know if he made it home. He could’ve gone home with the blonde for all I know. I’m so angry I could bend a crowbar.
Not even the ubiquitous morning puke-a-thon manages to shake the anger. I shower angry. I slip on underwear and a robe angry. I’m too angry to get dressed without coffee so I head to the kitchen for a tall cup of decaf. I guess I do have a temper…or maybe he just brings out the worst in me.
A masculine groan coming from the great room gets my attention. Tinker, tail wagging, leads me to the other side of the couch, where I find Mr. Fuck Hard stinking of booze, and sprawled out facedown, naked except for his black boxer briefs. An empty bottle of Johnnie Walker lies on the floor along with his clothes.
I hope he has a migraine.
His arm hanging down, Tinker nudges his hand and he pushes her away. I leave him to retrieve two Advil and a bottle of water from the kitchen. When I return, nothing’s changed, he’s still half dead and I’m still angry.
He groans and I push his arm with my bare toes. He swats at me. Then he blinks, line of sight pointed at the wood floor. Lifting his head, blood
shot eyes take me in. An eternity later he blinks and groans. I hope it’s really painful.
Slowly, he sits up while I continue to glare. Not a drop of sympathy for him, not one freaking drop. Hiding his eyes, he bends over and places his head in his hands, elbows on his knees.
I hold out both the water and the painkillers. I’m dangerously close to denying him the painkillers except I need him to understand what I’m about to say. He takes both without looking up.
“I’m going home.”
He shakes his head and winces. Serves him right. Throwing down the painkillers, he chases them with a sip of water. After that he stands and stumbles toward the kitchen holding his head.
“I’m not asking for permission.”
“No talking yet,” he grumbles, his voice as hoarse as if he’d been yelling all night.
To hell with that––and him. I wouldn’t take this behavior from someone rocking my world, let alone someone who has made it abundantly clear I rate lower than a stranger he picks up at a bar.
Grabbing the pot of freshly brewed coffee from the coffee maker, he stares into the pot then drinks from it. I don’t bother to tell him it’s decaf. Throat working as he swallows, he holds up his index finger.
I’ve got a finger for him, the middle one.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you but I’ve had enough.” He continues drinking. “And word of caution, if you come back to New York and continue to treat me like I’m cattle, a possession, you will damage this friendship beyond repair.”
He places the pot down, his eyes downcast as he leans on the counter for support. “I’m sorry…I was a real asshole last night and––”
“Last night?!” I shout. “How about for the past week.”
“Well you’re not helpin’ the situation!” he shouts back, his eyes sparking, then winces again.
My jaw hangs in disbelief. He can’t be serious. Is he really blaming me?