by Jane Anthony
“I did a little more than break his heart, Miss—”
The ringing doorbell cuts through my point. She doesn’t get it. I broke a sacred oath. I promised my hand to a man fully knowing I never intended to deliver. I’m an awful human being and a poor excuse for a Christian.
“I’ll get it.” Marisa saunters out of my room, red buns bouncing as she goes. The word Juicy written across her slender backside sways with each step. Sometimes, I wish I had half her self-confidence. Everything about Marisa just screams, “Here I am! Love me or hate me, fuck you either way!”
Voices trickle in from the living room as I finish getting ready. Exhaling long and slow, I give myself one last look. “The Lord is merciful and forgivin’, even though we have rebelled against him. You can do this, Case.”
How did I get here? Back home, I felt like a big fish in a tiny pond. All that wide-open space was suffocating. I had plans. I was gonna be somebody. But who am I? A twenty-six-year-old bartender who’s afraid of her own shadow and can’t even stand her own reflection. Davis was supposed to save me, but he did the exact opposite.
Pushing off the dresser, I force myself through the door and out into the living room, where AJ leans against the arm of our ugly floral couch, talking to Marisa.
Holy hell.
He looks about as mouthwatering as a steak does. The graphic tee and black hat combo are nowhere in sight, replaced by a button-down shirt that hugs every curve of his torso. The light blue color is a perfect contrast to his olive skin and dark chin scruff. His hair is messy like he’s a few days past a haircut, but it looks so dang good. I wouldn’t doubt it’s on purpose, much like the day-old stubble perpetually covering his jaw. When I first met AJ, I thought he was cute. The man standing in my living room is so far beyond cute it’s scary. He looks good enough to eat, and I’m suddenly starving to death.
“You ready for me, cowgirl?” he says with a grin.
No, I’m definitely not ready for him. I expected to be going out with the goofy sound guy from The Wreck. The one with an easy smile who’s full of jokes. But instead, I’m greeted at the door by a smoldering, sexy businessman with deliciously dirty hands who’s looking at me like I’m a tall drink of water on a hot day. A far cry from the guy spouting pickup lines who literally gave me the shirt off his back last week. Underneath that cocky grin and stubble is more than meets the eye, and so far, I really like what I’m seeing.
The rocks in my stomach continue to tumble as we walk side by side through the parking lot. “This is your truck?” I ask, coming face to face with tires. The red pickup is lifted to a monolithic height; there are actually steps to get into it.
“Yup. I like to be in charge of the road, not the other way around.”
AJ pulls the truck door open for me then grabs my hips to help me step inside. Warmth envelops my waist along with his hands and travels into all my limbs, before finding its home between my thighs. Being this close to him, I’m overcome by the strangest combination of feelings. Extreme anxiety with an acute sense of calm.
The bench seat in the Chevy is old, but the leather is soft and remains warm from the balmy spring day. The dashboard is sleek and shiny. There isn’t a speck of dust inside this thing, which is shocking considering his profession. Most of the boys I knew back home had pickups that were filthy and full of dirt and hay and empty containers of Skoal.
“Where we headed?”
“A little place a few towns over called The Saloon. You’ll like it.” He moves the stick shift around with expert precision, letting his hand rest on the knob as he pulls out of the lot.
The Saloon, huh? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended, but I’m keeping an open mind.
The only sound on the way to the place is the low hum of rock music filtering out of the speakers of his truck. He doesn’t say much, just concentrates on the road while tapping lightly on the steering wheel. AJ never stops moving. The constant bounce of his fingers and toes is a clear sign of the music in his head trying desperately to get out.
I reach over and switch the station on his radio. He glances in my direction for a split second and chucks me a lazy grin. “You’re as bad as my sister is.”
“Oh?” I reply, returning his smile.
“Yeah. She plays DJ every time she gets into anyone’s car. Except for mine.” He reaches out and taps the button on the radio back to where it was. “I’m the king of this castle on wheels.”
“Who are you, Ralph Kramden?”
“Bang . . . zoom . . . ,” AJ snaps, pointing at the moon. It surprises me. Very few people our age would understand a Honeymooner’s reference, never mind being able to zing one back without thought. I guess I’m not the only one addicted to late-night television. “You really like this country shit, huh?”
“Yeah. Is it that bad?”
“The music’s good, but I could do without all the religious undertones. There’s too much Jesus talk.”
“Some of it, sure. You got a problem with Jesus?”
“Never met the man.” He glances in my direction with a cocky grin before turning his attention back on the road. “But I don’t buy into this whole God and heaven stuff. Death is the end.” The curt cut of his hand across his neck drives his point home.
That theory is too depressing to fathom. All my life, my faith has been what’s gotten me through. I’m no religious zealot, but I hold strong to the idea of a higher power watching over us, aiding us as we make our way through life.
I flick the button again. The whining sound of the fiddle cries through the cab as Tim McGraw sings his homage to small town life. AJ looks my way again. The heel of one hand rests over the steering wheel, while the other continues to rest on the stick shift. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I love this song.”
I ignore the compliment and hang on every word sung and every note played. Country music gets a bad rap. Most people think it’s all depressing songs about lost loves, but it’s not. It’s deeper than that. It has a soul. It worms its way into your heart and stays there.
Unlike rock music that screams in your face—loud and relentless—country music comes together with a vibrant mix of instruments and sounds. It speaks to me in a beautiful, eloquent voice, whispering in my ear like a lost love. It takes me to another place, away from my problems, and somehow makes everything better.
Music, in general, has a power all its own. One single line or chord has the ability to change a person’s entire outlook. It’s magical, when you think about it.
CHAPTER 7
AJ
“GIMME THE BIGGEST margarita you got!” Casey shouts over the loud music in the bar.
“Budweiser,” I add.
Her dimpled grin makes my insides tingle. “How the hell did you find a honky-tonk in New Jersey?”
“A wise woman once pointed out that I had a vast resource of information right at my fingertips.”
I lean back on the bar with both elbows and bring the bottle to my lips. I’ve never seen so much concentrated plaid in my entire life. Hundreds of dudes in tight jeans and cowboy hats doing the two-step with girls in denim skirts. It’s bizarre. This weird sense of displacement must be what Casey feels every time she goes to work.
The Saloon promised “Southern charm,” and it seems to be holding up its end of the bargain. Not that I have any idea what I’m talking about, but the cavernous divots on Casey’s cheeks tell me that even if it’s all wrong, I’ve done something right. Making her smile is starting to become my number one goal. Her ass, tits, and legs are nothing short of perfection, but that smile blows them away. It blows me away.
“So what’s it like in Texas?”
“Dry, hot . . . barren. You could see for miles in any direction.” She takes a sip of her drink then flicks the tip of her tongue against the rim of the glass, picking up a few thick granules of salt. My dick perks up like a dog waiting for a treat. Down, boy!
“And your folks?” Small talk is not my special
ty, but I can’t get enough of the sound of her voice. It’s like birds chirping outside your window. All sunny and pleasant and shit.
“I never knew my dad, and my mom was in and out. She was still in high school when I was born. My gran raised me.”
“Is she still around?”
“Yeah, she’s still kickin’. Gets up early, checks the horses. I grew up on a horse ranch in a tiny town most people have never heard of.”
Thankfully, the music is loud enough that she can’t hear me groan. She rides horses. As if the salt lick wasn’t bad enough, all I can think about now is her riding me. Hard and fast, squeezing me to death with those long, tan legs of hers. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from busting out of my jeans like a loser. At almost thirty, I should have more control over my body, but at this exact moment—hell, since the moment I met her—my junk is a puppet, and Casey is the one holding the strings.
“Ever ride a bull?” Casey turns to follow my gaze. In the corner of the bar, a mechanical bull spins lazily, waiting for its next rider. “Bet I can stay on it longer than you can.” Just the very thought of her on top of that thing makes my dick press against my zipper so hard it’s begging for salvation.
“You’re on!”
Draining my beer, I grab her hand and drag her over to the bullpen. The sign near the gate says anyone who can stay on for thirty seconds gets a beer on the house. I chuckle. Thirty seconds is cake!
“You first,” she says with a wry grin.
My bare feet sink into the thick padding as I walk through the pen and slide onto the headless replica of a bull. How hard could this possibly be?
It whizzes to life, slow at first. I hold on to the reins at the front of the saddle. The mischievous gleam in Casey’s eyes matches her devious smile as she stands at the edge of the pen, crossing her arms over her chest.
The operator spins a dial, and the bull whips around in a full circle, catapulting me off its back. What the hell just happened? In the corner, Casey isn’t just laughing. She’s doubled over, holding her stomach and gasping for air. With bruised pride, I stand and brush myself off, trying to act cool, even though I feel like a dumbass.
“I wish I had that on film!” she spits out between sobs of laughter.
“Good luck, cowgirl. That shit is harder than it looks!”
She slides her boots off and pulls herself onto the saddle, nestling the bull between her thighs. The lucky bastard. With one hand wrapped securely around the rein, and the other wavering high in the air, she nods. The operator hits a button. The bull begins its slow movements but quickly picks up speed. Casey’s thighs tighten around the fiberglass body. Her arm flies back and forth above her head, balancing herself on the massive contraption bucking between her powerful legs. It whips to the right. Then swings to the left. Casey moves with it, rolling her hips with each dip and turn. Inside, I’m dying. Woozy from lack of blood to the brain just watching the sensual way she rides.
The bull whips in a full circle, winning the war and knocking Casey off. Hollers erupt from the watching crowd as she pushes herself to her feet with a bow. That was, hands down, the hottest thirty-five seconds of my life.
“It ain’t that hard,” she quips as she walks past, sliding deeper into that slow Texas twang that turns my dick to steel.
An older dude in a bib shirt tips his cowboy hat and whistles as he passes. I pull Casey against me, keeping my arm secured around her waist as I whisper in her ear. “Is that what a real man looks like?”
I feel her smile on my cheek a second before her breathy giggle floats into my ear. The flowery scent of her hair mingles with the warmth of her hand on my chest while visions of her on that bull still burn into my memory. All of it overloads my senses and makes every outline in the dim bar fuzzy.
“Let’s see if your dancin’s better than your ridin’.”
“I don’t dance,” I reply, but she continues forward, backing me onto the dance floor.
Casey’s hip knocks against mine. I stand stock-still, unable to move even if I knew what to do. Her eyes lock on me as she dances. The beat booming overhead is a killer mash-up of cool country sounds with heavy hard rock guitar riffs, but I’m not paying attention. I’m too caught up in the way her body sways along with a smooth, seductive roll.
First, the bull and now, this. The woman oozes sex out of every single pore, yet still maintains such an air of elegance it knocks me on my ass. She’s on fire. Stomping the floor with her boot and shimmying her hands up her body and into the air, she’s dancing like she’s the only person in the room.
I wasn’t lying when I said I never dance, but for some reason, I find myself taking hold of her, spinning her around, and leading her along the dance floor as best I can. Golden strands of hair fly around her as she twirls. She laughs and spins and slides up against me, holding me close even though my two left feet have to be an atrocious embarrassment to her. I’m so far out of my element.
“I got you, city boy,” she whispers in my ear.
If only she realized how true that statement really is. She’s got me all right, in more ways than she even knows. If someone told me a month ago I’d be dancing in a country bar with a beautiful Southern belle, I’d have died of laughter. However, here I am doing the Boot Scootin’ Boogie, and I don’t give a crap about anything other than this moment right now.
I spin her to the edge of the dance floor, holding her body against mine. The tangy scent of limes lingers on her breath. Being with someone I like is alien territory. I don’t know how to act around a girl like Casey. She’s classy. Nothing like the girls who frequent The Wreck and my bed. I knew she was special from the second I saw her. Pickup lines and overconfidence may work on the masses, but I don’t want to be that guy. I want Casey to see me as I am. A man. One who doesn’t mince words and refuses to play games. Life’s too damn short.
Casey shifts her stance, and her knee slides past mine. Inviting warmth radiates against my thigh, and the only thing I want to do right now is move my hand up her long ass leg and tear the jeans right off her.
Her fingers tangle in the ends of her hair, twisting around one way then the other. I want to know what she’s thinking every time she twirls those beautiful strands of gold. I want to know what she’s thinking in general. Her likes, her dislikes, and, most of all, how that tantalizing little twang sounds moaning my name.
There’s something between us. Surely, she feels it too. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t be holding me like this or watching me with fascinating eyes filled with a look that’s anything but innocent. Casey is not the scared puppy I thought she was. No. She’s a hellhound, and I’m definitely up for the challenge of taming the beast dying to break out of her.
CHAPTER 8
Casey
A STEAMING HOT mug of coffee weighs down each hand as I poke my head in Marisa’s room. After last night’s date, I could really use a little girl talk.
At noon, it’s hardly early, but by Marisa’s standards, it may as well be six a.m. To my chagrin, her bed is empty. “Dang it,” I whisper, retreating to the kitchen. She must have stayed out last night.
Half the night, I spent awake, tossing and turning as I thought about my date with AJ. His dance moves are terrible, but that still didn’t stop me from swooning every time he spun me around. Other than the overwhelming smack of desire I felt every time he put his arms around me, being with him was easy and effortless. Resisting his charms is no easy feat.
A musical jingle flows from my bedroom. I run to grab the phone, sure that it’s going to be Marisa, but my elation over last night’s date fades when I see the Texas area code.
Lord have mercy, something’s happened to Mama.
The last time I received a call from an unknown Texas number, my mom needed me to wire her bail money. Mama’s addictions have been a noose around all our necks for years. Every day, I wait for that phone call from Gran telling me she’s gone. When that day comes, I wonder how I’ll feel about
it.
Back in her day, Loretta Grainger was something special. Blond and pretty, she was head cheerleader and pageant queen. She could have had her pick of any guy in town, but she wasn’t interested in settling down. Mama always said trouble just had a way of finding her, but everybody knew she went out looking for it. She wanted danger, excitement. All she ended up with was me.
She tried for a little while, but she eventually left me with Gran to find herself a life. Every so often, she’d clean up her act and come home, swearing it was the last time and promising to make it up to me. I always believed her. But each time, without fail, she’d relapse and disappear, leaving Gran to pick up the pieces of my broken heart. I took it for granted, but Gran was always there. She was the one hosting the birthday parties and cheering me on in the stands. She even took a second job cleaning houses to buy me my first guitar for my fourteenth birthday. When push came to shove, Gran became the mother my own couldn’t be.
I brace myself, anticipating a collect call from the Brewster County jail. “Hello?”
“Hi. Is a Miss Casey Grainger there, please?”
“This is Casey. Who’s this?”
“Well, hey there, baby girl. I know it’s been a long time, but I’m crushed you don’t remember me.”
The low sexy drawl on the other end is definitely not the sheriff. My old nickname punches me in the chest then sits in my stomach like a rock. It’s a name from my past said in a voice I never thought I’d hear again.
“Austin?” I swallow hard, my heart racing greyhound fast. “You okay?” Beads of sweat form on my palms. The last time we spoke was on Gran’s porch at graduation. When he proposed.
“Yep. Right as rain, just doin’ my thing. You sound different. Hope big city living ain’t changing ya too much.”