by Cat Porter
I rubbed the back of my neck. I definitely needed to have a laugh and relax before I got into town tomorrow and faced the music. I was too wound up to sleep tonight. All my belongings, and there weren’t many, were packed in my Toyota Land Cruiser. It’s good to be mobile at a moment’s notice, like I was when my sister called me a little over a week ago.
“Grace, I need you, honey.”
She wouldn’t have asked me to come home if it wasn’t serious. I think both of us had been in denial over just how serious it was. I quit my job that day, packed my essentials, and came back to South Dakota.
Anything for Ruby. Anything.
But I wasn’t going to think about all that right now. Right now, I was going to try to enjoy myself. Well, at least have a laugh or two. Or something. That’s why coming to Dead Ringer’s had seemed like such a good idea after I had checked in to the motel earlier. My home town was located almost two hours away on the other side of Rapid City, so there wasn’t too much of a chance of anyone recognizing me here tonight.
After I had checked in at the motel, I’d taken a long hot shower, scrubbed the grime of the road off me, and eased the ache in my lower back from driving most of the day. I’d put on my black jeans and my favorite charcoal-gray T-shirt dotted with studs and tiny rhinestones along the wing design, shoved on my oldest pair of engineer boots, then set off for Dead Ringer’s. My legs always felt solidly weighted into the ground with these treasured puppies on, which was always a good thing, especially now. They were definitely a nice change from the high-tops I had been wearing to stay comfortable as I drove.
I raised my chin and inspected my appearance in the huge, cracked antique mirror that hung behind the bar next to the Roadhouse’s famous antique photograph of a nineteenth century gold prospector in the Black Hills. My grape lip-gloss had faded, of course, but my thick brown hair that I had highlighted off and on over the years had, as usual, achieved full volume all on its own. I had kept it bound in a ponytail all through my days of driving to keep it out of my face and off my neck. I combed my fingers through the layered waves that cascaded to my shoulders.
“There you go, hon.” The bartender blocked my view, breaking my girlish reverie. He slid a whiskey neat towards me on a small white napkin.
I shot him a smile. “Thank you.”
I drew deep on the amber liquid, and that delicious warmth flowed through me once more and settled in my blood. A Miranda Lambert song flared up, and suddenly a rumble echoed over the old wood floors as a good number of eager couples, both young and old, scrambled to the dance floor. Laughter and whoops swirled through the room. I took another swallow of my whiskey and savored its richness in my mouth.
This was good, comfortable. I tugged a strand of hair from one of my long silver earrings.
Was I really an upgraded version of the Grace Quillen who ran away from Meager, South Dakota sixteen years ago?
Ran away, absconded, escaped…
“Are you really drinking that without ice?” a deep male voice vibrated through me.
My eyes snapped up to my left, and I had to raise them up a bit higher to see the face behind that firm, almost purposeful tone. My fingers slid down my glass.
I drank in the large, almost black eyes lined with thick dark lashes that were pinned on me. His face was full of planes, angles and high cheekbones. He sported a long nose that must have been broken at some point, because it had an odd bump to it and a small scar on its side that travelled down his cheek. Those flaws may have blunted any overt handsomeness he might have been blessed with, yet they gave him an unforgiving, grim quality. My gaze settled on his full mouth. His smooth skin was a light bronze hue. He definitely had Native American blood in him.
He had to be over six feet tall with pronounced shoulders and a closely cropped head of dark hair peppered with just a bit of gray. There were faint traces of stubble on his face, and a small silver hoop hung from his right earlobe. His long arms and broad chest filled out his black hoodie that was zipped up most of the way. Faded and frayed blue jeans hung low and loose just below his waist and extended down a long pair of legs, which ended in heavily scuffed black leather boots. A worn-out road warrior.
He leaned against the bar, one feathery dark eyebrow quirked higher than the other at my glass of whiskey. “Never met a chick who liked it straight,” he said.
I choked on the swirl of liquor at the back of my throat. He swallowed his drink, his solemn eyes on me as he waited for a response to his ridiculous remark. With my eyes locked on his, I put down my glass.
I smirked. “Well, well. Lucky you.”
He shifted his weight and leaned in closer. “I meant the drink, not …” I could swear his irises had silver threads in them at this angle. His full lips tightened. He didn’t break into chuckles or a flirty pose. He really wanted an answer to his question.
“Yeah, I got it,” I said with a slight smile. “Ice only dilutes the flavor. Why order a great whiskey if you’re going to insult it with water or sugary soda?”
He studied me for a moment, perfectly still, then he nodded once and drank from his ice-filled glass, his dark eyes never leaving mine. “Very true. Insult—that’s perfect.”
I turned back to my drink. He moved in closer. “It’s just that most women order everything with a diet, you know?”
“Women or was that ‘chicks’?”
He let out a laugh. His face seemed almost boyish, then in an instant the relaxed look was gone and the somber returned.
“I hate soda,” I said.
His dark, languid eyes riveted on me once more, and I swallowed hard. I could soak in those soothing pools of darkness.
“Guess you’re not most women.” His voice was warm, almost gravelly, and his eyes glinted at me as he drank. The chunks of ice in his glass clinked together, the sound filling the thick air between us.
“No, I’m not.”
His teeth crunched on ice as he studied me. “I’ll bet you don’t like much diluted or watered down, huh?”
I tore my gaze away from those dark eyes of his and cleared my throat. “What are you drinking?”
“Vodka. Thought I’d change it up from beer tonight.”
“Good idea,” I murmured. “Change is always good.”
“Keeps the blood flowing, right?”
I glanced up at him again. He was trying to make conversation with me. Being friendly to strangers is good for one’s karma, isn’t it? And I needed all the help I could get in the karma department. Why not indulge in conversation with the attractive Mr. Vodka On The Rocks?
“Ever tried it with a slice of lemon?” I asked.
A hint of amusement passed over his eyes, and I grinned. “The drink, I mean.”
He shook his head and sighed. “No.”
“You should.”
My gaze swept over him once more. A tattoo crept across the base of his neck from his shoulder. Was it a feather? I tried not to stare at it too long. He looked to be around my age. There were lines around his eyes and mouth to match my own budding crow’s feet. His face was a bit weathered. A wise, dry humor flashed from the crooked angle of his brief smile, which I liked. No, he wasn’t some young’un hoping to score a cougar. My eyes rested on the bulky silver ring of a sculpted eagle’s head he wore on the hand that was wrapped around his glass. I frowned.
He leaned over the bar and plucked a thick slice of lemon from the tray of condiments and dropped it into his glass. He swirled the vodka around the ice and the lemon and took a swig. His attractive lips puckered.
“It adds a little something without overwhelming it. I like it.”
“I’m Grace, by the way.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Pretty name. Nice to meet you, Grace.” He tipped his glass in my direction. “I’m Miller.”
“Hi, Miller.”
He signaled the bartender for another round for both of us.
“You don’t have to do that.” My hand darted out to his long arm. The wiry muscles
under the plush softness of his hoodie tightened, and I snapped my hand back right away as if I had been burned.
“Why not?” His eyes scrunched together. He leaned in closer, his one elbow grazed mine on the bar top, his warm breath fanned my neck. “I usually don’t do this sort of thing, but tonight, for a woman like you, I’m going to splurge.”
“Oh, a woman like me?” I smirked into my empty glass. What did that mean? Mature? Older? “And why does a woman like me get the formal treatment?”
His eyes gleamed. “Because I admire your respect for that whiskey,” he said in a smooth, honeyed voice that melted right over me.
I straightened my back as I absorbed his dark gaze. A buzz zipped through my veins. I knew I was already in trouble here, but this was ... fun. Isn’t this why I came here tonight? To unwind, distract myself before the hell of tomorrow? What’s a little flirting? It had been so long since I had actually felt attracted to a man.
Really attracted.
“I appreciate your appreciating it,” I said. He grinned, and my mouth abruptly went dry.
The bartender slid our new drinks in front of us and took our empties away. My gaze shot up at Miller. His eyes were softer this time, like dark pools of full-flavored coffee. There was something calming to me about his gaze, like the calm that suddenly comes after a violent storm. Or was that before the storm?
He held up his glass and clinked it against mine. It might as well have been an alarm bell heralding our move into new territory. We had shifted gears, and we both knew it.
“To appreciation, then,” he murmured.
His eyebrows bunched up for a second, and he let out a laugh at the banal sentiment. I liked that small, unfettered laugh of his. He immediately segued into serious once more, and we swallowed our liquor, our eyes fastened on each other.
Danger, Will Robinson.
My face heated, and I quickly diverted my gaze to scan the increasing number of patrons lining the bar. All I really wanted to do was look into those rich eyes again. I held my breath and tamped down the urge. Blake Shelton’s “Ten Times Crazier” blared loudly through the Roadhouse.
Miller’s glass slammed on the bar. “Come on, Grace. Let’s dance.” My head jerked back to him. He seized my hand and tugged me off my bar stool, his long calloused fingers pressing into my flesh.
“Dance?” My eyes widened, yet all the while I enjoyed the firm heat of his hand over mine. He led me through the crowd to the dance floor.
“I’ve got you, no worries,” he whispered in my ear.
His arms slid around me and pulled me close to his solid frame. I tried to ignore the shiver that zipped across my skin, but it was useless. His very masculine scent of leather and musk intoxicated me immediately. My stomach fluttered as we moved easily to the music across the floor, his hand pressing against my back. He tucked me in closer, and our hips swayed against each other.
I blinked up at him. Miller was tall. I was five foot seven and considered myself average. But there was nothing average about me dancing with this gladiator. His large, hot hand at my lower back singed my skin through the thin cotton of my T-shirt. His face had softened, and his dark eyes seemed to shimmer over me. It was as if he were a different person from the somewhat brooding figure at the bar.
My long silver earrings prickled the suddenly sensitive skin of my neck as we danced to two more songs. Miller teased me about the two old cowboys at a table near the dance floor who had been allegedly ogling my ass, and we laughed over the melodramatic lyrics of the current song. My breathing began to return to normal.
Well, a more intense level of normal.
I liked being held in the long, lean arms of this man, a man who sent that glorious buzz humming through me. It had been years, hundreds of years, since I had been rendered nearly speechless by that rush.
I’m usually a sensible girl. Maybe I should have made some excuse and headed out the door, but I didn’t. I liked the way he kept me close. I liked how his solid body moved against mine and led me through the music. His warm, heady fragrance ignited my insides as Kenny Chesney crooned softly about all the potential damage that could be done. It was nice to pretend I was just an ordinary woman dancing to “You and Tequila” with a sexy somebody at a bar off an interstate in South Dakota.
But I knew better.
I used to let go and have fun. Now, not so much. Sixteen years ago I had stopped harboring expectations for too much more than pleasantness in my life. I had learned the bitter lesson that low expectations were the best way to go.
Miller’s hand slid up my back. He led us off the dance floor and back to the bar where our drinks waited for us. The place was crowded now and much noisier. We leaned against the bar and stood closer together than before out of necessity. His one hand slid over my left hip and secured me close to him in the pressing crowd.
“How did you like Ohio?” he asked.
I still chewed on the sensation of his hand gripping me. Crap, what did he just say?
“Excuse me?”
“Your Harley tee.” Miller gestured to my back. “It’s from Ohio. That where you’re from?”
My lips curled into a slight smile. He didn’t suspect I was a native. “I worked at the store in Dayton for a couple of years a while back.”
I had been the general manager, actually, at that store and several others.
“No shit?” His eyes widened. “Careful, you’re turning into my dream girl, babe. You know everything about bikes?” He took a drink.
Dream girl? Wouldn’t that be swell? At the age of forty-two, I had enough baggage to charter my own cargo plane.
I laughed, and he gave me a quizzical look. “Not everything,” I said, “but let’s see.” My eyes slid down his long legs slowly and obviously before resting on his boots. He grinned as he swallowed his vodka, enjoying the stroke of my deliberate attention. “I know your boots aren’t the real deal.” I took in another mouthful of whiskey.
He nodded. “Not this pair, but I’ve got several others at home came straight from the source.”
I let out a laugh. “Going casual tonight then?”
“Hmm.” He crunched on another ice cube, his gaze locked on mine. “Now I wish I had put them on, to suit the occasion.”
“What occasion is that?”
“Meeting you, Grace.”
The firm, crisp way he said my name made my insides tighten. His eyes remained on me as he polished off his vodka then licked the excess off his lips. I wondered what those full lips would feel like pressed against mine. The need to know suddenly overwhelmed me.
“So are you from around here, ‘cause I know I haven’t seen you before?” he asked.
“You’d remember me?”
“Absolutely.” The edges of his lips curled into a slow grin that made my stomach dip.
“I’m from. . .around.” I made a twirling gesture with my fingers. “Plenty of around.”
“Like where?”
“Ohio, Wisconsin, Texas, Colorado, Washington State.”
“That’s plenty of around, Grace. You like to keep moving? Or maybe you need to?”
I turned to face the dance floor in order to escape his penetrating gaze. “Change keeps the blood flowing, didn’t you say? It’s good for the soul, too.”
If I had any of my soul left anymore.
His eyes tightened. Here come the goddamn twenty questions now.
“You got any family?”
Bingo.
“A sister.”
“Husband, kids?”
I smirked. “She does, yes.”
“Not your sister, Grace. You.”
“Me? No,” I replied a bit too sharply. “No husband. No boyfriend either, if that’s going to be your next question.”
He lowered his head. “You off to somewhere new?”
I shrugged my shoulders at him.
“Not telling, huh?” He turned back around and settled his elbows on the bar. “Guess we all have our dark secrets,” he muttered
and polished off his vodka.
My ears pounded with the booming vibe of a Florida Georgia Line song. I cleared my throat. “I guess it’s country music night tonight?”
“Almost every night,” he said, an eyebrow lifting. “You in the mood for something else?”
I grinned. “A little Santana would be a good thing.”
He grinned back at me. “Great band.”
“One of the best.”
Oh, I liked his grin. It was hard won, I suspected, yet worth it.
He gestured to my not quite empty glass. “You want another?”
“No thanks. I’m good.”
“Mind if I try?”
“Go ahead.” I pushed the glass towards him.
The sight of his generous lips clinging to my glass, and the movement of his long throat as he drank in my whiskey held me spellbound. I might as well have been witnessing some sort of supernatural phenomenon.
“Single malt?” he asked, his eyes on me. His lips puckered for a moment as he set it down.
“Yes. Only way to go.”
On some sort of insane reflex, my fingers reached out to wipe a glistening amber drop that clung to the corner of his beautiful mouth. His hand caught mine and held it fast to the side of his face while his other hand wrapped around my neck and pulled me close.
“Only way,” he breathed.
Any trace of oxygen was sucked right out of me as his warm lips touched mine and gently explored. Suddenly his tongue swept over my lower lip, and I tasted my beloved whiskey on his slickness. A groan choked in the back of my throat. The heat of his hand around my neck made my insides pulsate almost painfully.
I desperately wanted this kiss from him.
I opened my lips to welcome him in. The next moment our mouths assaulted each other, and our tongues devoured deeply. Somehow I didn’t care that I was in a public bar where a herd of people pushed around us, music boomed, laughter and chatter droned in my ear.
All I thought or cared about was this demanding, hungry kiss.
My hands gripped his biceps, and his hard muscles flexed under the soft material of his hoodie. He pulled me into his chest, and his scent flooded my senses once more. This time I wanted to drink it in; let it entwine around me and hug me close. My nipples hardened against the thin satin of my bra.