by LuAnn McLane
“Just so you know, people are going to stare,” Dakota said.
Sierra’s eyes widened. “I forgot that you are freakin’ famous.”
“Sort of. By now people narrow their eyes and wonder how they know my face, and then usually snap their fingers and ask if I was on American Idol.” Dakota sighed. “But they do stare, just to give you fair warning.”
“You’ll be fine,” Sierra said and squeezed Dakota’s hand. “Let’s go!”
Dakota entered Dewey’s and stopped to look around. She had been in lounges and to cocktail parties, but a neighborhood honky-tonk remained virgin territory until now. “This is so cool!” Dakota squeaked in Sierra’s ear.
“I told you to stop with the perkiness, Princess!” Sierra grabbed her hand and yanked her forward.
“Okay,” Dakota said in a forced lower tone, and followed Sierra, but looked around with unabashed interest. At the moment, Rascal Flatts blasted from a jukebox, but the stage at the far end of the room appeared set up for live music. It had been years since she had performed, and looking at the microphone gave her a nervous flutter in her stomach, so she quickly glanced away. In the right corner, a couple of weathered cowboys were shooting darts, and to her left an old-school pinball machine dinged and blinked. “I want to play that,” she told Sierra, and pointed.
“Later. I need food and a tall beer. And for God’s sake, stop pointing!” Sierra said as she led Dakota past tall stools occupied by people of various shapes and sizes, making Dakota think of Toby Keith’s “I Love This Bar.” She tried to soak it all in, and couldn’t wait to people-watch, in hopes of gaining inspiration for songwriting. She suddenly realized how much she missed the creative side of music and felt the itch to sit down with her guitar.
“Over here.” Sierra suggested a table set up for dining in the bigger room beyond the main bar. The pool hall could be seen through a big archway, and Dakota angled her head to see inside, but Sierra leaned forward with her hands on the maroon vinyl tablecloth. “Stop gawking. You’ll bring attention to us,” Sierra said, and looked left and right.
“Sierra, people know you here,” Dakota said, and patted her hand. “Relax and have fun. So you’re wearing some makeup.” She shrugged. “So what?”
While drumming her fingertips on the table, Sierra nodded. “I know. I’ll be okay after a couple of beers.” She glanced around again as if waiting for someone to recognize her, and said, “Hey, let’s do a shot.”
Dakota raised her eyebrows. “What?” She shook her head hard and wagged a finger at Sierra. “Oh no. I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself. But I’m going to.”
“Sierra,” Dakota began in a tone of warning, but stopped herself. For a long time she had been living on the outside looking in, and tonight she decided she was long past due in cutting loose and having a wild time. What was the harm of one little old shot anyway? Maybe like a Buttery Nipple or something. But after listening to Sierra place her order, Dakota proudly proclaimed, “I’ll have the same thing. A shot of Maker ’s Mark, followed closely by a Bud Light in a bottle, and an order of hot wings, but with the exception that I want extra celery and blue cheese, and skip the fries. Oh, and put an order of deep-fried pickles on my tab for us to share.” She said this primly, as if she were in a four-star restaurant, and then unfolded her paper napkin onto her lap.
For a minute, Sierra blinked across the table at Dakota, as if pondering whether this was a good idea or could lead to disaster, but then she grinned. “I think we just set the mood for the night.”
“And what might that be?” Dakota inclined her head politely just as their shots and beer arrived.
“Only one word comes to mind.”
“Yes?”
“Ca-raaa-zy!” Sierra proclaimed. When she raised her shot glass, Dakota followed suit.
They clinked together, and Dakota watched Sierra so she did the deed in the correct fashion, and prayed to God that she didn’t sputter it all over the table. As Dakota brought the glass to her lips, she told herself that if she could eat sushi, she could surely toss back a shot of good Kentucky bourbon. She inhaled sharply, sending the pungent aroma straight to her head just as she opened her lips and flung the entire contents into her mouth and swallowed. For a second it wasn’t too bad—just strong—and she actually liked the flavor. She started to smile. But then it suddenly felt as if there were a trail of fire in her throat that just might explode in her stomach.
Dakota gasped and blindly reached for water, but there was none so she grabbed her longneck and took deep, soothing gulps of the ice-cold liquid until brain freeze forced her to stop guzzling. She set the bottle down with a thud and looked across the table while blinking away the water in her eyes. “Snap!” Dakota managed, while holding one hand to her forehead and the other to her stomach. “That was intense! Whew!”
Sierra grinned and looked none the worse for wear. “You’d better slow down there, Princess.”
“Don’t worry. I will,” she said, and reached for her beer after her brain thawed out. She took a leisurely sip and then smiled when the wings arrived. “These smell heavenly.”
“They are spicy hot, so be warned.”
Dakota waved a dismissive hand. “I love spicy food,” she said, but after taking a bite of a tiny drumstick, her lips felt tingly and she reached for her beer again.
“Too spicy for ya?” Sierra teased, and Dakota watched with a sense of wonder while Sierra ate a wing and leisurely licked her fingers.
“Not at all,” Dakota replied, and determinedly took another rather dainty bite. Her eyes watered and her lips burned, but she bravely consumed the entire drumstick before soothing her palate with celery and a generous dollop of cool and creamy blue cheese. The bourbon and beer made her feel warm and relaxed enough to get up the nerve to try a deep-fried pickle. She reached over and picked up a golden brown spear from the basket and looked at it with interest.
“Dip it in the ranch dressing,” Sierra advised.
“Okay.” She dunked it in the little bowl and then took a tiny bite. “Hmm, interesting,” she commented, and took a bigger bite. “Good, actually. I like it!”
Sierra laughed, and snagged a pickle and took a healthy bite before wagging it at Dakota. “I wonder who thought of these anyway. Genius!”
Dakota laughed back and dunked hers in the dressing, but when she glanced up, she suddenly realized that they were slowly becoming the center of attention. She nudged Sierra beneath the table to alert her to what was happening and gave her discreet hand signals to look around. Sierra’s eyes widened, and she self-consciously reached up to touch her hair as if she had forgotten about her altered appearance.
Dakota noticed that a group of young guys who could see them from the main bar were elbowing each other and obviously talking about them. She leaned forward as if her goal were to snag one of Sierra’s French fries and whispered, “Do you know those guys staring at us?”
Sierra nodded. Following Dakota’s lead, she leaned forward and grabbed a celery stick, but said in a low voice, “I play pool with them sometimes.” She looked at the celery stick as if she really didn’t want it, but then took a crunchy bite.
“Well, don’t look, but one of them is heading our way.”
Of course she looked, and whipped her head back around.
Dakota leaned forward and took another fry. “I told you not to look!”
Sierra reached for another celery stick. “I don’t mind very well.”
Dakota leaned over and dipped her fry in Sierra’s ketchup. “Ya think? Just play it cool.”
“How?”
“Small talk.”
“I don’t do small talk!” she protested between clenched teeth.
“Wing it!” Dakota considered holding up a hot wing as a prop, but that might have been overkill so she refrained.
“Dear God!”
“It’s not that hard,” Dakota assured her, and sat back up straight, but not before stealing another forbidde
n fry. She had been schooled to watch her weight since her pop-princess days, and the salty, crunchy fries made her want to moan. “Here he comes,” she mouthed before taking a swig of her beer.
A moment later, the bravest of the pool-shooting bunch twisted a chair around and plopped down, straddling it. “How y’all doin’?”
“We’re doin’ all right,” Sierra responded in a calm voice, but Dakota noticed that she nervously toyed with her napkin.
“Wait. Sierra Miller?” He tilted the bill of his Car hartt ball cap up and turned it slightly cockeyed.
“Danny Dixon, you’ve known me since sixth grade,” Sierra chided with a shake of her head, but Dakota noticed pink color bloom on her cheeks.
“Hi, Danny,” Dakota interjected, to get his attention off Sierra so she could compose herself. She stuck her hand out. “I’m Dakota Dunn.”
“Nice to meet ya,” he said, and then narrowed his eyes the way most people did while trying to place her. “You from around here?”
Dakota smiled. “I grew up in Tall Rock, but I’ve been away for a few years.”
“Oh,” he said while scratching his chin, but continued to look at her in question. “Thought I recognized you.” He tilted up his longneck with two fingers and took a swig.
“Would you like some wings or deep-fried pickles?” Dakota offered. “I’m afraid our eyes were bigger than our stomachs.” She noticed that Danny’s buddies were watching with interest, even though they pretended to be taking in a baseball game on a nearby television suspended from the wall.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he accepted with a grin that Dakota thought was charming. There was no pretense—just good-ole-boy earnestness that Dakota had forgotten existed. After he polished off the wing, he licked his thumb. Dakota was struck by the fact that the spicy hot sauce didn’t even faze him in the least either, making her feel rather wimpy. “Hope you ladies will save me and my buddies a dance or two later when the music starts.”
He looked at Sierra, who appeared stuck for words, so Dakota jumped in. “Sure we will. Might cost you a beer,” she added, and was proud of herself for sounding saucy.
“It’d be well worth it,” Danny flirted back. Then he winked at Sierra and added, “You sure are lookin’ bangin’ tonight. Catch you ladies later.” He scooted his chair back and paused to give Sierra a wink before heading back to the main bar, where he got a few elbows to the ribs and shoves to his shoulders.
“He was cute,” Dakota commented as she picked up another pickle. “And he sure did like you.”
Sierra waved her off. “Oh, he was put up to it by his buddies. Just messin’ with me.”
“You are so wrong, Sierra,” she said, and then widened her eyes when two more shots came their way. “Did you order this?”
“From the boys at the bar,” the waitress answered, then nodded toward Danny and his partners in crime, where they were perched on high stools. They lifted their beer bottles in salute and waited in anticipation.
Dakota looked at the amber-colored bourbon while dearly wishing for a Buttery Nipple, and then glanced over at Sierra, who grinned and lifted her glass. Knowing she was throwing caution to the wind—or more like spitting into the wind—Dakota drew in a deep breath, brought the glass to her lips, and tossed it back.
11
Hit Me with Your Best Shot
“Holy shit,” Trace muttered when he and Grady entered Dewey’s and spotted Dakota and Sierra through the archway, sitting at a table. “They’re doin’ shots.”
“Yeah, this could get ugly,” Grady agreed with a shake of his head.
Trace flicked a concerned glance at Grady and was glad he had asked him to come along. “Let’s get them the hell outta here.”
“Just hold on,” Grady said, and put a restraining hand on Trace’s arm. “I can pretty much assure you that Sierra won’t leave unless she damned well wants to. Trying to strong-arm her outta here will only make her want to stay. I say we go over there in the corner where they can’t see us, and keep an eye on things.” He shrugged. “Besides, she’s a regular here and can take care of herself.”
Trace angled his head at Grady. “Has she ever been in here lookin’ like she looks tonight?”
“What do you mean?” Grady asked, and squinted to get a better view of Sierra.
“Dakota must have done some sort of makeover on her, because she sure looks hot.”
Grady turned and narrowed his eyes at Trace.
“Hey, it’s an observation. She’s like a sister to me. Damn, Grady, you’ve got it bad.”
“Like you don’t?” Grady asked in a low voice, so as not to draw attention to them. “I’ve tried forever to get you here, and all it took was knowin’ Dakota was in the house and in need of your protection.” While batting his eyes, he put his hand to his chest. “My hero,” he crooned in a high-pitched voice, and was rewarded with an elbow jab to the gut. “Ouch!”
“I feel an obligation to her mama and daddy to keep an eye on her. That’s what got me here.”
“Right. And I’ll buy that swampland you’re sellin’ too.”
Trace was about to snap back when he noticed the young guys at the bar watching Sierra and Dakota. “Those dudes musta bought them the drinks.”
Grady looked in the direction Trace indicated and growled, “Let’s kick us some ass.”
It was Trace’s turn to put a hand on Grady’s shoulder. “Chill, man. I really don’t want any trouble if we can help it. Let’s stick to the plan of kicking back and keeping an eye on things.” He didn’t add that he didn’t really want to be recognized or talk to anyone.
“If you say so,” Grady reluctantly agreed, but then raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Don’t know what the hell’s gettin’ into me. You go sit down over there in the corner, and I’ll get us some beer.”
“Okay.” With his long hair and dark stubble shading his face, and given the dim lighting of the bar, Trace hoped he would fly under the radar, especially in the corner. He really didn’t want to talk about his glory days or the inevitable question of whether he would return to bull riding. He also really didn’t want to see expressions of pity at his scar or feel eyes on his back when he limped. The fact that he also didn’t want to witness guys hitting on Dakota slammed into his brain when a couple of cowboys swaggered over to their table and started chatting them up.
Trace clenched his teeth together and almost stood up when the taller of the two put his hat on Dakota’s head. She laughed and accepted the beer he handed her. Trace shook his head when Grady sat down. “She’s already over her limit,” he grumbled. “I can tell.” He looked across the table and said, “Maybe you’re right and we should just drag them outta here.”
“Well, I don’t think those boys would take kindly to that, Trace. Drink your beer and calm down. It’s Sunday, so it should clear out early and we can get the girls home.”
Trace nodded. “You’re right.” The beer tasted good and cold, but he knew he could drink only a couple and drive home, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Dakota or Sierra hitch a ride with anyone but him or Grady. So far no one had recognized him sitting in the shadows, and after he polished off the beer he relaxed just a tad.
“Oh, shit,” Grady said when a couple of the young guys started to argue. “I smell trouble.”
“Just sit tight,” Trace warned, but he was on full alert since the shoving was going on very close to Dakota’s table. He had a sneaking suspicion Dakota was going to take it upon herself to say something, and he was right.
“Guys!” Dakota shouted. She stood up and wobbled slightly. “Stop it! Can’t we all just get along?”
“Sit down!” Sierra said, and pointed to Dakota’s chair.
“No. This is silly!” Dakota protested with her hands on her hips, and then gave her attention to the boys. The Toby Keith-style hat she still wore slipped to the side of her head when she said, “Stop it this minute! Fighting is …” She paused as if struggling for a word, and finall
y raised a finger in the air and loudly proclaimed, “Stupid!”
By this time, everyone in the bar had stopped doing their various bar activities, including the band that was setting up, and turned their attention to Dakota and the anticipation of a fight. Trace looked around for the bouncer, who must have used the only moment he was needed to take a trip to the men’s room.
“What should we do?” Grady asked.
“I don’t—” Trace began, but when the argument heated up and Dakota decided she should put herself between the two cowboys with her hands extended, he knew he had to step in.
“Get outta the way, little lady,” one of the cowboys warned in a John Wayne-sounding voice. While his attention was diverted, the other guy took a swing at him way too close to Dakota for Trace’s comfort.
“Dakota, sit your ass down!” Sierra shouted.
“Damn it!” Trace pushed his way into the room and snagged Dakota around the waist just as one of the cowboys took another swing. He saw the punch coming and twisted her out of the way, but ended up getting clipped on the side of his face. He staggered sideways and came down hard on his bum leg, nearly losing his balance, but braced his hand against the wall and remained upright. His arm remained around Dakota, and when she started to wiggle away he held her tightly and said in her ear, “Stop it. You’re going to get me into a fight.”
“But—”
“But nothin’, Dakota. Now, are you comin’ peacefully or do I have to toss you over my shoulder?”
“Peacefully,” she assured him.
“Good,” he said, and eased his grip around her waist, but remained at her side as she walked back over to her table. Grady was with Sierra, who was busy paying the tab. The big, bald bouncer hurried into the room and hefted both boys toward the door and then turned to Trace.
“Trace Coleman?” he boomed, and extended a big, beefy hand. “Bo Mason. Man, it’s good to see you in Dewey’s. I hope you come in more often. I’ll make sure people don’t bug the hell outta ya.”
“I appreciate that,” Trace said, and shook the bouncer’s hand. In truth, he was surprised that he didn’t really want to leave.