Rough Country (Tannen Boys Book 3)

by Lauren Landish

  His tone is heavy, but even so, I think he’s kidding. I mean, I know what he said last night and this morning, but it’s seriously been maybe ten hours and he’s been working, same as me. I’ve thought of nothing else all day, but he probably hasn’t given me a thought until he was on his way here. But that’s okay, he’s here now and quite obviously happy to see me. His eyes scan me from head to toe, seemingly in awe of what he sees. I don’t understand why—I’m just me—but the intensity in the depths of his eyes, the relief at merely seeing me again, is near palpable.

  From behind him, a deep voice barks out a laugh. “That’s putting it mildly. Dumb fuck wouldn’t shut up all day. Willow-this and Willow-that. If he hadn’t been talking about you all damn week, I would’ve thought he’d taken up with a tree.”

  Bobby takes the teasing good-naturedly, to my surprise, throwing up a middle finger behind him to whoever spoke but grinning as he does so. He explains, “I’ve been holding ’em back with promises of introducing you when you were ready. Well, ready or not, here they come.”

  He steps to the side, and I realize that the group of folks behind him aren’t the latest rush for the bar to grab a round of beers but Bobby’s entire family. The extended one. I can tell who is whom from listening to his stories.

  His oldest brother, Brody, dark and broody, and Rix, short and savage and currently picking what looks to be grease from beneath her nails. I hand her a napkin, which she takes with a dip of her chin.

  Brutal, the teaser who is, to put it nicely, scary as hell and as tall as a tree. Not just any old tree, either, but one of those Christmas trees you think looks grand until you get it in the house and the top bends sideways because it’s smooshed up against the ceiling. That’s Brutal. Even with several feet between him and the ceiling, he just feels . . . big. Next to him is a blonde wearing white frayed-hem shorts, a blingy tank top, and a kind smile. That’d be his wife, Allyson.

  Another lighter version of Brody, grumpy and seemingly put out at being out, so that’d be . . . Mark Bennett. He’s got his arm locked around Katelyn, a curvy blonde whose eyes haven’t left his. They seem to be having some sort of silent conversation that even from here feels private.

  A blonde guy wearing a big belt buckle and holding hands with a pretty brunette, who’s eyeing me curiously. That’d be James and Sophie Bennett. She works for Doc Jones, and he speaks highly of her intelligence and work ethic.

  And last but not least, a younger-looking woman with honey brown hair, who is currently bouncing on her boot-covered toes and being held back by another blonde guy. Luke and Shayanne Bennett, A.K.A. Bobby’s sister.

  “Let me at her. I’m a hugger, it’s who I am!”

  “Shay, she’s working. And she doesn’t even know you. Hugging could be construed as assault,” Bobby warns.

  “Pshaw,” she argues, as if that’s an actual argument. I get the feeling that in her eyes, it is. And that it usually works and she gets her way. But I already like that she’s a hugger, even if she’s on the other side of the bar.

  “Hi,” I say, waving awkwardly. “I’m Willow.”

  Smiling faces greet me, and almost in tune, they answer, “We know.” Brutal adds, “Fuck, do I. Nonstop, I tell you. Non-fucking-stop.”

  Allyson lays a hand on his forearm, and he looks to her and shrugs. “What? It’s the truth.”

  Bobby isn’t as nice and backhands his brother’s arm with a smack. “Shut up, man. Did I go around telling Allyson when you were all boohooing over her and whining about how you couldn’t live without her? No, I did not. So don’t fuck this up for me or I’ll never babysit Cooper again and you’ll be forced to sneak in quickies while he’s watching a twenty-minute cartoon. God knows I love the kid, but he’s got the attention span of a gnat, so twenty is pushing it. Maybe . . . eight at most.”

  Brutal glowers. “One, low blow, man. Not cool. Twenty minutes is not enough time, ever. Two, you didn’t tell Allyson all that crap because you were pissed at her and pulling out the silent treatment like a pouting toddler throwing tantrums, so payback’s a bitch.”

  I’m watching the exchange like a live-action play right in front of my face. I don’t know what Brutal’s talking about, not having heard that story, but Bobby shrugs. “Fair enough. But leave Willow out of it like I left Allyson out. You can give me all the shit you want, though.”

  Seeming to have reached some agreement, they shake hands, though I have zero idea what just happened.

  Bobby turns back to me. “I promised them I’d buy the first round, but I didn’t promise they’d get to pick. Did I see you making Girly Beer when I came in?” He gives me that cocky smirk that says we’re in on this together.

  I return the grin, leaning on the bar and casually wiping at a nonexistent spot. “You did see some Girly Beer. You thinking on the rocks or frozen?”

  “Oh, frozen. The only thing better than seeing these assholes drinking pink drinks is knowing they can’t chug them without getting a brain freeze.”

  “Pink?” a deep voice says. I’m not sure who because I’m caught in Bobby’s dark eyes, loving the way he’s lighter and sillier with his family around him. Silly is not a word I thought I’d ever use to describe Bobby Tannen, but there you go.

  “Ooh, I’m in,” Allyson says.

  “Table,” Mark says and moves off toward a freshly empty booth. Everyone follows him, though he didn’t order, or even ask, them to.

  Bobby hangs back with me, draped on the bar like he couldn’t be more comfortable if he were in his own living room.

  “We’re a lot, I know. But it’s fine. They just wanted to meet you. I promise we’ll drink and eat and dance, and it’ll all be fine. See you when it slows down. I’ll be the guy over there” —he points the direction his family went then to his eyes with two fingers— “watching you like a creeper.” He winks after he says it, but I think his eyes will be on me all night. Pretty sure mine are going to be drifting his way too, then to the clock, counting down until two o’clock when I can be with him again.

  I don’t realize until he’s walking off that maybe he was telling me that it’ll be fine that his family is all here, given their rather wild reputations and all. Or maybe that it’s fine that they’re all here . . . for me.

  Chapter 9

  Bobby

  I mosey over to sit with my family, taking one of the chairs they’ve crowded around the empty edge of the largest booth in the place. We’re a big bunch, both in number and in size, so we take up the whole corner, but there’s plenty of space because people tend to give us a wide berth.

  Except for one dumbass woman who comes by and coyly asks if I’m going to play tonight while twirling her hair around her index finger. It’s a proposition if ever I’ve heard one.

  “No.” I answer both her question and her question, and the whole crew backs me up with mean glares that communicate clearly ‘get the fuck outta dodge . . . pronto.’

  Shot down, she slinks away to look for another horse to ride tonight. It’s not me, it’s never been me, and it certainly isn’t now that I’m with Willow.

  I look over to see Willow’s brow lift questioningly and give her a heated look that says ‘you’ve got nothing to worry about, woman.’

  “Damn, man, turn the smolder down or you’re gonna get the whole place pregnant,” Rix deadpans. Brody snorts out a laugh, and as I turn around, I can see the whole table is fighting back grins or some version of a chuckle.

  “Not me,” Mark decrees, and they lose the battle, the laughs bursting out.

  “Fair enough,” Rix agrees. “But every vagina in here just went slicker than snot from Nashville’s Flynn Rider look.” Rix is not exactly a subtle woman. As a mechanic, she spends all day with the guys in her shop and all evening with us assholes, and she has zero smooth edges. She’s as rough as the rest of us, maybe more so.

  Brody growls, “Quit talking about your vagina and my brother in the same sentence.”

  Rix smirks. “Or what?”
>
  Brody doesn’t answer, but Rix suddenly goes quiet and sits up straight. My guess is he’s doing some talking under the table given the smug satisfaction on his usually stoic face.

  Olivia appears with a tray of frosty mugs filled to the brim with pink slush and starts to pass them out. “What the hell’s this?” Luke asks.

  “Round of Girly Beers, as ordered,” she answers, tipping me a wink. “Don’t worry, boys. It takes more than a little light beer to void your man cards.”

  There’s one of us who’s always willing to try anything, literally anything . . . as in we dare him to do shit all the time just to see if he will, and he always does. So to no one’s surprise, James grabs his and starts sucking at the straw. After a few draws, he holds it up, surprised. “That’s delicious. What’s in it?”

  I proudly tell them all about Willow’s recipe and how Hank agreed to sell it as the whole table slurps theirs down happily. With it being light beer and sweet, it doesn’t even give me a buzz, but I feel bubbly inside anyway as I watch Willow work.

  Bubbly? A rough motherfucker like you can’t be bubbly. It’s downright physically impossible unless you’re talking gas.

  Yep, even I can do bubbly, so suck it.

  I argue with myself, knowing that it’s the truth. It’s that feeling so many songs have been written about. Hell, I’ve written some myself, thinking I knew what I was talking about. But I didn’t until right now.

  Champagne rushing through my veins, but it’s not the liquor. It’s you.

  Conversation turns to work stuff, as usual, and we discuss the latest cattle prices, herd health, crop yields, and Shay talks about the planned fall offerings for her homemade goat soap and food goodies business. “Pumpkin spice soaps again, because of course, those are my best sellers. Pumpkin spice everything!” she says, feigning a basic Starbucks bitch voice and garnering a few smiles. In her own voice again, she continues, “But I think I want to try a new apple scent. Something brighter and lighter, like a honey crisp and floral combo. I’m not sure, though, because the apple cinnamon set with the soap, apple butter, and candle is such a seasonal favorite.”

  Sophie raises her hand. “If you do the new one, you’ll still make the apple butter, right? It’s Cindy Lou’s favorite.” James gets real interested in Shay’s plans at that and parrots, “Yeah, it’s Cindy Lou’s favorite.” Sophie’s brow raises sharply at his emphasis on their baby girl, and I think maybe James is helping his little daughter make the apple butter disappear. One for you, one for me. One for you, two for me.

  “Of course, I’ll still make it. For Cindy Lou.” Shay knows good and well who’s eating it too. “But before all that, we still have next week’s deliveries to discuss.”

  We all groan. Shayanne has become quite the entrepreneur, which we support wholeheartedly as her staff. There are deliveries every week of every season, which we tackle on a rotating schedule. But for a whole bunch of grumpy assholes, making deliveries to people all over town is basically signing up for a day of hell.

  “I need to check with Willow first. I’m not sure what days she’s off, and I want to be sure I can spend those hours with her,” I tell Shay, looking to Brutal for confirmation. We work together most days, handling the planting and harvesting as a two-man team, though we occasionally have to hire a day worker to help. He nods that he’ll cover for me whenever I need to step away for the day.

  “Whoopsh,” Luke says in his version of a whip sound. With a grin, he adds, “She’s already got you whipped.”

  I chuckle at that, shoving his shoulder. “Fucker, have you looked in a mirror lately? My sister has your balls in a jar in the deep freeze with the roasts. You’re the most whipped of us all.”

  He shrugs, unconcerned. “Hey, if my woman wants to play with my balls and smack my ass a little, I’m game.”

  “Enough,” Brody barks out.

  We all like Luke. Hell, I’d fight alongside him any day. But he’s still fucking my sister, which makes our friendship a bit tenuous, no matter what. I’m not one to share sexual escapade stories, and I definitely don’t need the details of his sex life, especially if Shay is smacking his ass like a damn pony ride. Ugh.

  Shay can sense the tension, and used to it, she intervenes easily, changing the subject to the reason they’re all here tonight. “I like her. She seems nice and didn’t shrink when we all swarmed, so she’s got that going for her.”

  “You just met her,” Katelyn tells Shayanne, finally joining the conversation instead of making fuck-me eyes at Mark.

  “Yeah, but I have a good feeling about her. Like I had with Sophie when I met her.” Shay grins and Sophie cringes.

  “Oh, my God, girl. You nearly had me running for the hills. You were like, ‘hi, nice to meet you . . . now, we’re BFFs . . . wanna come over and see my goats?’”

  Shay balks. “But you did! And look how it turned out!” She gestures around the table at our whole motley crew.

  Sophie smiles back and offers an apologetic high-five to Shay, which she returns begrudgingly.

  I want my family to like Willow. More importantly, I want Willow to like my family. These people are my everything. Well, them and music, and now, Willow.

  After a while, everyone’s taken a turn on the dance floor, some have had a second drink, Katelyn and Allyson even go for another Girly Beer, and we play a team game of pool.

  The whole time, I’m watching Willow work. She’s at ease behind the bar, handling the whole thing without pause, almost dancing her way from the beer taps to the liquor bottles. Every once in a while, her eyes will find mine and I’m rewarded with one of those soft smiles that I’m starting to feel possessive of.

  Starting? Who am I kidding? I want to gather each one of them and keep them in my pocket so I can have one any time I want.

  It’s been hours since I’ve touched her, and that kiss was only a friendly greeting, not what I really need from her. I’m getting itchy, ready to go visit her at the bar, when I see her heading my way. Maybe she’s feeling the same way, like she wants to be closer to me the way I need to be closer to her.

  She stops by my chair, and I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her in tight. Her arm goes to my shoulders and I welcome its light weight. I squeeze her side, finally settling now that she’s with me.

  Home, that’s what she feels like.

  And fuck, do I want to go right on in, get cozy and comfortable, and never leave. Just live buried inside her. At this rate, I might go crazy before I find out what she looks like under these tank tops and cut-off shorts and what she feels like coming on my cock. But I’m enjoying the journey to finding out, slowly but surely.

  A week ago, she wouldn’t do more than have a friendly dinner with me across the bar. Now, she’s damn near claiming me, letting me claim her in her uncle’s bar and hanging with my family.

  With a knowing smile, she asks the table, “How were the Girly Beers?”

  Allyson and Katelyn hold up their second empty glasses in answer. The rest give her some version of ‘delicious’ or ‘good’. Brutal dryly says, “Better than I expected, that’s for sure.”

  I kick his boot under the table. “Told you so.”

  Katelyn smiles at Willow. “If I promise not to tell the bartenders at the resort the recipe, can you tell me how to make that? I think it’d be perfect for our next girl’s night in.” Katelyn runs events at the local resort, and the bar there is known for being our small-town version of swanky, but she’ll keep her promise and stay mum on Willow’s recipe.

  Willow automatically and easily offers, “Sure. For a batch, it’s a six-pack of light beer—”

  “Better yet, why don’t you come and you can make it!” Katelyn’s gear switch is smooth as silk, just like she is.

  Surprised, Willow looks at me with raised brows. Her eyes swirl like she’s trying to figure something out. Me? My family? Is this a set-up? I squeeze her hip encouragingly, praying she says yes. After a second that seems like an eternity, she turns b
ack to Katelyn. “That sounds great. Let me know when, though I work every day but Monday.”

  That answers Shay’s earlier question. I’m busy with Willow all day on Monday, so someone else will have to handle deliveries.

  “Six days a week till two a.m.? Nobody’s gonna accuse you of being lazy,” Shayanne teases, then starts singing, “She works hard for that money . . .” She’s horribly off-key and not even following the famous tune, making up her own notes and not even hitting those and getting the lyrics wrong too. To say that I got the lion’s share of the musical talent in my family is a gross exaggeration. I got it all, every last drop of musical DNA.

  Willow laughs. “Yeah, bartenders’ hours are pretty much the opposite of farmers’ hours, I guess. I usually crash around four, sleep until ten, then back behind the bar by noon if I’m pulling a lunch shift. But I don’t mind. I’m happy to help Unc.” A shadow passes through her eyes, and I sense a slight tension in her when she says that. I hope she’s not overdoing it.

  The girls chatter away, talking about this and that, and we guys stay as quiet as church mice. I’m well aware that they’re testing Willow, checking her out and seeing if she slides into our group easily. Dynamic is important—like music, it has to flow naturally, and so far, Willow seems to fit right in.

  I’m not surprised. Who wouldn’t like a sweetheart like her?

  After a bit, she says she needs to get back behind the bar, and I feel the loss of her at my side. Back at her station, she hollers out, “Last call!” and there’s a sudden influx of orders that has her scrambling up and down the bar. But she handles it all with grace and a smile.

  Not soon enough, it’s time to close and Willow does the ‘don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here’ spiel. Olivia clears tables left and right, thanking people for their tips and promising to see them tomorrow night.

  A drunk guy loudly asks why she’s not kicking our table out, and Olivia laughs as she follows his pointed finger to our group. She dares him, “You want to be the one to tell them?” Toward us, she calls out, “Hey, Brutal, think this guy has something to discuss with you.”