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“Cute,” Shay decides. “I like it. But I’m pretty sure I like that Brody calls you Erica even better if everyone else calls you Rix.”
She’s looking from Brody to me and back again like we’re going to declare our undying love for one another at any given moment and she doesn’t want to miss a thing.
Suddenly, this whole thing feels ridiculously awkward. I mean, Brody and I explicitly said that we’re not doing serious. Just hanging out and okay, fucking. And yet, here we are, doing family introductions after one night of crazy-awesome sex and one spontaneous date.
Is a car show a date?
I think yes. I think Brody thinks yes too.
So yeah, one night and one date.
And now, family dinner.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
As much as my brain is thinking this whole thing through and trying to sound the alarm, my body is warm and fizzy thanks to Brody’s fingers tracing soothing circles on my thigh. He’s not even high, closer to my knee than anything naughty, but any skin on skin contact between us feels intimate. His touch is purposeful, like he knows I’m about to bail and is telling me it’ll be fine.
Luckily, the not-quite interrogation ends as conversation turns to cattle, something I know zilch about. But their worries are clear—cattle prices are falling and it’s almost market time. That’s straightforward enough.
“You gonna be good without me here?” Luke asks Mark. Shayanne’s face goes anxious, a new expression for the seemingly always bubbly and biting woman.
Mark grunts and lifts his chin toward Brody. I take it to mean he’ll be fine with Brody’s help. A movie plays out in my head, Mark and Brody astride horses, working the cattle one way and then another. I’m not sure that’s even what they do since Brody said they use ATVs and a Gator too. But it’s my mental movie fantasy, so I can choose anything I want.
Like a shirtless Brody, with the sun reflecting off his bare chest. And oh, yeah, he’s pouring water over his head, the droplets running in rivulets I want to chase with my tongue.
Errrk. Definitely a mental movie I need to save for later. Not at Mama Louise’s dinner table.
“We’ll have to get in a night out before we go. Celebrate the start of market season with fried food, good music, and friends.”
Oh, shit. Shayanne’s looking at me as she says that. Normally, I’d throw up a middle finger and tell her to fuck off. I don’t do things I don’t want to do. Or at least I like to think that’s true. But with every eye at the table on me, including Brody’s, I’m finding it hard to be that crass. Mom would be proud that some of her manners and politeness did wear off on me. She’s had serious doubts over my mouthy nature.
“Oh, uh . . . maybe.” It’s all I’ll promise now. And that’s mostly because I felt Brody’s hand squeeze my thigh supportively. Or encouragingly? Or in warning? I don’t know, but it’d felt nice there.
Shayanne doesn’t take no for an answer. She doesn’t take maybe for one, either. “Next Saturday night. Hank’s. Brody’ll pick you up. Wear boots if you got ’em for the dancing.”
I cut my eyes to Brody. “You said you don’t dance.”
The smirk he gives me says ‘oh, I dance’, and I realize he only said that to get out of dancing with Emily. Well, maybe that and the fact that the music wasn’t exactly danceable at Two Roses. Mosh pit bouncing off one another like pissed-off pinballs, sure. Dancing, no.
Oh, the music.
“What kind of music?” I grin widely. “Please don’t say country.” I’m kidding, mostly, but not a single smile cracks.
Bobby beats everyone else to the punch. “No carrot cake for you if you talk smack about country music. It’s the best genre known to man. And I don’t just say that because I contribute to the industry.” He places his hand over his heart, and I swear he’s serious, but there’s such a current of humor through the Barn Door Boys that I can’t be sure how straight he’s being with me. “What do you listen to if not the best music ever created?”
“Rock. Seventies, from my dad. Eighties and nineties, from my sergeant. And everything since just because I like it. The louder, the better.”
“Loud is right,” Brody deadpans. “It’s more screaming than music too.”
Everyone cringes as if I pulled out my phone to start my latest Spotify playlist.
Brody sighs heavily and confesses, “You don’t have to come, but I’d like for you to. Unless you don’t want to hang out with these guys . . .” He mouths assholes behind his hand, hiding the curse.
I should run through town, over the mountain, and back to my garage. Work all night alone with whatever decade of rock music I want playing loud enough to shut up the chatter in my head.
