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Even Ford’s tongue is on the floor. “So Fallon does own a skirt.” A wicked grin tips his lips.
“What the fuck?” Wyatt blasts. He jolts in his seat, nearly upending his beer onto his lap. “Since when is she dressing like that?”
“Since she met someone,” Ruby says softly.
Wyatt goes stiff.
“Girl’s wilding out,” Ford cackles.
“Well, look at what crawled out of the trash and into our lives,” Fallon says as she takes the seat next to her sister. She squints at me, then looks at Dakota and Ruby. “I leave you alone for five minutes…” A shake of her head. “Traitors.”
“You’re the one going out tonight,” Dakota murmurs with a smile.
I keep a close watch on Wyatt. There’s not enough alcohol in Resurrection to get me through this meltdown.
Ford lines up the shots in front of us, shooting two back in quick succession.
Ruby’s worried eyes flick to Charlie.
“You’re really going out with some random guy?” Wyatt asks hoarsely.
Fallon straightens in her chair. “Not that it’s any of your business…but yeah. I am.”
Ford sails a shot toward Fallon. “Let me tell you something, you’re a little fucking bulldog, but you polish up real nice.”
Fallon floats him a grin, takes the shot. Her smile’s feral. “Thanks, Ford. I’d say the same about you, but I’d be lying.”
“Hell, I feel bad for the guy already,” Wyatt rasps.
Fallon shoots Wyatt a fire and brimstone glare.
“Don’t you fucking start,” I warn him.
But he does.
“Should focus on your horses,” Wyatt mutters. “I saw you ridin’ the other day. Your form’s sloppy.”
“My form is none of your business,” Fallon snaps.
Down goes one shot, then another. By now, between Wyatt and Ford, the bottle of Jack is half empty.
“Christ, the least you could do is put a shirt on, wear a pair of fuckin’ shoes,” he grouses. “Goin’ out dressed like some buckle bunny, that ain’t you, Cowgirl.”
Fuck.
Dakota looks me dead in the eye as if to say,Are you fucking kidding me with this shit? Even Ruby’s frowning.
“Wy,” Charlie says, settling a big palm on our brother’s shoulder. A signal to cool it.
Hurt creases Fallon’s sharp features, and she blasts out of her chair. “Fuck you, Wyatt.”
“No,” Dakota says, twisting to snag her sister’s hand. “Don’t go.”
I smear my face with my hands. “Fuck.”
“Sorry,” Fallon tells her sister. “I need a twenty-four-hour intermission from this fool.” Eyes blazing, she takes two steps away from the table, then backtracks to wheel around on Wyatt. “And by the way,” she hisses. “I fucking hate you.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” he says hoarsely, but I don’t miss the wince that crosses his face.
