On this day, every single year, I just ride. Some days, I ride for ten hours straight before turning around and going home. Others, it may only be an hour or two. Today, I’ve been riding for a little over four hours before making my first stop. I don’t pay attention to street signs, town markings or anything specific. I ride to escape my memories, to clear my mind of thoughts. Once I’ve achieved that, the GPS on my phone shows me the way home.
I pull into an old bar on the outskirts of town to use the pump at the front since I’m sitting on empty. When I scan the space, I feel like I’ve been transported back in time. Tumbleweeds are blowing across the road; an old timer sits in a rocking chair at the front, and the parking lot is full of big old trucks like Noah’s, but they’re still rusty.
After filling my tank, I walk up to the elderly gentleman in the rocking chair. He continues rocking as his eyes roam over my denim jeans, tight white tank top, and black leather vest. My sleeves of tattoos are proudly on display. My jaw ticks when he spits a wad of black, tar-filled tobacco on the ground next to me, narrowly missing my boot. When my gaze lifts from my boot to him, my eyes narrow, and my nostrils flare. Old timer or not, he’s lucky he missed.
He smiles a toothless grin, loving that he sparked a reaction out of me. “You pay in the bar.”
Nodding, I step over the tobacco to make my way inside. When I push the wooden door open, a banjo shrieks through my ears. I’ll listen to any genre of music—except country. That shit is as lame as it comes.
The inside of the bar matches the outside: wooden, rusty, and old. The floors, walls, and even the roof are done with wood panels. I make a beeline to the peanut shell-coated bar, eager to pay for my gas and leave before my ears are subjected to more torture.
An elderly barmaid with a wonky smile and too much rack on display peers up at me when I stop to stand in front of her. I don’t know if she can smell gasoline on my hands, or if she’s reading my eagerness to leave, but she figures out the reason for my visit without me speaking. “How many gallons did you pump?”
I shrug.I don’t check that type of shit. I just fill up and pay. “Aren’t your pumps computerized?” I ask a mere second before noticing even the cash register looks like it belongs in the sixties.
Pissed, I stomp back outside to read the total off the pump, and that's when I spot her: an angel in a blue cotton dress and a cropped denim jacket. She’s walking toward the bar with an eclectic mix of guys and girls. The way the wind blows up the hem of her dress teases me, but it’s her smile I’m paying attention to the most. It makes me want to fall to my fucking knees.
When she notices my gawk, she stops walking before appraising my body like I did hers. I’m a little dirty from my hours on the road, but I’ve got plenty of qualities girls like. Thick biceps, decent height, bumps in my midsection, dozens of tattoos, and a face more than just a mother would love. If you can look past my rough and rugged exterior, you’ll also see my big motherfucking heart.
Once the brunette’s eyes return to my face, she smiles so big, it could be seen from space. I’m nothing like the men in her group, but she doesn’t seem to mind, not in the slightest.
I step forward, preparing to introduce myself. Before I can, a country bumpkin hick slaps her bottom before curling his arm around her shoulders, forcing her to start walking again. Just before they break through the warped wood door of the bar, her eyes turn back to me. When she winks, I know I’m not going anywhere.
After reading my total off the pump, I reenter the bar, noticing the brunette and her friends are setting up music equipment on a small stage squashed against the back wall. I pay for my gas before ordering a beer, confident the brunette’s smile more than makes up for her poor choice in music.
Once their equipment is set up, the brunette heads for the bar, then, not long later, country music filters through the air. “Vodka cranberry, please?” The twang in her voice rings out in the empty bar.
Once the bartender sets down her drink, she turns to face the stage. She acts like she hasn’t noticed my watchful eye. It’s all a ploy. Her lips rose against the rim of her glass the instant she spotted me.
I watch her for several long minutes, more fascinated by the thud of her pulse than the horrid music blaring from portable amps. I slant my head and flash her my big-headed grin when she murmurs, “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?”
If she wants me to believe she’s angry, she needs to quit smiling. Seeing this as my cue to approach her, I plant my backside on the empty barstool next to her. From this vantage point, I can see the adorable freckles that adorn her beautiful face. Her smell reminds me of wildflowers, which isn’t surprising since we’re surrounded by countryside, and she has the slightest sliver of hay entangled in her kinked hair. We couldn’t be more opposite if we tried.. She screams country, where I scream…non-country?
“Why aren’t you up there with your friends?” I jerk my head to the stage before signaling to the bartender that I need another beer.
Her face screws up. “The idea of standing up in front of a crowd petrifies me.”
I laugh loudly—the bar would be lucky to have ten people inside. My chuckle startles her so much, she jumps, spilling her drink down the front of her dress.
“Oh, fuck, sorry.” I grab a wad of napkins to dab up the liquid. I swipe at her chest three times before my brain realizes why my cock is straining against my zipper. I’m all up in her business—by “business,” I mean I’m touching her breasts without permission.
My eyes dart up to her face. She’s surprised by my feel-up but still smiling. I hand her the wad of napkins so she can finish cleaning her spill. While she does that, I battle to keep my eyes on her face. Let me tell you, it’s a fucking hard feat. From the little grab I had, I’m confident in declaring her boobs mighty enticing.
“I guess I should introduce myself since you’ve already felt my boobs.” She freezes before shock morphs onto her face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
I grin, loving the heat creeping across her cheeks..“I’m Slater. It’s nice to meet you… and your boobs.”
Marcus slaps me on the back, interrupting me from my thoughts. “You coming down?”
“Yeah, in a minute.” I swish my whiskey in the glass before downing the generous nip in one gulp. “I need a bit more liquid courage first.”
The whiskey burns on the way down, but it also helps stop my stomach from swirling from the memories of Kylie filtering through my head. When my eyes drop to the dance floor, my brows furrow. Jenni is sprinting toward the bathroom with her hand clamped over her mouth.
My concerned gaze seeks Nick. I find him not even a second later standing in the middle of the dance floor. He has a dumbfounded look on his face, but he’s also smiling.Freak.
He snaps back to the present when a blonde, attractive, lady attempts to dance with him. I’m pleased to advise he sidesteps her before her backside gets within an inch of his crotch. He races in the direction Jenni fled. I should probably start giving him more leeway, but I’ve been burnt in the past, so I’m cautious about giving him the benefit of the doubt. Even when you love someone, it doesn’t stop them from deceiving you.
I found that out the hard way—more than once!
