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“Learn from my mistake, Dane. Don’t do this.”
Noah sounds genuinely concerned for me. The four beers and three Jägermeister shots I drank tell me to ignore him. Taking the blonde’s hand, I guide her past a wall of bodies and onto the dance floor.
Three couples to my left, Stella laughs while Levi moves her around. She seems to have gotten the hang of it––this fun thing she wanted so desperately. Matter of fact, it looks like she’s having the time of her life…and it’s not with me.
I want to go over and take her hand. I want to be the one to teach her how to line dance. I want to be the one to make her laugh. But instead I’m stuck on the outside watching them, holding the hand of a woman I don’t know and have no desire to know. How did things get so messed up?
The minute Stella spots us the smile she’s wearing disappears and her feet stop moving. Our eyes meet and what passes between us makes my chest feel tight and my lungs burn, makes me ashamed, makes me want to punch a fucking wall.
That’s when I know I’m in deep. Maybe in love. Definitely in trouble because I may have just ruined this thing between us…I pray not for good. But I’m all in now. I can’t back down. My pride won’t allow it. It’s the alcohol talkin’. That’s what I tell myself.
The next set is a slow song, the live band playing a decent cover of Van Morrison’s Someone Like You. Unlikely choice for a country western bar and yet it works.
I pull the blonde, whatever her name is, closer. Her hand clammy, her perfume overly sweet. We fall easily into rhythm. The blonde’s a good dancer.
I glance briefly at Stella and Levi, standing still while everyone else keeps moving around them. Another couple dances into my line of sight and I lose them. The next time I glance over they’re gone.
My conscience starts screaming at me. That I’m an idiot, that I should’ve listened to Noah, that I blew it.
Panicked, I look around and spot Levi speaking to Noah. They’re looking straight at me. When I scan the room for Stella, I can’t find her. A mix of anger and anxiety surges up. I’m pissed that Levi let her out of his sight.
Leaving the blonde standing on the dance floor without an explanation, I rush over to our table and find it empty. The three dudes at the next table are gone as well. My heart starts to hammer against my sternum hard enough to bust through bone. Where the hell is she?
A spike of fear raises the hair on the back of my neck. I crash through the crowded room, yelling her name. People are staring now. I don’t give a fuck. All I care about is finding her and making sure she’s safe.
She’s not in the ladies’ room so I head for the exit and blast open the doors, startling the guys working security. They leap off their stools and glare at me.
I don’t give a fuck.
Wide-eyed, I scan the parking lot and finally discover her standing near Levi’s pickup truck. The air trapped in my lungs for the last thousand hours hisses out.
“I’ve been lookin’ all over for you!” I yell, storming over to her. I didn’t mean to shout. I don’t shout at women but I’m worked up, the scare she gave me spilling over into my voice.
Her eyes get real big. “You could’ve fooled me. Looked to me like you had your hands full of the blonde––and don’t you dare raise your voice at me.”
“You can’t just take off like that. It’s dangerous for the baby.”
I can’t explain the blonde. How do I explain that I’m an idiot without her thinkin’ I’m an idiot?
Now she looks hurt. I can’t do anything right tonight. I don’t know how to get us back to normal.
We stand there silently staring at each other for a few uncomfortable minutes.
“I’d like to go home, please.”
Her cell phone rings. She glances at the screen and sends it to voicemail.
“Who’s that?”
“None of your business,” she snaps, her eyes narrowed.
“Is it that douchebag cowboy?”
“And if it is? What do you care?”
Those words push me right over the edge of sanity, into irrational fury. “You want fun, Stella. I’ll show you what fun looks like,” I say, on a goddamn roll now. “A good old-fashioned leather belt, some lube, and a bottle of Macallan and we could have us some rugged fun.”
Her eyes flash, the pink neon from the glowing Rowdy’s sign turning her eyes purple. Heat crawls up her neck and over her face.
“You’re vile,” she mutters. “You’re a vile human being. And I use that term loosely. Human being, that is.”
The pink in her cheeks fades, leaving her pale. A jolt of fear hits me hard and fast. What if I’ve gotten her so upset it harms her and the baby? I’ll never forgive myself.
Levi steps out of the bar and makes his way over to us.
“Levi, can you take me home, please,” she says in a small voice. My stomach churns. Those Jägermeister shots are bullet holes in my gut right about now.
“Stella––” I reach out for her but she sidesteps, easily avoiding me, my reflexes having gone to shit.
“’Course I will,” Levi answers, and holds out his hand for her. “You’re taking a cab. Or get Noah to drive you.”
My little bro shakes his head at me.
Without another word, they get into the pickup. Music and voices, women laughing, men joking with each other, spill out of the door as people leave. I stand in the middle of the dusty parking lot watching the people I care about drive away.
The alcohol made me do it. That’s what I keep tellin’ myself. Doesn’t make me feel any better though. Ten minutes later the cab pulls up. Twenty minutes after that I drop onto the couch in the family room with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue in hand.
Chapter Twenty
Stella
He never made it to our room last night. I don’t even know if he made it home. He could’ve gone home with the blonde for all I know. I’m so angry I could bend a crowbar.
Not even the ubiquitous morning puke-a-thon manages to shake the anger. I shower angry. I slip on underwear and a robe angry. I’m too angry to get dressed without coffee so I head to the kitchen for a tall cup of decaf. I guess I do have a temper…or maybe he just brings out the worst in me.
A masculine groan coming from the great room gets my attention. Tinker, tail wagging, leads me to the other side of the couch, where I find Mr. Fuck Hard stinking of booze, and sprawled out facedown, naked except for his black boxer briefs. An empty bottle of Johnnie Walker lies on the floor along with his clothes.
I hope he has a migraine.
His arm hanging down, Tinker nudges his hand and he pushes her away. I leave him to retrieve two Advil and a bottle of water from the kitchen. When I return, nothing’s changed, he’s still half dead and I’m still angry.
He groans and I push his arm with my bare toes. He swats at me. Then he blinks, line of sight pointed at the wood floor. Lifting his head, blood
shot eyes take me in. An eternity later he blinks and groans. I hope it’s really painful.
Slowly, he sits up while I continue to glare. Not a drop of sympathy for him, not one freaking drop. Hiding his eyes, he bends over and places his head in his hands, elbows on his knees.
I hold out both the water and the painkillers. I’m dangerously close to denying him the painkillers except I need him to understand what I’m about to say. He takes both without looking up.
“I’m going home.”
He shakes his head and winces. Serves him right. Throwing down the painkillers, he chases them with a sip of water. After that he stands and stumbles toward the kitchen holding his head.
“I’m not asking for permission.”
“No talking yet,” he grumbles, his voice as hoarse as if he’d been yelling all night.
To hell with that––and him. I wouldn’t take this behavior from someone rocking my world, let alone someone who has made it abundantly clear I rate lower than a stranger he picks up at a bar.
Grabbing the pot of freshly brewed coffee from the coffee maker, he stares into the pot then drinks from it. I don’t bother to tell him it’s decaf. Throat working as he swallows, he holds up his index finger.
I’ve got a finger for him, the middle one.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you but I’ve had enough.” He continues drinking. “And word of caution, if you come back to New York and continue to treat me like I’m cattle, a possession, you will damage this friendship beyond repair.”
He places the pot down, his eyes downcast as he leans on the counter for support. “I’m sorry…I was a real asshole last night and––”
“Last night?!” I shout. “How about for the past week.”
“Well you’re not helpin’ the situation!” he shouts back, his eyes sparking, then winces again.
My jaw hangs in disbelief. He can’t be serious. Is he really blaming me?
