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I push the thought down and pull the door open.

Tripp grins, already scanning the room. Briggs's shoulders square, his posture shifting into something guarded, and Autumn, standing between us in her frayed shorts, lifts her chin and walks inside like she owns the place.

Chapter

Sixteen

Autumn

The second we step inside, music vibrates through my chest, boots hitting the floor in time with the beat. Neon signs throw red and blue light across the walls, sliding over tables packed with people who look like they’ve been here since the rodeo ended, and have no intention of leaving soon. The air smells like alcohol, sweat, fried food, and too many scents fighting for space. It’s worse in a place this packed. Alphas, betas, omegas, all of it layered together until my nose feels like it’s working overtime.

I take a deep breath and step in like none of it bothers me.

It doesn’t, not really.

Not the noise, the crowd, the cowboys packed shoulder to shoulder at the bar, still dusty from the arena, or the women turning before we’re even fully through the door.

Okay…that part bothers me. Just a little.

Tripp notices them first, and his mouth pulls into that easy grin, the one that makes women stupid, and apparently makes my fingers curl against my palm. Clint moves in behind me, close enough that his hand brushes the small of my back for half a second before dropping away. Briggs stays on my other side, quiet and tense in a way that makes people shift out of his path without needing to be asked.

“It’s busy,” I say, scanning the room.

“Welcome to rodeo weekend,” Clint says near my ear. Warm coffee and vanilla slips through the bar, faint but there, familiar enough now that my shoulders pull tight before I make myself relax.

“Right,” I mutter. “Your natural habitat.”

Tripp laughs. “Careful, city girl. You’re starting to sound impressed.”

I shoot him a look. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

We find a table near the side wall, close enough to the dance floor that the music is still loud, but far enough from the bar that I can breathe. Clint pulls out a chair for me without making a big deal of it. I hate that I notice. I hate it more that I sit in it.

“Drinks?” Tripp asks.

“Crown and Coke,” I say.

Briggs’ brow lifts.

“What?” I ask. “Do I look like I drink Pink Pussy shots or Sex on the Beach?”

“You look like you’d order that just to make everyone else uncomfortable.”

I point at him. “Are you getting drinks or not?”

Clint’s mouth twitches. “I’ll get it.”

He heads to the bar with Tripp, and I try very hard not to watch the way people part for them.

They won, or placed, today. Whatever the right word is for doing terrifying shit in the dirt and acting like it’s normal. I know enough now to understand that people here know exactly who they are.

Especially tonight.

Briggs and Clint both have those obnoxious giant belt buckles on that they won today. Gold and silver flash every time the neon catches, impossible to miss. Apparently winning means you get a trophy big enough to double as body armor.

Tripp took second and somehow seems even more pleased with himself than the actual winners.

A man claps Clint on the shoulder before he even reaches the bar.