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My boss frowns at me as I fan my cheeks, tripping along beside him. Four doors away down the sidewalk is our destination: Randy Mack’s. A giant flashing neon cowboy hat is bolted to the sign.
“Awesome,” I rasp. “Nope, I’m good.”
Guy pushes his bottle of water into my hand. “Drink this,” he says. But unscrewing the cap, lifting the bottle to my lips and chugging down this sweet, sweet hydration, all I can think is: Guy’s lips touched this bottle. Oh god, his lips touchedmine.Brushed against my mouth as he bit that lemon from between my teeth.
I don’t even remember it. So unfair.
“Do you think you’re a good kisser?”
Guy jolts, and he sounds winded when he says, “Effie.”
“I bet you are.” I huff, kicking at the sidewalk as we approach Randy Mack’s. “You definitely are, you jerk, but I don’t remember and now I’ll never know.”
Guy says nothing, shoving inside the rodeo bar without a word. I follow, plunging into a dim corridor, goosebumps rippling up my bare arms as we’re swallowed up by the air conditioning. And yeah, I guess I shouldn’t say stuff like that to my boss, but really, haven’t we knocked those walls down? Didn’t we drunkenly blunder through them all last night?
“Sit,” Guy orders two minutes later when we reach the bar, jabbing a finger at a rickety black stool. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday. I’m concerned about your blood sugar.”
“You say the sweetest things.” I sink onto the stool, grinning at Guy’s dirty scowl, then peer around the cavernous room as my boss orders a large basket of fries and two waters. It’s like a barn in here, with enormous rafters high overhead and wooden planks nailed to all the walls. Pitchforks and rusty scythes hang where paintings would be. You wouldn’t be shocked to look down and find yourself ankle-deep in hay.
Country music plays in the background, quiet enough for the lunch crowd to still chat, and the air smells like bourbon and barbecue. It’s getting busy in here already even though it’s mid afternoon, sunshine spilling across the floor from huge skylights high above. Standing proud in the center of the floor, complete with a saddle and fake horns, is the mechanical bull.
“I love this,” I tell Guy, tugging at his sleeve. “I hope we got married in here.”
He ignores me completely, paying the startled server with a grim expression.
“Do you think they’ll let me ride the bull while I’m hungover?”
Guy tucks his wallet away. “Stop enjoying this, Effie.”
“Make me, boss man.” I poke my tongue out at him. He fights a smile, his dimple giving him away.
See, we have our moments. Our glittering, breathless moments when we’re in sync and bouncing off each other, and everyone else in the room melts into the background. Ilivefor those times, and though Guy is clearly a walking bundle of regret, I wish we could drag this out longer. Wish we could stay in the city for a few more days, chasing leads and hunting down clues.
Hey, maybe I’ll help us miss another flight.
Guy jumps when I lean over and sniff him, the tip of my nose hovering next to his white t-shirt. “You don’t smell like booze anymore. You smell like soap and laundry powder. Do you feel better?”
“Get away from my stomach, Effie.”
“Oh, that’s rich. You drank tequila off mine!”
The server eyes us as she sets a basket of fries on the bar. Guy nudges it toward me, still glowering as she murmurs, “Enjoy.”
The basket paper crinkles as we take two fries, both lifting them slowly like deadly weapons. But holy crap, after the first taste I know: this isgood. I groan, snatching up another greasy handful, barely remembering to chew as I stuff my face. My lurching stomach settles, my pulse slowing as I eat.
It’s the best hangover cure. The best everything. Let it be known that I’d sell my soul for a hot, salty potato.
“Slow down.” Guy looks faintly ill, nibbling on the end of his one fry. “You’ll be sick again.”
I speak through a hot, greasy mouthful. “No, I won’t. But maybeyoushould puke. You’ll feel better afterward, and you’d have to get off your high horse. Hey, you should ride the bull!”
I chase my food with a gulp of cold water. Guy lowers his single fry with a shaky breath. Ha. Poor dude.
“All-night ragers in Vegas are a young man’s game,” I tell him sagely. If looks could kill, I’d be a scorch mark on the floor.
“There,” my boss clips out, nodding across the room at a red-headed woman in a Bride-to-Be sash climbing onto the bull. Her friends gather round in matching pink t-shirts, whooping and laughing, and a camera-man walks around the periphery, holding his camera at chest height. “If either of us rode the bull last night—and let’s face it, you definitely did—there will be video. Maybe it’ll trigger a memory or something.”
There’s a long pause as we studiously donotmention the last clip of us that we watched. Those particular memories, buried in the pickled recesses of our brains.
