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I pick them up and take a picture of it dangling from my finger, the other one in the drawer also in the frame.
Finn: I’m looking forward to adding to my collection.
That gets me an immediate response.
Effie: You’re fucking sick.
Finn: Is that a yes?
Effie: Neutral territory of my choice. I’ll text you an address.
The Wild Stallion Saloon.
I take in the weathered wood building. Its red paint has peeled and faded away to a rusty color, the door and windows are trimmed in a woody green. Matching green columns hold up a corrugated tin porch covering.1
Over an hour outside of city limits, this is certainly neutral territory.
I wait in my car, assuming Effie hasn’t arrived yet based on the fact that muddy, lifted trucks are the only ones in the dirt lot. We’re in the agricultural part of this county, near Bartlett Farms and wonder if Effie realizes or it’s simply a coincidence.
I can’t be sure as she picked the location, but I’m thinking the obscurity of this place is just an overcompensation for her foolish decision to meet me at Peaches last time. I was worried she wasn’t as smart as I remembered when she asked to meet there, but after Mira told me what happened in the dressing room, my concerns were abated.
She’s spent her whole life on the bench and is only now stepping onto the field. Mistakes are inevitable, but she’s learning quickly. Even if it is a pain in my ass to drive to the middle of nowhere.
A few minutes later a Mercedes SUV, just as out of place as my BMW, pulls into the lot. I watch in the rearview mirror as the car door opens and—fuck me.
The yellow sundress flowing over her curves is way too sweet for the things it makes me wanna do to her. But I’m sure that was her intention. She thinks she’s just a pawn, but she knows how to play the game as well as anyone. She does it with grace and subtlety rather than rage and carnage. One may be more effective, but the other is just as deadly.
My phone buzzes and I pretend the battering of delight in my chest that she texted me doesn’t exist. Fucking childish is what it would be if I did.
Childish and a liability.
Effie: I’m here, are you inside?
I don’t respond right away, give myself just a few more seconds to soak her in. Her dark, chestnut hair is straight down her back. Her matching brown eyes sift through the parked cars. I know when she’s noticed my car because she stands taller and drops her wringing hands.
I track her through the mirror as she walks over, small blooms of dust rising from her steps. I act like I don’t see her, even when she steps up to my driver side window and taps the glass. Without lifting my head from my phone, I hold out a finger and can hear her huff through the window. Her frustration delights me.
When I finally give her my attention, she’s glaring down at me. She crosses her arms impatiently, but the only thing I can think of is the way the movement pushes up her tits.
I roll down my window. “I’d be able to get out if you weren’t standing in front of my door.”
Her lips twitch. “I’ll be inside at the bar,” she bites out sharply. As she heads toward the building, I hear her mumble. “Christ, I already need a drink.” My hands ball into tight fists watching her ass walk away.
The inside of the saloon is just what I’d expect from the outside. There’s a yellowing American flag pinned on the wall next to beer posters and mounted deer heads. The crowd is blue collar, and a neon sign buzzes above the pool table where most of the people are gathered. It smells like old cigarette smoke and fried food, and the wood floor feels sticky under my shoes.
A woman in a tube top is behind the big oak bar fixing a drink for Effie. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as I watch every man in the place turn his lecherous gaze to her. Her dress sleeves are billowy and off the shoulder, showing her off her bronzed collarbones, and I bet every shithead in the place is imagining what that expanse of skin would look like with his fucking mark.
Like they have a mind of their own, my fingers inch toward the gun tucked into my jeans.
Not that she’s mine.
But she sure as shit isn’t theirs.
I pull out a stool next to her at the same time the song changes and the scraping against the floor is loud in the relative quiet. She gives me one sideway glance before finishing her conversation with the bartender like I’m not even there.
I don’t like being ignored, it’s disrespectful. And it would stoke the always simmering fire below my skin if I thought she was truly ignoring me. But she’s not.
She may not be looking at me, but all of her attention is on me. It’s in the way she fiddles with her straw like it will soothe the itch my proximity causes. It’s in the way she swallows deeply without ever taking a sip and answers the bartender’s “enjoy your drink” with “thanks, you too.”
