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“No. Charlie won’t let me.” I take a step forward, looking up at the darkened brothel bathed in moonlight. Knowing a good photo op for Runaway Ranch’s Instagram account when I see it, I take out my phone and switch it into night-mode. I look at Fallon. “They’re his horses, you know. I can’t just steal one.”
Fallon smirks. “Well, technically, you could ...”
Just talking about Charlie makes my heart squeeze. A smile tips my lips as I think back to the growling man I first met at Nowhere. A cowboy I pegged as cold and unsmiling. But I was wrong. There’s been so many small moments where his tender actions have chiseled away at the man I assumed I knew. Charlie bringing me flowers, taking me dancing, wearing my ribbons around his wrist ...and the sex. The sex isn’t just good—it’s spectacular.
Heart changing.
Charlie’s hard shell is a shield to keep out the things that hurt him.
I’m doing the same thing. By not telling Charlie about my heart, I’m keeping him at arm’s length.
“He’s got his reasons,” Fallon says, and I wonder at the hesitation that crosses her face. “Charlie’s a good guy. I’ve known him ten years now, and he’s ...intense, yeah. But I’ve also never seen him with that look in his eye.”
It doesn’t matter how he looks at me, I want to tell her. Even so, my heart hammers and I can’t help but ask, “And what look is that?”
Fallon smiles. “Like you own every single atom in his body.”
At her words, my breath catches in my throat.
“Oh,” I manage weakly and raise my phone to take pictures of the brothel, trying to chase away the desperate feeling swelling inside of me.
Before I can snap a photo, laughter rings out above us. I freeze, my eyes darting to Fallon, who shrugs. Footsteps clang on the wrought-iron patina balcony of the brothel. A man and woman come into view through the slats. They’re hard to make out, but the woman has long auburn hair and a husky laugh. The man’s tall with silver hair and a thin, fox-like face.
There’s a rustle of fabric, the jingle of a belt, the drop of pants. Like a snake, the belt curls through the slats, the gleaming belt buckle catching the moonlight. And then the woman’s sinking to her knees and opening her mouth.
“Holy shit,” Fallon says. “Peep show time.”
“I thought it was a museum,” I whisper, tilting my head all the way back to look up. Moans cut the cool night air.
Fallon’s face is rapt. “Looks like it still operates after-hours.”
Curiosity has me positioning myself to see better. “Do you know who they are?”
“No.” She squints. “Can’t see.” Her sharp elbow digs into my side and I smother a yelp with my hand. “Get a photo. We can zoom in.”
I stare at her in open admiration. “Why?”
“Because I’m fucking curious, that’s why.” She gives me a push forward. “You fuck on open balconies in my town, you don’t deserve privacy.”
She has a good point.
“C’mon, Ruby,” she says and grins at me. “Live a little.”
Keyword: live.
Adrenaline and excitement have me angling the camera at the mysterious couple.
And then I do it.
I snap a photo.
Snickering, Fallon grabs me and drags me back into the shadows. “Wild little rebel,” she hisses, pride resonating in her voice.
I stare at Fallon’s arm looped through mine, her tight grip, her beautifully long fingers adorned with turquoise rings. And I have never felt such a rush of friendship, of cahoots, of safety in my life.
Movement comes from above us, the scrape of the belt as it’s retrieved, and then the laughter and voices disappear as the door slams shut.
Silence strings through the alleyway.
