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For the first time all day, I felt a ghost of a smile tug at my lips. “’Cause you’re twenty?” I suggested. Not that anyone gave a shit around here.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
“You can have one beer?” I said to him.
“Can he handle it, though?” Caleb wanted to know.
We gently ribbed Ben all through the twenty-minute drive to the bar.
Once we got there, I realized this was exactly what I needed.
The Rusty Spur wasn’t fancy, not by a long shot—even if the shot was fired from a busted old rifle held together with baling wire.
It was rough around the edges, built for drinking, dancing, and settling scores—not sipping cocktails or making polite conversation. Here, you grabbed a pitcher after a long day and listened to old cowboys argue over the best fencing wire.
If you didn’t like a bar packed with cowboys carrying the scent of horse, hay, and a hard day’s work—if the sound of boot heels scuffing against worn wood didn’t strike you as music, or if you didn’t take your whiskey cheap and neat—then this sure as hell wasn’t your kind of place.
I slid into a booth, the cracked leather sticking to my jeans, soft from years of use. The old jukebox struggled to be heard over the racket; George Strait’s voice cut through the air as a rowdy group of ranch hands crowded around the pool table, already talking shit about who was gonna lose and how much.
“How y’all doin’?” Betsy, the blonde server, came along as soon as she saw Hunt, her tits all but spilling out of her low-cut black top. “And how you doin’, Hunt?”
“Heavens to Betsy,” Jace teased, “You didn’t ask me how I’m doin’?”
Betsy made a face. Her eyes had always been on Hunt, and his eyes hadneverbeen on her, except he had fucked her a few times, which had given the poor girl some hope. She didn’t like me because she had the notion, as some others did, that Hunt and I were an item—which suited me fine; it kept the local riff-raff away from me. No one wanted to fuck with Hunt.
Hunt barked out our order. “Four burgers, extra bacon, extra pickles for everyone, and none for Ben. Fries—crispy this time—so you tell Gator that he better do them double fried for us. And four whiskeys—neat with a beer back.”
Betsy smiled seductively, flipping her notepad closed. “Anything else,Hunt?”
Hunt reclined, tipping his hat up just enough to meet her eyes. “Yeah, Bets. Don’t water down the pour.”
Betsy was back soon with shots of Wild Turkey 101 and Lone Star beer backs for all because this was ranch country, and that’s what a cowboy drank when he wanted to take the edge off.
“Drink first, think later,” Hunt ordered.
No one argued. We took the shot of whiskey. It burned clean and sharp, taking the edge off the hurt inside me, at least for now.
“Now, Hunt, we thought you’d get the good stuff, ya know? Buffalo Trace,” Jace teased. “Since we hear you gonna have your own place.”
“You gonna need help with the horses,” Ben chimed.
“We’re here to drink and eat. It’s not a fuckin’ job interview, Ben,” Hunt chided.
“We all gonna need jobs.” Caleb drew a line through the condensation of his beer glass. “How long before the place sells, Elena?”
“Six to eight months.”
The mood went a little somber at that, so I banged my hands on the table. “Come on, y’all need to loosen your bullets a little, or none of you’re gonna get laid tonight.”
“I never get laid,” Ben bemoaned.
“I told you; I’m gonna help you,” Jace assured Ben.
“Don’t need your kinda help.” Ben rolled his eyes. “Last time you tried tohelpme, you ended up with thegirl riding you, cowboy, and I had to fuckin’ hear the racket.”
Caleb looked around the room. “It’s thin gruel today. Butnext week during the rodeo…the talent is gonna be somethin’ special.” He made a lewd gesture with his hands, indicating breasts.
Betsy came back with our food and tried to flirt with Hunt, who ignored her. I felt sorry for the girl, but she really needed to get herself together and get over Hunt.