Page 6

Chapter Six

“ A re you sure you don’t want me to tag along, do our famous third-wheel thing? I could turn around, be there in thirty.”

Wyatt’s pretty transparent sometimes, even over the phone. He saw me before Tasha and I left for our girls’ night, and I think he’s a little worried about my outfit, though he’d never say anything about it. I kind of like the way he bites his tongue when I dress sexy and he doesn’t want to share. I wore my mom’s white cotton eyelet sundress with her boots tonight, maybe wanting to channel a little of her strength as I reassure my best friend that everything will be okay.

“I’m sure you would cut through the desert to get here in fifteen, but we’ll be fine. I promise. Besides, you know Whiskey will show up at Catwalk eventually. He always does.”

I promised Tasha one last hurrah before I move to Wyatt’s on Sunday, and since this is the last free Friday I’ll have for a while, I gave it to her. I hate that I’m missing dinner with Wyatt and his mom for her birthday, but he assured me she’d understand. I think she’s probably looking forward to spending a night out with her son, one-on-one. As much as they love Wyatt, my parents secretly love when I show up back at home solo.

“Yeah, I’ve already sent Whiskey the rules,” Wyatt says.

His voice is a little loud, and there’s a lull in the music playing in the rideshare car Tasha and I are in. Her head snaps to me a second before she rips the phone from my hand.

“Wyatt James Stone, you do not get to give us rules. You’re lucky I’m letting you live after stealing my best friend from me for our senior year of college. So help me, boy, if you tamper with our girls’ night, I will?—”

“Cut you,” I say in sync with her, a grin on my face. It’s her favorite threat, though it’s all talk. At least, I think it’s all talk?

She tosses my phone back in my lap, and I lift it to my ear, still laughing.

“I’m glad you find your psycho bestie amusing,” Wyatt says, a hint of worry in his voice.

“You know she loves you,” I reassure him, cupping the phone to try to block out the sound of Tasha saying, “Ehhh, do I?”

“Well, I love you, and that’s really all I give a shit about. So, just be safe, okay?”

I glance out my window, leaning away from Tasha for a bit of semi-privacy. Catwalk is an enormous country bar outside Tucson, and it’s basically where every frat boy and jock from the university goes to usher in the weekend. The bouncers do a good job of keeping the peace, mostly, but sometimes youth and alcohol mix for bad decisions. While Whiskey sometimes makes a few of his own, his are more of the fighting-for-someone’s-honor variety. Probably not a bad guy to have looking out for us.

“I promise. I love you, too.”

I end the call and tuck my phone into my small leather crossbody bag before meeting Tasha’s stare.

“Ugh, could you two be any cheesier?” she teases. I slip my arm through hers and snuggle in close, hugging my tough-act bestie.

“You know you’re happy for me, deep inside. You are. I can tell.” I poke at her cheek with my fingertip. It dimples with the smile she can’t hold back, and she lets out a soft laugh.

“Fine, yes. I’m happy for you. But I’m still sad for me. It’s going to take a lot of drinks to get over being sad about you moving out. Expensive drinks.”

“Ha, nothing but the best for you.”

Our ride pulls up to the curb outside Catwalk, and the line has already started to form. Tasha dated one of the security guys last year, and he still has a thing for her, so she gets us to the front of the line easily, and we slip inside seconds after the ID checkers slap bright orange wristbands on us.

“One day, we’ll be able to go to a bar that doesn’t look like we paid for premium fair rides,” I say to her, tugging on her orange band.

“Girl, that’s because we’ll be old and there to play bingo,” she says. We both laugh and link our hands as we march our way to the bar for our first round, which I buy.

With drinks in our hands, we make our way to the edge of the dance floor, taking it easy until we finish our first drink and discard the glasses to really let loose. The music heats up, and so do our moves. I spin so my back is to Tasha as we both sway our hips and bend our knees. Tasha’s hands find my hips, and it doesn’t take long for our dancing to attract attention. When a tall blond guy wearing a black button down that’s open halfway down his chest works his way to our sides, I jut my chin over my shoulder to Tasha.

“I’m taken, but she’s single,” I say, good at my wing-woman duties.

“Well, all right then,” the guy says, holding out his hand for Tasha to dance with him. I nod when she looks at me for permission, and lean into her ear so she can hear me.

“I’ll get us shots and wait over there.” I nod toward the long table to our right.

I leave my friend with open-shirt guy. I sized him up as he was approaching. No ring, and expensive shoes. He might be one of the younger professors, or maybe just a young professional out with the boys after work. I spot his friends at the bar cheering him on. I’ll keep an eye on her, especially if she doesn’t join me when this song is done.

I buy us a round of shots and carry them to the side table, recognizing the wide shoulders and famous plaid shirt of my bodyguard for the night. I tap Whiskey’s arm with my finger while I balance my drinks in my other palm. He jumps and spins like a kid startled at a haunted house.

“Wow, and you’re here to protect me,” I joke.

He leans back and lets out a bellowing laugh before taking my drinks and setting them on the table. He promptly sweeps me into his warm bear hug, spinning me around once, and marking me as taken for the night. I know his moves, and they’re sweet.

“Tell me the truth, how much did my boyfriend pay you to be here tonight.” I lift a brow.

He grabs the handle of his beer mug and hums with thought, taking a drink before answering.

“Let’s just say I can drink here for free all weekend.” He winks and takes one more chug before setting his mug back down.

His gaze quickly darts over my shoulder, and there’s a little flicker to his eyes. I follow his stare to Tasha as she makes her way toward us through the throbbing crowd of twenty-somethings. I smirk to myself but keep my teasing in check. It’s enough that I’ve gotten Tasha to sign off on Whiskey being her roommate. I don’t need to push the matchmaking beyond that.

“She looks good, huh?” Maybe a little push.

“Always does,” Whiskey says, filling his lungs and widening his chest about a second before Tasha steps up to my other side.

“That guy was a tool,” she says, picking up our shots and handing one to me. We clink glasses, then tip them back to drink.

“He seemed sweet.” I know full well that’s a bullshit statement. I let him cut in because he seemed safe.

“Here, you can call him to talk about your portfolio,” she says, handing me a business card with his details. Whiskey snags the card from my hand.

“Joshua M. Turner, Jr. Accountant,” he reads. He tosses the card onto the floor with a flick of his hand, then grabs his beer.

“Fucking junior. Not even a full accountant,” he utters over the rim of his mug before gulping down the rest of his beer. Tasha snorts out a laugh, and once again, I smirk to myself.

I buy another round, and after a few minutes of rest, Tasha and I make our way back out to the floor. This time, we stick together, and I rebuff the two guys that try to edge their way into our space. After nearly a half-hour straight of dancing, my neck and chest are beaded with sweat. Tasha’s pulled her hair up with a clip, but I don’t have a tie with me, so I resort to twisting my hair in my right hand and holding it on top of my head while I close my eyes and rock to the music.

“Sweet ass.”

I don’t recognize the voice at my ear, and when I drop my hair and take a step forward, I’m held against a strange body.

“Hey!” I shout toward Tasha, who’s moved a few bodies away from me with the crowd. My voice is instantly swallowed up by the music.

I push my hair from my face and twist to face the stranger pawing at me. I push my palm into a damp, muscular chest. All I’m able to see of the guy is his tight black T-shirt soaked with sweat from whatever high he must be on. Before my gaze makes it to his face, his arm is twisted behind his back, and a large man in a tight blue denim shirt is pushing him through the crowd and out the door.

“What the fuck happened?” Tasha says as she appears at my side and weaves her hand in mine.

My pulse is racing, and my eyes scan the room for Whiskey. That wasn’t him who stepped in, but where the hell is he? And who was that? The answer comes about a second later when Whiskey heads toward us from the front entrance, Bryce trailing behind him—in a denim shirt.

“Oh, shit. This is gonna get messy,” Tasha slurs. She’s had a couple more drinks than I have. She always does. We’re both tipsy. She’s verging on sloppy.

“It’s already messy,” I mutter.

She laughs at what she thinks is a joke. I’m not being funny, though. And now I feel gross and uncomfortable.

“I think we should go home,” I say, ignoring her when she whines at my side.

“Come on, babe. Bryce kicked that guy out. We can stay a little longer.”

My eyes snap to her, and somehow the sharpness of my stare must break through her fog, because she swallows hard and nods.

“Hey, Peyt. I didn’t see that guy. What a dick. I’m so sorry,” Whiskey says as he meets Tasha and me at the long table where our next row of shots is already lined up. Tasha slams hers before I can push it away, but when she reaches for mine, I tip it over.

“Can you call us a ride?” I look Whiskey in the eyes, doing my best to avoid Bryce’s stare.

“I’m sober. I don’t really drink anymore.” Fuck. Of course he doesn’t.

My eyes flutter their way to Bryce, and I nod.

“Will you drop us off at Wyatt’s?” Everything about this moment feels awkward, and I’m sure taking me to Wyatt’s house is the last thing Bryce wants to do on a Friday night. But Wyatt will want to see me when he gets back from his mom’s. And right now, I need to feel his arms around me to erase the feel of everything—and anyone—else.

Bryce’s eyelids grow heavy, the reality of what his future has become maybe hitting him in the face. Here I am, his one who got away. It doesn’t mean I don’t hope the best for him, though. Or want to see him well. I just wish he wasn’t here, directly in my inner circle. And Wyatt’s.

“Yeah. Meet me out front. I’ll pull my truck up.” Bryce makes eye contact with Whiskey, then turns and strides back out of the bar.

“Did you guys beat that guy?” I ask Whiskey as he ushers me and Tasha out to the street.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, Peyt. You know I don’t lie to you.”

“ Pffft , you lie all the time,” I say, my mouth ticking up with a welcome laugh. My pulse is still firing on all cylinders from the adrenaline rush.

“That’s right, I do lie to you. In that case”—Whiskey pauses as he holds open the exit door—“We hailed him a cab and combed his hair, gave him a mint, and sent him on his way.”

My mouth twists as I roll my eyes, patting Whiskey’s chest as I walk by him through the doorway.

“Such a gentleman,” I say, scanning the sidewalk to my right for any trace of what really happened.