Page 49 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

SANDWICHES AND SASS

~RED~

T he sandwich is a religious experience.

I'm not being dramatic— okay maybe I’m envisioning angels singing like what you think happens in mass on a “holy” sunday — this thing is literally making me reconsider everything I thought I knew about food while.

Three years of casino buffet leftovers and stolen crackers did not prepare me for the masterpiece currently occupying all of my attention.

It's called "The Lumberjack," according to the menu, and it's the size of my forearm.

Crusty sourdough bread that cracks when you bite it, revealing a soft, chewy interior that's been grilled to golden perfection.

Layer upon layer of meat—roast beef so tender it falls apart on my tongue, thick-cut bacon that's crispy but not burnt, turkey that's obviously real and not that pressed deli nonsense.

There's aged cheddar that's sharp enough to make my jaw ache in the best way, Swiss that melts into creamy rivers between the meat layers.

But it's the sauce that's really doing things to me.

Some kind of horseradish aioli mixed with what might be honey mustard but could also be liquid gold for all I care. It's tangy and sweet and has just enough kick to make my sinuses tingle without overwhelming the other flavors.

Fresh vegetables provide the perfect crunch—crispy lettuce that actually tastes like something, tomatoes so ripe they're practically bursting, red onions that have been pickled just enough to take the edge off.

There's even avocado, creamy and rich, adding this luxurious texture that makes every bite feel indulgent.

I'm aware, vaguely, that conversation is happening around me.

Male voices rising and falling in what sounds like it might be important discussion. But honestly? They could be planning world domination or discussing the weather and I wouldn't notice. This sandwich has my complete, undivided attention.

My technique is precise. Both hands gripping the sandwich firmly to prevent structural collapse, elbows planted on the table for stability.

I rotate it slightly with each bite to ensure even consumption and prevent any filling from escaping.

When a piece of bacon tries to make a break for it, I catch it with my pinky and guide it back into place without breaking rhythm.

The pickle spear that came with it is perfectly dill, crunchy with just the right amount of brine. I alternate bites—sandwich, pickle, sandwich, pickle—creating a flavor symphony that would make Beethoven weep.

"—new regulations about omega registration?—"

"—grandfather clause might not?—"

"—have to file paperwork within thirty days or?—"

The words float over me like background music, meaningless noise while I experience nirvana via sandwich. A bit of sauce drips onto my finger and I lick it off without thinking, making a small sound of appreciation that apparently interrupts whatever serious discussion is happening.

"I think she's totally tuning us out," Shiloh's amused voice finally penetrates my food haze.

"No shit," comes Rafe's dry response.

I continue eating, unhurried, savoring every single bite.

The bottom of the sandwich is getting a bit soggy from the sauce but that just means the flavors are melding together even better.

I take another huge bite, chipmunk-cheeking it a bit because I may have been overly ambitious with my portion size.

"Red?" Corwin's voice now, gentle but insistent but I ignore him anyways.

"Why were you in town, Rafe, when you’ve been ignoring our messages?"

There's a pause where I assume Rafe answers, but I'm busy navigating a particularly challenging section where all the meats have congregated into one mega-bite. It requires strategy and jaw dislocation techniques I've perfected over years of speed-eating between shifts.

"—had to come into town for regarding the government's new laws about?—"

The sandwich is three-quarters gone now and I'm both proud and devastated.

Proud of my accomplishment, devastated that it's almost over.

I briefly consider ordering another one but my stomach is already sending signals that it's reaching capacity.

"What is it?" That's Shiloh asking something, his voice carrying that edge of concern that usually makes me pay attention.

But not today. Today there is only sandwich.

I pick up a strand of cheese that escaped, tilting my head back to lower it into my mouth like a baby bird.

The move requires leaning back slightly, which makes my shoulder bump into Talon's.

He shifts to give me more room, which I appreciate because this next bite is going to require full arm extension.

The last bite is always bittersweet. You want to savor it but you also want to end on a high note.

I make sure it has the perfect ratio of all components—meat, cheese, sauce, vegetables.

The bread crunches, the flavors explode, and I close my eyes to properly appreciate this culmination of sandwich perfection.

When I open them again, I realize the booth has gone silent.

All four alphas are staring at me with expressions ranging from amused to awed to vaguely concerned. I become suddenly aware that I've just demolished a sandwich the size of a small child in under ten minutes while they've barely touched their own food.

There's sauce on my fingers. Several of them. I bring them to my mouth one by one, licking them clean with the kind of thorough attention that would be obscene if I was doing it on purpose.

But I'm not—I just really don't want to waste any of that magical sauce.

My thumb requires extra attention because somehow sauce got all the way down to the web between it and my forefinger. I have to really get in there, tongue working to catch every drop.

"Jesus Christ," someone mutters. Might be Talon.

I reach for my lemonade—real lemonade, not that powdered nonsense, with actual pulp and the perfect sweet-tart balance—and drain half the glass in one go. The cold cuts through the richness of the sandwich, cleansing my palate.

Then I burp.

Not a delicate, ladylike burp either. This is a full-throated, from-the-diaphragm, window-rattling belch that would make a trucker proud. The kind that echoes slightly in the vintage tin ceiling of the diner.

Heat floods my face as I finally, truly focus on my companions.

They're all staring. Shiloh's got this soft, fond look like he's witnessing something precious. Talon's grinning so wide his face might split. Corwin's trying not to laugh and failing. Even Rafe, perpetually grumpy Rafe, has an expression that might be amusement if you squint.

"What?" I ask, defensive.

Talon's grin somehow gets even wider.

"Did you hear anything we said?"

The blush spreads down my neck as I pout.

"I was hungry."

The admission makes Shiloh chuckle, that rumbling sound that does things to my insides that have nothing to do with sandwiches.

"Do you have room for dessert?" he asks, and the question makes me perk up immediately.

"Always!" I grin from ear to ear, previous embarrassment forgotten. "There's a separate stomach for dessert. It's science."

As if summoned by the mention of sweets, Duke appears at our table. The owner moves with surprising grace for such a large man, weaving between tables with practiced ease.

"You folks want your regular?" he asks, looking at the guys.

Shiloh nods, and I lean forward eagerly. "What's the regular dessert?"

"Lemon pie," Duke says with obvious pride. "The good stuff with homemade whipped cream. Sweetest delight you've ever tasted."

The word choice makes my brain skip sideways into dangerous territory.

I think about it for a second, weighing the joke against potential consequences.

Then I catch sight of Rafe's serious expression and decide consequences are for people who don't have a hundred dollars of gambling money in their pocket.

I give Shiloh a playful look that makes him immediately groan.

"Don't," he warns, but his lips are twitching.

My grin widens.

"What?" Rafe asks, looking between us with suspicion.

Duke returns to collect our plates—mine licked clean, theirs various stages of finished. As he reaches for mine, I look directly at Shiloh and say with perfect innocence:

"Well, he hasn't tasted me yet, so I guess he won't know what's sweeter."

The reaction is instantaneous and glorious.

Rafe, who'd just taken a sip of coffee, sprays it across the table in a magnificent spit-take that would make comedy directors weep. Corwin and Talon burst into laughter so loud other diners turn to stare. Shiloh drops his head into his hands, groaning like I've physically injured him.

Duke absolutely loses it. The big man doubles over, slapping his knee, laughing so hard his face turns red.

"Oh, you got a good one, soldier!" he wheezes at Shiloh. "Better be careful with that mouth!"

I wiggle happily in my seat, extremely proud of myself.

Three years of keeping my mouth shut, of being appropriate and controlled and careful, and now I can just say whatever outrageous thing pops into my head. The freedom is intoxicating.

"That's indecent for an omega!" Rafe splutters, still wiping coffee from his chin.

I turn to him with wide, innocent eyes. "And? What are you gonna do about it, lead alpha?"

The growl that rumbles from his chest is impressive, but we both know he can't actually do anything. He's backed into a corner and he knows it—scold me and look like a controlling asshole, or let it go and admit defeat.

I wiggle even more happily as he settles for glaring at me with those ice-gray eyes that promise retribution later.

"Can we get some tissues?" Corwin asks Duke, still chuckling. "And maybe a hazmat team for the coffee situation?"

Duke heads off to get cleaning supplies, still laughing and shaking his head. The other diners have gone back to their meals, though I catch a few amused glances our way.

The bell above the door chimes, and I glance over reflexively. Then I do a double-take because the woman walking in is absolutely not what I expected to see in small-town Montana or wherever we are.

She looks like she stepped out of a vintage pin-up calendar, if pin-up girls shopped at modern boutiques and had attitude problems.

Platinum blonde hair styled in perfect victory rolls, but with teal-blue ends that fade like watercolor.

Her makeup is flawless—winged eyeliner sharp enough to kill, red lips that match her nails exactly, highlight that makes her cheekbones look like they could cut glass.

She's wearing a high-waisted pencil skirt in cherry red that hugs curves that would make Marilyn Monroe jealous, paired with a black off-shoulder top that shows just enough cleavage to be dangerous.

But it's the details that really sell it.

The vintage seamed stockings with the line running perfectly straight up the back of her legs. The pearl necklace that's definitely real. The patent leather heels that add at least four inches to what's already an impressive height. The tiny tattoo of a poppy flower visible on her shoulder.

She's young though— maybe twenty-five, twenty-six at most. There's something in her eyes that speaks of hard-won confidence rather than natural assurance. Like she's built this persona as armor and wears it like a weapon.

And she's heading straight for our table with the kind of purposeful stride that means someone's about to get their ass handed to them.

She doesn't slow down, doesn't hesitate, just marches right up and plants her hands on her hips. The move makes her chest thrust forward and I swear Talon's eyes glaze over for a second before he catches himself.

Then she points directly at Rafe with one perfectly manicured finger.

"Why are you such a fucking coward?"

I gawk in shock at the sheer audacity while Rafe rolls his eyes like this is a regular occurrence.

It takes her about two seconds to notice me, and when she does, her entire demeanor shifts. Her eyes go wide, scanning me from head to toe with the kind of thorough assessment usually reserved for prize horses or expensive cars.

"DAMN!" she exclaims, loud enough that the entire diner definitely hears. "How did y'all pull a fine-ass omega like this?"

Before anyone can answer, she leans closer to me, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Are they bribing you? Blink twice if you're unsafe."

The sheer drama of it makes me fight back a laugh. Instead, I put on my most serious expression.

"If I blink three times, what does that mean?"

She doesn't miss a beat, throwing her hands up dramatically.

"Means these fake cowboys are holding you against your will and I need to rally the troops, lock them up, and throw away the key!"

I giggle, completely charmed by her theatrical energy. "Okay then."

I make a big show of it, looking directly at her.

"Blink one." I close my eyes slowly, deliberately.

"Blink two." Another exaggerated blink.

"Blink—"

Shiloh's hand covers my eyes before I can finish, his palm warm against my face.

"I knew if you met Poppy we'd be fucked," he groans, but I can hear the fond exasperation in it.

I'm still giggling, his hand still over my eyes as I ask the prime question:

"Now who's Poppy?"