Page 13 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

catalina

. . .

A week later

S lamming the bathroom door behind me, I press my back to it like that’ll stop my heart from racing straight out of my skin. My hands grip the counter as I stare at my reflection, trying to breathe.

Fuck.

A pinkish hue colors my cheeks, warm with heat that won’t settle.

My hair’s curled just right, soft waves brushing past my shoulders.

The black top I threw on hugs my body tighter than I remember, dipping low enough to give Carter a goddamn aneurysm if he catches even half a glance.

I opted to wear black, high-waisted jeans, since that’s the plainest piece of clothing I own.

And to top it off, Carter ended up choosing stupid black cowgirl boots, but I bedazzled them so he can kiss my ass.

I look like a walking ad for Carhartt.

Truthfully? I look fucking heinous, except for my shiny boots.

Nothing I’m wearing has a label on it, and it doesn’t scream designer. It’s all from Tractor Supply that Carter took me to a week ago, mumbled something about being in ranch country now, and surprisingly paid for everything.

I swipe a little gloss over my lips, more out of habit than hope, and catch the slight tremble in my hands.

Get it together, Catalina. Breathe.

Ugh, today is my first shift at the bar. It isn’t just some shift I’ll never remember; this is the first night I’m doing something that’s mine.

No more daddy’s money, no strings pulled.

Just me.

I take a steady breath, squaring my shoulders, and grab my bag to head out. My boots hit the stairs in quiet, measured steps, and with each one, something tightens in my chest.

As I hit the last step, my eyes lift and meet his gaze, which is already pinned on me.

He’s leaning against the wall near the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, looking like he’s about two seconds away from hitting someone.

His gaze drags over me, slowly, like he’s cataloging every detail and tucking it away for later. His face doesn’t move, but something shifts in his eyes when they land on the curve of my hips and the dip of my neckline.

I pretend not to notice, but the way he stares at me makes me squirm. Shifting on my feet, I smooth my palm down my thigh like I’m adjusting something.

“What in the fuck did you do to your boots?”

I smirk, throwing a leg out to show off my new boots. “It’s called fashion. Look it up.”

He scoffs, silent for a brief moment.

“You sure you wanna go to work looking like that, princess?” he says finally .

I lift my chin, forcing a cocky little smirk. “Why? Scared someone might steal me?”

His eyes darken, and for a second, the look he gives me makes my knees want to buckle. “Ain’t nobody stealing what’s already mine,” he mumbles, so softly I almost don’t catch it.

My heart slams into my ribs, but I toss my hair over my shoulder, trying to play it cool.

“Relax,” I say, reaching for the doorknob without looking at him. “I look hot, try not to have a coronary.”

He grunts, clearly unimpressed, and pushes off the wall.

“Come on. I’m driving you.”

Weeeee, I’m at my first job. I’m sooooo excited.

Absolutely not.

I stare from behind the bar, letting my gaze sweep around the place I call my job. Boots & Bourbon is exactly what I expected during night hours. A whiskey-soaked, cowboy-infested dive bar with dim lighting and the faint smell of sweat, smoke, and spilled beer filters through the air.

The wooden floors are scuffed from the years of boot stomping, and the walls are covered in old rodeo posters, taxidermy, and neon beer signs. There’s a section where patrons can ride mechanical bulls, and others can sit and watch as they drunkenly cheer on.

It’s loud, packed with ranch hands, town locals, and women doing bar crawls for their bachelorette party.

Reed is in his element. He’s fast as he pours drinks while flashing an easy grin that makes tips pile up. I don’t know how he does it, how he juggles three conversations at once, tossing bottles like some trick bartender, all while keeping everything running without breaking a sweat.

Meanwhile, I’m fucking surviving. I’ve been spilling drinks everywhere, I’ve dropped a handful of plates on the floor, the multiple conversations giving me whiplash and overstimulating me, and to top it off, dirty men have been catcalling at me.

I would suckerpunch someone in the throat right now, but we’re going to be a good girl and behave.

My first real job at twenty-three years old, fucking pathetic.

“Here,” Reed says, sliding a glass my way. “Table in the back. Try not to drop it this time, please.”

I weave my way through the thick crowd, balancing the tray carefully in my hand, trying to focus on not spilling a drop. How the hell am I supposed to get the hang of this if I can’t even hold a tray with one glass of beer?

I’m almost at the table, ready to drop off the drink and move on, when something pulls at me, a prickling sensation at the back of my neck, a familiar weight settling on my skin.

I glance toward the corner of the bar, and there he is.

Carter.

He’s sitting deep in the shadows like he owns the goddamn place, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, and a half-drunk bottle of beer in front of him.

His posture is deceptively casual, but everything about him radiates tension.

His legs are spread wide, unapologetic, commanding too much space like he’s daring anyone to challenge him.

His blue eyes are locked on me, heavy and unrelenting, cutting through the noise and crowd like none of it even matters.

I falter mid-step, slightly rattled that he’s here.

What the hell is he still doing here?

I thought he would drop me off, leave, and maybe grunt out some warning about behaving myself. But he’s still here, like he’s not planning on going anywhere until he drags me back home himself.

I force myself to tear my gaze away from Carter, and drag my focus back to the work in front of me—running drinks, clearing tables, trying to keep up with the non-stop flow of rowdy customers.

It’s exhausting.

For one shocking moment, I don’t mind lifting a finger and doing something.

This keeps me occupied. It provides my hands with something to do and gives my mind another focus.

It prevents me from spiraling, from slipping back into thoughts of my father.

It stops me from hearing his voice in my head, the way it cuts through me like a blade and tears old wounds wide open as if they never had a chance to heal.

I bury myself in the distraction—lose myself in it, until he happens.

The sleazy bastard sitting at the bar.

He’s older, maybe in his fifties, wearing a stained trucker hat that looks like it hasn’t seen a wash in a decade and a smug grin that makes my skin crawl.

His gut strains against his stained t-shirt that’s two sizes too small, and his bloodshot eyes have been crawling all over me since my shift started.

I’d hoped that if I ignored him long enough, he’d get the hint and move on.

Apparently not.

Clearly, in whatever rotted part of his brain that counts as logic, me pretending he doesn’t exist is some invitation .

“Hey there, baby girl,” he slurs, his voice thick with cheap whiskey.

Before I can react, his hand shoots out, thick fingers clamp around my wrist, squeezing tight and causing pain.

I jerk back instinctively, a flash of panic radiates in my chest as the glass in my other hand begins to wobble dangerously.

My stomach twists, and nausea rises fast.

“Let go of me you fucking perv,” I snap, my voice shaking with rage.

God, he reeks of alcohol and piss.

“Aw, don’t be like that, baby,” he slurs, his hot breath heavy with the pungent smell of alcohol, the words sticking to my skin like filth. “Just wanted to talk to the pretty new girl workin’ the bar.”

His beady eyes drop to my tits, his tongue darts out to lick his cracked lips, and bile rises hard in my throat. His fingers clamp down harder around my wrist. I jerk my arm, trying to shake free, but the bastard holds on tighter, his eyes darkening with something ugly.

Before I can twist away, his free hand gropes at my thigh, trying to pull me toward him, his stubby fingers digging into my jeans.

Panic spikes. I push against him, struggling to get away, but no one seems to notice, or worse, they do and they don’t care. Reed’s slammed up front, too swamped to see.

“Just wonderin’ what your pretty little mouth tastes like,” he sneers, his hot breath inches from my face.

Ew, I’m gonna be sick.

My stomach heaves. I’m seconds from puking right on his disgusting boots.

There’s a sudden shift in the air— BOOM .

The scrape of a chair drags hard across the floor, the heavy thud of boots hammering toward us.

In the next breath, his hand is ripped off me so fast I stumble backward. I blink, barely processing what’s happening before I realize Carter is there, standing between me and the creep. His massive frame towers over the puny man.

His face is a mask of pure, furious rage.

Jaw clenched so tightly, I swear I can see the muscles tensing underneath his beard.

His dark eyes burn with something lethal, something primal, as he glares down at the man like he’s already dead.

His fists are clenched at his sides, veins bulging from the force he’s using to hold himself back.

The pervert stumbles back, hands lifted in weak surrender, but Carter doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Come on, man,” the guy slurs desperately, “I just wanna feel her tight cu?—”

He doesn’t even get the words out. Carter grabs him by the collar and yanks him off the barstool like he weighs nothing. The sound of fabric tearing fills the bar as Carter slams him against the nearest wall. The guy’s boots scramble uselessly for traction against the floor.

The creep wails, the sound sharp and pathetic against the stunned silence that has fallen over the room.

“God! Somebody help me please!”