Page 14 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

Carter leans in closer, his voice a low, vicious growl. “There is no God when I’m around, you son of a bitch,” he snarls, “you don’t fucking touch her.”

The entire bar goes dead silent.

The thumping bass dims to a low hum, like the whole damn building knows better than to interrupt this moment.

The man tries to stammer some excuse, but Carter doesn’t give him the chance. Carter grips the man’s shirt and shoves him to the ground, sending him stumbling backward, as he crashes into a stool hard enough to nearly topple it.

“Get the hell out of here,” Carter barks, “before I fucking make you.”

The bastard doesn’t argue; he practically trips over his own feet trying to scramble for the door, disappearing into the night without a backward glance.

For a long moment, no one moves.

Then, like flipping a switch, life floods back in. The music picks up, conversations resume, and the clink of glasses and low laughter fill the space as if nothing had ever happened.

Just another night at Boots & Bourbon.

I’m still standing there, shocked and confused. I rub at my wrist absently, the phantom feel of the creep’s grip still burning into my skin.

Carter turns toward me, his chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. The hard set of his jaw remains, the furrow carved deep into his brow, but his eyes—God, his eyes.

They’re raw. Wild. Haunted. Looking at me like he’s fighting something he doesn’t know how to control.

A faint, angry red paints his cheeks and throat, the aftermath of the adrenaline still rushing through his veins.

He doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.

I should be furious. I should snap at him, accuse him of stepping in like I’m helpless, like I can’t fight my own battles.

But I don’t.

Because underneath the anger, underneath the pride clawing at my ribs, something else stirs, something dangerous.

The last of the stragglers have stumbled out, the jukebox has gone silent, and the neon lights flicker softly against the dark wooden walls.

Moving through the space, I gather empty glasses and wipe down the tables, the sounds of my movements echoing in the empty room.

Reed trusted me to close the bar on my own on my first shift, muttered something like, “Well Carter’s here, he can help, I’m fucking exhausted.”

Whatever .

My feet ache, my arms are sore, and I probably smell like cheap liquor, cigarettes, and stale bar air.

I’m ansy, and it has everything to do with the man sitting in the corner, watching me like a damn predator.

Carter still hasn’t left.

He’s still there, legs sprawled out under the table, his fingers tap aimlessly on the wooden table. His eyes tracking my every movement.

The heat of his gaze burns into me as I’m wiping the last of the glasses down at the front of the bar.

He knows what he’s doing, and he looks fucking intoxicating doing it.

I’m not the type to back down from a challenge, not when he’s sitting there watching me like he’s two seconds from losing every ounce of control. I stare right back at him, daring him to fucking do something about it.

I grab the dirty rag and start cleaning the table in front of him, taking my sweet time, moving in slow, deliberate strokes.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

I know exactly what I’m doing.

The black, low-cut V-neck I’m wearing dips scandalously low when I lean forward, putting my cleavage on full display. My tits practically spill out, a sinful tease framed perfectly for his hungry eyes. I don’t miss the way his gaze drops, his jaw tenses when he realizes he’s been caught looking.

His eyes snap back up to mine.

Got ya.

I toss the dirty rag over my shoulder and slip behind the bar, placing the last of the glasses into the sink with a soft clatter. I should tell him to leave, tell him I don’t need a babysitter. I can handle myself just fine without him hovering like some brooding bodyguard.

I grab a bottle of bourbon, pour myself a shot, and toss it back without flinching. The burn scorches a trail down my throat, but it’s nothing compared to the slow, blistering heat of his gaze pinning me from across the room.

“Take it easy there, killer,” he gawks from across the bar, “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

I scoff, pouring myself another shot with more force than necessary.

“I can handle my liquor, cowboy,” I hiss, the irritation in my voice bleeding out with every word.

I’m tired, horny, and fed the fuck up with whatever game we’re playing here.

His lips twitch—the barest hint of a smirk threatening to break through—but he doesn’t smile .

He leans back in his chair casually, watching me like he’s waiting for something.

“Whatever you say, princess .”

Ugh, that damn nickname. I swear, if I could strangle him with my bare hands right now, I would. I roll my eyes dramatically and knock back the second shot without hesitation.

The bourbon burns hotter this time, loosening something reckless inside me.

“What are you still doing here anyway? I snap, slamming the empty shot glass down. “Don’t you have a bedtime or something, grandpa?”

His jaw flexes, and he taps his boot harder against the wooden floors. “What did I say about you having a smart mouth?”

I laugh, because that’s fucking funny.

He talks all this shit, growls, threatens and acts like he’s two seconds from wrecking me, but he hasn’t done a damn thing about it.

“You didn’t say anything, because I know you wouldn’t do shit,” I say over my shoulder, my voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

I smirk to myself, tossing the shot glass into the sink with a sharp clatter. Grabbing my purse from behind the bar, I start shuffling through it, the sound of heavy footsteps retreating in the background.

Thank god, he finally fucking left. Maybe he finally realized he’s all bark and no bite.

I sling my bag onto my shoulder and back up, only to slam straight into something solid.

Fuck .

Before I can react, his hands move with slow, terrifying precision, sliding over my hips, gripping me just hard enough to make a point, and spins me around until I’m facing him. I have to crane my neck to look up at him.

All six-foot-seven inches of pissed off, grumpy, scowl ridden cowboy.

His calloused fingers tip my chin up, forcing my eyes to meet his. His stare is blistering, eyes hungry with desire, and fuck if he isn’t turning me on right now.

“Now what was that?” he murmurs, caressing my jaw with featherlight touch. “You saying I wouldn’t do shit?”

My lips curl into a devilish grin. “You won’t,” I whisper back, taunting him with everything in me.

His thumb drags over my lower lip, his touch soft but devastating. A soft, traitorous moan escapes before I can bite it back.

“Keep back-talking, Catalina,” he rasps, his thumb still caressing my lip torturously. “And I’ll shut that smart little mouth real fucking quick.”

Ugh, boring.

I slide my palms up the broad, rock-solid expanse of his chest, letting my fingers trail shamelessly over the thick definition of his pecs.

He wasn’t expecting that.

Ha, sucker.

I tilt my head, feigning sweetness. “You’re threatening me with a good time, Carter. Why don’t you shut up, and get on your knees like the good little cowboy you are, hmmm?”

He grunts in response.

Pussy .

I scoff, flipping my hair with a dramatic toss, and push past him with a careless shoulder bump.

“Knew it,” I mutter under my breath, rolling my eyes as I strut toward the door .

I barely make it three steps before I’m scooped up and gently set down on the bar table again. This time, he steps between my thighs, his body heat slamming into me.

His hands plant on either side of me, caging me in. His blue eyes pin mine, burning with so much filthy promise I forget how to breathe.

He inches his face close to mine, his breath tickling my lips. “There you go again with that smart mouth and that goddamn attitude,” he growls, his hand gently grabbing my face.

“You’re lucky I don’t bend you over this bar and fuck that bad attitude right out of you.”

My mouth falls open in a shocked gasp.

“Excuse m-”

He cuts me off with a single finger pressed to my lips, a silent command that makes my thighs press together.

“Now be a good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, “and let’s go before I lose my patience.”

Without another word, he steps back, grabs his keys off the table, and stalks toward the door. Leaving me sitting on the empty bar counter—Breathless. Shaking. Panties soaked.

The drive back is quiet and fucking awkward.

I’m irritated, horny, and hungry.

The actual trifecta of doom.

Every muscle in my body aches from hours on my feet, the thick, lingering scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke clings stubbornly to my skin, even with the windows cracked.

Carter hasn’t said a word since we pulled out of Boots & Bourbon. He grips the wheel like it personally insulted him, his jaw locked so tight I’m surprised I don’t hear his molars cracking, and his eyes fixed furiously on the empty road ahead.

Typical.

He practically made me orgasm just by threatening me back at the bar, all that filthy growling and promises he has no intention of keeping.

Now, he can’t even fucking look at me.

This brute is starting to get on my nerves.

And to top it off, he’s in a bad fucking mood. I can feel it rolling off him in waves.

I exhale slowly, letting my forehead press against the cool glass of the window. The chill soothes my overheated skin, but it does nothing for the way my heart pounds. I should close my eyes, breathe, and pretend I don’t feel his bad mood radiating beside me.

His phone buzzes. A sharp, vibrating sound that slices through the heavy tension like a blade.

I peek over, glancing down at the screen just as the name flashes across it.

Vartan.

Of fucking course. As if this night wasn’t already a goddamn mess.

Without hesitation, Carter taps the screen, answering the call with a rough swipe, tosses the phone onto the center console, and hits speaker.

“What do you want dude, I’m in a bad fucking mood, so make this quick.”

My father’s voice crackles through the truck’s speakers .

“Just checking in on her,” he says, his voice dripping with disinterest. “Seeing how much my disappointment of a daughter is holding up.”

I flinch, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

The air inside the truck feels like it has dropped ten degrees. Carter goes completely still, the only movement is the tightening of his fists on the wheel, the leather creaking under the pressure. I can practically hear the growl building in his throat.

“Vartan.”

But of course, my father doesn’t shut the fuck up. He never does.

“I assume she’s still wasting time,” he continues, “embarrassing herself? Or has she finally realized she’s not cut out for real work and needs to come crawling back to Daddy for help?”

I stare down at my lap, my throat raw from swallowing past the lump lodged there, my fingers twist aimlessly at the hem of my shirt.

I don’t know why it still gets to me. Every cruel word still feels like it carves something vital out of me. I question why some pathetic, broken part of me still waits—still fucking hopes—for something different.

I spent so long waiting for him to change, for him to say something kind, and to look at me like I wasn’t a mistake he wished he could take back.

I constantly wait for him to love me without conditions, the way a father is supposed to love his daughter.

I sit through this toxic cycle, waiting for my father’s approval, but my expectations lower every time he opens his mouth.

Carter’s had enough bullshit for the night.

“Stop calling her that,” he snaps, a rough growl escaping his throat .

Silence crackles down the line. Even Vartan, arrogant bastard that he is, seems caught off guard.

Carter’s hands flex around the wheel, as he lets out a long, exasperated breath.

“Stop calling your daughter a fucking disappointment,” Carter grits out, “maybe if you fucking paid attention to her, you’d see that she’s a fucking person with feelings.”

I blink hard, my breath catching somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

Did he just?

He doesn’t give Vartan a chance to respond.

With a single sharp motion, Carter punches the screen, ending the call.

The truck falls into a silence so deep it’s almost crushing.

My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my fingertips, my ears, and my throat. I stare at him, gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to sanity.

He avoids eye contact and remains silent.

Like he’s just waiting for me to speak and break the tension.

But I don’t.

Because for the first time in a long, long time…I have no words.

None.