Page 41 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

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. . .

A week later

I t’s just past eleven, and the regulars are parked in their usual spots. The air is thick with the scent of whiskey, fryer grease, and stale cologne. I move on autopilot, but my mind is wandering.

I feel him the second he walks back in.

He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t announce himself like some cocky bastard looking for attention. He just slides into his usual seat at the far end of the bar like he owns the air I’m breathing. His hat’s pulled low over his brow, but I don’t need to see his eyes to know where they’re locked.

Me.

I wipe down the bar, pretending like I’m not seconds away from melting into a puddle of memory and want. I sneak another glance his way. He’s still there, still watching. That slight crook at the corner of his mouth tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

I squirm behind the bar, pressing my thighs together as I stack a few clean glasses, willing my brain to stop picturing what it feels like to ride his fat coc-

Okay, bitch you need to work, stop.

I wipe down the bar top, sneaking another glance in his direction, even though I know I shouldn’t. His eyes meet mine again, like he’s been waiting for it. The corner of his mouth tips up into the barest smile.

Just smile once for me, cowboy.

Even from across the room, I feel it. The pull and the weight of his stare. Like he’s trying to say something without saying anything at all. All the things he’s told me before—the filthy words, the soft ones, the possessive ones—I start to believe maybe it wasn’t just words.

I rinse out a glass, the warm water running over my fingers, and glance up again. He’s still watching and hasn’t moved an inch. He doesn’t need to; his presence alone speaks louder than anything.

Whatever this is between us, whatever we’re becoming—it’s real. I’ve never felt this safe, this seen. Like someone’s peeled back every piece of armor I’ve worn and still decided to stay.

It’s beautiful and fucking terrifying.

So I do what I’ve always done when I feel myself slipping, I bury it. I ignore the heat of his stare, pretending like my walls aren’t crashing down for him, and throw myself into pouring shots for drunk assholes who won’t remember my name tomorrow.

I’m restocking bottles, pretending I give a fuck when all I want to do is be with Carter. My shift is almost over, my feet are about to fall off, and if one more drunk asshole asks me if I’m ‘new in town’, I might pour bourbon in my goddamn eye sockets.

The door slams open, a cold breeze rushes through, it feels more like a fucking disturbance than a chill.

Click. Click. Click.

The heels are the first thing I register through the haze of noise. Then a blast of overused Roja Haute Luxe invades my senses, and I have to will myself not to fucking gag.

I don’t bother turning around, I already fucking hate her.

“Two cosmopolitans. Extra cold,” the woman says, leaning against the counter like the place might stain her. Her voice is sharp and nasally, wrapped in forced charm. “My husband wanted to try some ‘local flavor’ before we continue to Charleston.”

I turn around, pouring her stupid drinks.

“Cute,” I say flatly, sliding the drinks toward her. “Hope he enjoys the tetanus in the bathrooms.”

She lifts one perfectly manicured hand to examine her glass as if it might be contaminated. “God, I didn’t know this place was still standing,” she hums, glancing around with a tight smile. “I haven’t been back in this dump since I was engaged to—oh, what was his name? Caleb? No—Carter.”

My body stills. Did she just?

Her red-tipped fingernail taps against the rim of the glass. “Right. Carter Hayes. Tragic little cowboy. He sent me an emotional letter after his mom croaked. I read it in Mykonos while getting a massage. Honestly forgot all about him until we drove by and I saw this hick bar still standing.”

Oh hell no. This bitch really fucking said his name. I squeeze the glass in my hand, my fingers digging into the bar as I raise my eyes to hers.

The anger about my father, my grief, everything that I have been holding in and shouldering alone, comes to the surface.

And this bitch is about the get the shit end of the stick of my rampage.

“Oh,” I say sweetly. “Carter?”

She blinks at me, stunned .

Stupid bitch.

“The one who fucks me into next week every time I say his name like a good girl?”

Her plastic expression falters, her face draining of whatever fucking color she had from her pasty white skin.

I lean in closer, our noses almost touching. “He’s never been tragic, you cunt. He’s mine, say something about him again and I’ll rip the filler from your fake ass lips.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, or are you stupid?” I grin.

“He comes back from ranch chores covered in sweat, dirt, and the smell of hay—and I still get on my fucking knees for him. I’d ask if you miss him, but from the looks of your husband,” I glance behind her at the spineless man hovering like a designer-clad mosquito. “you’ve clearly settled for less.”

She scoffs. “You’re just a phase, honey. He’ll get bored with your Dollar Tree lingerie and move on.”

Pues, fíjate que no me importa. (Well guess what? I don’t care.)

“Bitch, before I came here I could buy your shitty, designer outfit about a hundred times or more.

But that shit doesn't fucking matter to me.” I spit out, “And honey? He already fucking moved on the second you walked out of his life. You left him hurting like a pathetic loser.” I bite out.

“Oh, and one more thing,” I tap my finger on my lips maliciously.

“He upgraded to a woman who knows how to make him come.”

She lunges at me, trying to reach for my hair. But I’m faster.

My hand snakes across the bar, fisting her sleek platinum blonde ponytail, yanking hard enough to tilt her head back. She screeches, her red nails clawing toward me, but I drag her over the counter like a ragdoll and slam her into the bar rail with a satisfying thunk.

“You wanna talk shit about Carter Hayes at the place I work?” I snarl, pressing her face to the dingy wood. “You do it without my name in your fucking mouth, pendeja.”

Someone overturns a table, and drinks shatter. Bar patrons are screaming, shoving like fucking animals causing a bar fight.

All hell breaks loose.

Her hand grabs my wrist, twisting it hard enough to make me wince.

I pull her up by the hair and throw her down hard. My fist connects with her cheekbone once, and she flails, screeching, her heels kicking like a dying spider. Her husband is long gone, probably halfway to their shitty Tesla.

I’m drawing back to hit her again when I’m lifted into the air.

“Catalina, baby, you can’t just?—”

Carter’s deep voice slices through the noise. His hands are on my waist a second later, hauling me back against him with practiced ease. His arm wraps around my chest, pulling me flush to his body.

I’m still trying to claw my way out of his hold, but he pulls me harder against his hard body.

“Baby-” he starts.

Then he sees the woman I was beating the fuck out of, he sees her.

He lets out a long breath. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

She sits up slowly, her mascara streaking down her cheeks, blood running down her nose and lip.

“Hi, Carter,” she says like a goddamn ghost .

He doesn’t say anything at first, until he looks at me rubbing my wrist, a bruise already starting to form.

“You touched her?” he spits out.

“She attacked me!”

He steps forward, putting me tightly behind him. “Well you must’ve said something fucking stupid to get your fucking face rearranged.”

She’s stunned silent.

“You fucking left me,” he says coldly, “you left during the hardest time of my fucking life, and now you waltz in here, and touch what’s mine?”

You tell her, baby.

She scoffs, “Please, yours?”

“Yeah,” he growls, “mine. I’ll keep choosing her every single fucking day until your name tastes like poison in my mouth.”

She tries to smirk as she pushes herself to stand. “Carter, you can still have me, I’m all yours, baby. My husband doesn’t care if–”

Carter cuts her off abruptly. “I did have you, I gave you every fucking piece of me until you fucking left me high and dry, with a heart that bled for you. You think I’d fucking want you again?”

She reaches out, her red manicured nails trailing down his tattooed forearms like she still owns him. “Carter, please. You can’t be serious about that piece of trash,” she sneers, jerking her chin at me. “She looks like a washed-up sk–”

My whole body vibrates with fury. I move past Carter, and punch her again, this time my fist hits her perfectly plastic nose, bone crunching underneath my knuckles.

She hits the floor, squealing like a little bitch, clutching her precious nose .

“Oh my god! My new nose!”

I stand over her, my fists clenched at my sides. “Call me trash again, bitch. I fucking dare you. I’ll drag you by your fake Chanel through this bar like the goddamn cunt you are.”

Her husband is back, only this time he’s standing there like a wax statue, green eyes wide, like he doesn’t know what the fuck to do.

Carter meets the pathetic husband’s eyes. “You might wanna get your wife outta here before she eats another fucking fist,” he says, calmly.

They both scatter, one of her cheap ass heels breaks on the way out.

Good, I hope it fucking cuts her.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

“I was fine until you stopped me,” I grumble, crossing my arms.

His lip quirks, just slightly. “You were about to commit assault with a Prada heel. I figured I should step in.”

“She fucking deserved it.”

“Oh, baby, I know.” He cups my face gently, his thumb grazing my cheek. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I blink, surprised by the warmth in his eyes—by the tenderness bleeding through all the tension. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” He shakes his head, a quiet laugh in his chest. “I’m in fucking awe of you.”

My heart lurches so hard it nearly knocks me off balance.

“You think I’m a trash fire, huh?” I say, teasing but raw beneath it .

“Trash fire?” He laughs softly, stepping closer and leaning his forehead against mine. “Darlin’, you just defended me like I was worth something. You think I’m gonna call that a mess? That’s the kind of love people spend their whole lives lookin’ for.”

I blink.

Love? There’s no way in hell he could love someone like me. Right?

He’s still staring at me like I hung the damn moon. Like I just didn’t beat the shit out of his ex, all sweaty with blood on my knuckles. My chest feels tight with an unfamiliar sensation, and I choose to remain silent, allowing the familiar weight of his touch to envelop me.

His hand lifts to my jaw, his rough thumb brushes past my lower lip with a featherlight touch that seems out of place for a man like him. I instinctively lean into his touch.

Carter leans in, brushing his lips against mine. He gently bites my lower lip, tugging it between his teeth. I moan against his mouth, but just as I am about to deepen the kiss, he pulls away and lowers his forehead to mine.

“Catalina,” he whispers.

I close my eyes, inhaling slowly to steady the chaos unraveling in my head, then exhale everything that has been consuming me since the moment this thing between us began.

“Tell me this isn’t stupid,” I blurt out, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Tell me we’re not making the worst mistake.”

“If being with you is stupid,” he says, “then call me a fucking fool.”