I can barely register the thrum of the guitar player on stage here at the Whiskey Jacks Saloon. He’s playing country western music, and wearing a plaid button down shirt and fringe along the sides of his tan chaps that cover his jeans, no less. Who can’t appreciate a cowboy in plaid and fringe? There are so few of us can actually pull that off. Usually I’m all about acoustic guitars, but not tonight. At the moment, my mind is on the redhead at the mic. I can’t take my eyes off the subtle swing of her hips as she sways to keep time. My breath stops short at the rise and fall of her chest when she holds a longer note as she delivers what I believe is the sweetest, sexiest rendition of Dolly Parton’s Here You Come Again that I’ve ever heard.

Something in her eyes tells me that she’s had her own experience of the guy described in this song. Maybe that’s just raw talent, the ability to personalize the song as though she has lived through it. But I doubt it. This little lady’s been through the ringer. I just know it from that extra layer of sadness she croons out for the part of the song that talks about him messing with her mind and overtaking her senses. I’d put money on it that she has a sorry-ass sonofabitch in her life, and she keeps breaking up over and over again with that same smug bastard who has her heart wrapped up with pain, disappointment, and lies because she can’t resist him.

Maybe that dickbag is her poison.

Well, hello Dolly.

I can be her cure.

My eyes take their own sweet time grazing down her body. The tan Stetson at the top of her head accentuates the contrast between her creamy skin and her fiery red hair. I memorize the contours of her big blue eyes, perfect little nose, and plump lips. Every feature on her pretty, heart-shaped face and slender neck fits with the others. Even the tiny mole an inch above the left side of her top lip is charming.

I let my eyes stray past her collarbone to her sleeveless black top that lovingly hugs her breasts, causing the fabric to strain just a little over her nipples. Its V-neck isn’t as deep as I’d like it to be, but it shows just enough cleavage to cause me to want to see more. My gaze pauses at her tiny waist. A black leather belt with copper or brass rivets is looped through her white flared mini skirt. The skirt itself may be puffy, but it only serves to ignite my imagination as it hides her shapely hips and round ass. Even so, I’m still grateful that the skirt ends mid-thigh, allowing me to experience her creamy, smooth long legs that go on for miles and miles until they meet her scuffed, dusty pink-colored Lucchese cowboy boots with the sassy, flowing leather fringes on each side.

I try to picture how different she might look without the contrasting lights and shadows cast by the stage spotlights tilting down from the ceiling. There’s no doubt in my mind she’ll be just as gorgeous outside under the blinding Nevada sun, or in the dead of night, lying in my bed with her hair fanned out on my pillow and her legs slightly parted as she begs me to claim her.

Call it lust.

Call it attraction.

I don’t care what you call it, but she has my full attention.

I silently wish that I’d paid attention to Rusty, the bar owner, when he introduced her earlier tonight. Damn straight I’ll be listening for her name at the end of her set.

My focus on the hot little number is rudely diverted by a large calloused hand waving in front of my face. That hand is attached to the twenty-six-year-old, six-foot-four Jaden Pratt, my best buddy and the youngest of the four co-owners of Allied Force Security LLC with me.

“What the fuck do you want?” I ask, pushing his hand away as I give him an impatient, cutting glare.

Jaden grins, showing off his perfectly straight teeth. He runs the same hand through his light blond hair. “Dude, if you eye-fuck her for much longer, she’s liable to notice. Don’t scare her away before you even get to say hi. Or is crazy-eyed stalker-creep actually the look that you’re going for?” he jokes.

“How about you head over to the corner of fuck off and mind your own damn business?” I grunt, giving him a scowl.

“Keep it down,” Leo Connelly whispers his order from beside Jaden. “What the hell is wrong with you two?”

At thirty-two, and as president of our security firm, Leo’s gruff, no-nonsense baritone voice commands obedience. It doesn’t help that with his stocky yet muscular six-foot-five build, he carries himself as if he’s still Captain of the Alpha Company, Third Battalion, First Special Forces Group where we all served for two tours. Not one of us has ever questioned his leadership, not back when we were out in the field, or now that we’re civilians, or even here sitting in this saloon.

No one except for his kid brother, Beau. Beau is a slightly leaner, six-foot-seven facsimile of Leo. Same sandy brown hair and eyes, same square jaw, same predilection for plaid shirts, denim jeans and leather cowboy boots, but that’s where the similarities end. Beau happens to be sitting to my right with a cigarette—no, a joint—tucked behind his left ear, partially hiding under his mop-like hairstyle he wears now that we’re ex-military.

“Hush the hell up,” Beau tells his big brother with playful defiance in his eyes, and eyebrows raised high on his forehead. Picking up his beer mug, he takes a big gulp of the brew, shifts his gaze to me and adds in a whisper, “Which one of us do you think she’s into? Seems like she’s been checking out our table since she got on stage.”

I shrug, returning my focus to the stunning woman. The way I see it, I caught sight of her first, so everyone else needs to keep their dicks in their pants.

I’ve got first dibs.

Then I remember that Beau has a hankering for Betty-Anne, one of the waitresses who regularly works the night shift here at the saloon. She’s a pretty little blonde, but as they’ve been hooking up casually for months, the rest of us kept our distance. That’s part of our code. It’s smarter that way.

Beau leans back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the floor as he looks around the saloon, probably for Betty-Anne.

Now that everyone at my table has quieted down, I can go back to enjoying the sexy sounds of the woman on stage. I don’t waste any time when she gets to the end of the song. While the crowd gives her an enthusiastic round of applause, I announce to the guys at my table that I’ve got the next round of beers and excuse myself to head to the bar. The sultry country western singer deserves some ice-cold refreshment too.

Crossing the large, dim room with extra determination in my step, I stop at the end of the bar closest to the stage.

“Another pitcher of beer, Rusty,” I tell the middle-aged owner across the deep mahogany countertop.

Rusty nods. “Coming right up,” he says, turning to the back counter. He reaches into the lower cupboards and retrieves a clean pitcher.

“Are you short-staffed again?” I ask, mostly to make conversation.

“Yeah.” His eyebrows knit together and he puts on the usual scowl that comes before a rant. “Real shame. I spent almost a month getting that last night shift bartender up to speed, and then he goes and quits to tend bar at some shitty casino close to the Strip.”

“That’s too bad.”

“No shit. Vegas is tough to compete with, but still, you’d think the kid could have saved me the hassle of training him by telling me he had his sights set on the bright lights. Serves me right for trying to save a penny by setting up shop so far off the goddamned Strip.”

I lift one shoulder and nod politely, on account of the fact that I’ve heard this particular rant before. I know better than to encourage him by agreeing. Besides, I need information.

Motioning toward the stage with my chin, I smile. “You’re having much better luck with the musical talent, though. That performance was pretty damn good.”

He grins. “Yeah. Lucky break too. Those two are hot to trot for their chance at making it in Nashville. She just got back from college, so I’ll probably have them doing gigs here for a year or more. College loans are the worst.”

“Got back? Is she from around here?” I have to ask, because I’m one of the few people in Las Vegas who isn’t from somewhere else. I actually grew up in South Las Vegas. My father used to be a cargo airplane pilot, and had moved us out here from Idaho so he could have a resort-style playground in his backyard during his downtime.

“Yeah. Don’t you recognize her? She is Don Sparrow’s youngest daughter, Robin.”

My head snaps toward the stage again and I swallow hard.

Robin Sparrow. I know her, or at least, I know of her.

No fucking way I’ll have a chance in hell with this girl.

I shouldn’t even look her way.

First of all, she looks like she’s barely legal. Going from memory, though, must be close to eight years younger than me. She was probably still in grade school when I started Army basic training. Second, and much more importantly, I dated her older sister, Danielle, back in high school. And things did not end well. It had something to do with the fact that right after graduation, Danielle led herself to believe that I was days away from proposing to her, and instead of doing that, I quietly enlisted in the Army and left town without so much as a goodbye.

It was a dick move. I was a shithead back then, not for joining the Army or leaving her behind, but for being a pussy and not telling her about it. Personally, it was a tough time, and she was not aware that I was dealing with serious problems of my own. Quality of life problems, like having a mean motherfucker of an old man, and a mother who didn’t make it in this world past my third birthday. If she were alive, maybe she could have tempered his wicked spirit.

The bottom line is I didn’t have the balls to tell Danielle that I was more interested in risking my life to serve my country than staying anywhere near my father, or worse, to kick off the green mile to a slow death by hooking up with my high school sweetheart and getting hitched.

Like I said, I was an ass.

Maybe I still am.

That’s what I’m told, anyway.

Danielle’s kid sister, Robin, may not know all the details of this fucked up backstory, but I’m sure she knows enough to steer clear of me. And I should leave well enough alone.

“Good to know,” I mumble as Rusty places the full ice-cold pitcher of what’s on tap in front of me. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my wallet for a few bills. “There should be enough here to get your stage acts any drink they want…although, she may not be old enough.”

He nods. “I’ll put it in their tip jars and they can figure out what to do with the cash. And by the way, she’s legal,” he confirms with a grin. “You should know that I make it my business to never hire jailbait, not even for stage gigs.”

I walk back to my friends at our table, and take my seat, ignoring the slim, blonde, overly flirtatious waitress named Sally, who has been campaigning hard for a second date with me for months. She balances her tray in her right hand and rests her left hand on my shoulder.

“Hi Reid,” she says, leaning down toward me and leaving nothing to my imagination as she shows off her full cleavage.

A glance in my friends’ direction tells me they’re happy to take in the free show of Sally’s ample tits.

“Hey Sally. How’s it going?”

“Good, but it could be a lot better if we go out again,” she purrs, tracing a line from my shoulder down to my forearm.

“I’d bet.”

“So, is that a ‘yes’, honey?”

It’s not a ‘yes’. It’s a ‘hell no’. I don’t do second dates. The thing is, I like Rusty, and this saloon, so I need to let her down gently. Fighting back the urge to groan, I give her a weak smile. “Things are pretty busy with work. How about I let you know?”

Sally pouts at me and starts to bat her eyelashes, like it would make a difference. Thankfully, a customer waves at her from a few tables away. “Looking forward to it,” she tells me as she leaves.

Perfect timing.

Robin Sparrow is about to start another set on stage.

As she raises her microphone to her lips, she’s staring right at me and looks mad as hell.

I guess I’ve been made.