Every head in the bar turns in my direction, their eyes judging me up and down and inside out. I know what they see.
The front page of the Sandbank newspaper.
The ruined girl from Julep Ranch.
The lost cause with the dead dad and the brother in prison.
After poor little Conor Cassidy fell between the cracks, it makes sense that she would ride a dangerous motorcycle, desecrate her skin with tattoos, and sell her soul to devil. She still wears those scratched-up square toe boots, so that must mean she’s clinging to an irretrievable life. Such a shame. The Lord Jesus can’t even save her from the tragedy she’s become.
I see the pity in their eyes. And the distrust. How dare I bring my atrocities into their town?
Holding my head high, I weave around the tables at the Big Sugar.
Tossed peanut shells scatter the floor and crunch beneath my boots. Country music plays from an old jukebox in the corner. As the only bar in Sandbank, it’s stacked deep with folks winding down after a hard day with drinks and friends and maybe a line dance or two on the dance floor.
No dancing or drinking for me. I’m probably the only twenty-two-year-old in Oklahoma who has never tasted alcohol.
I’m here to get a read on the current state of affairs, eavesdrop on gossip, and maybe give them something scandalous to whisper about. And I admit, a big part of me is dying for an update on Jake Holsten.
He’s not here. I’ve already scanned every face in the place. But as I make my way through the bar, I hear his name.
“You know what I need? Another dose of vitamin Jake.”
I don’t recognize the voice, but as I turn, I know who she is, as well as the three women she shares a high-top table with. We all went to school together.
A few feet away, they swirl their colorful cocktails and avoid my stare. They’re aware I’m standing here, and they whisper loud enough to make damn sure I don’t miss a word.
“The first time Jake fucked me, I couldn’t sit for three days.”
“He ever take you doggy? Swear to God, I came seventeen times when he bent me over the tailgate of his truck.”
Giggling laughter. “He fucks like he’s fighting a war. All angry and savage. It’s so damn hot.”
Gross and Ewww and I seriously think I’m going to vomit.
But in a twisted way, their conversation brings me relief. I never let myself imagine Jake married. Knowing he’s a playboy is easier to swallow than the idea of a wife and kids.
It still hurts to digest. Every cutting word scrapes through my innards like broken glass.
They continue to giggle and whisper about all the kinky, godlike ways Jake performs in the sac. They’re baiting me, and by the time I close the distance, I’m ready to bite.
I step between two of their stools and prop a boot on a foot rail.
“Conor Cassidy!” Fake smiles all around. “It’s been ages. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you.” I lean against the table, resting my tattooed arms on the surface. “Listen, I know I’ve been gone awhile and a lot of shit has gone down. I’ve encountered my share of cruelty at the hands of men, but what I’m realizing is… Women are as mean as cat meat. Instead of standing together against the cheaters and the players and the scumbag abusers, they turn on one another. They’re heartless. Downright vicious to each other. Maybe because we’re competitive? Is that what this is? A competition?”
Jaws drop, and eyes widen. One of them takes a sip of her drink, squirming in the awkwardness.
It’s no wonder I have no friends.
“Let me just say this.” I lower my voice. “Y’all know Jake and I grew up together and were fixing to get married. You also know I was attacked while he was forced to watch. Then I was carted across the country like a dirty secret.” I blow out a breath. “Maybe you don’t know I returned two years later. Jake had already moved on. Completely washed his hands of me. He didn’t want me then, and he doesn’t want me now. It’s over. So y’all can retract your claws. I’m not here to steal your cowboy. Truth is I don’t even want to see him.”
One of the girls clears her voice and points an acrylic nail at something behind me.
Oh no. I straighten from the table, blank my expression, and turn.
Jake towers over me, so close and threatening the sheer intensity of his presence eclipses everything around him. I step back, but there’s nowhere to go except up and over the table, and that would be embarrassing.
The short sleeves of his black t-shirt expose the tanned definition in his arms. Frayed jeans hug low on his hips and cling to the strength in his thighs. Stubble darkens his chiseled jaw, and the line of his perfect lips promises pain.
“What are you doing?” he asks in his deep, rumbling voice.
I’m doing the exact thing I despise. I’m openly and shamelessly checking him out.
Lifting my gaze up, up, up, I tilt my head back to meet his fathomless brown eyes. “I’m just shooting the shit with your buckle bunnies.”
His nostrils flare.
“Shannon here is ready for another ride on your tailgate.” I give a low whistle of disbelief as my stomach curls in on itself. “Seventeen orgasms? Impressive. You’ve come a long way from your days of premature ejaculation.”
Coughs and gasps sound from the women behind me.
Jake blinks and angles his head to the side, tilting his hat. Studying me. “You’re jealous.”
“Nope.”
“You’re grinding your teeth and locking your knees.”
Shit. I relax the offending joints and break away from his assertive eye contact.
That’s when I see it. The wide leather cuff with the horseshoe charm on his wrist. Why is he wearing that? Am I the butt of some kind of sick joke?
“I have a boyfriend.” I raise my chin. “Even if I didn’t, jealousy requires interest. I can assure you I have zero interest in this.” I gesture between him and his bed partners. “To be honest, it makes me puke a little in my mouth. And not in the way you’ve been puking in theirs.”
He doesn’t look at them. In fact, he hasn’t moved his eyes from me since I turned around.
“I’m here on business.” I hold my palm up in the sliver of space between us and wait for him to glance at the scar. “If you want to talk, I’m staying at the Dew Drop Inn.”
I inch a boot forward, indicating my desire to leave, but he doesn’t move.
Him and that goddamn leather bracelet.
Does he wear it when he fucks them? Does the horseshoe stroke quivering skin while his hand thrusts between their legs?
“Let me by.” My face tingles, and a white-hot current of awareness arcs through my body.
It’s his scent. It’s everywhere. The salt of his skin, the mint on his breath, the dark, predatory bite of his essence. I taste it on my tongue and feel it in my blood. I tremble through and through, drugged by his rugged beauty. He’s too close, too compelling, too damn Jake.
It’s been four years since I’ve seen him, and those years have hardened his edges, deepened his scowl, and darkened his eyes. But he’s still the man I remember. Rough and burly from the Stetson on his head to the mud on his boots.
That beat-up hat has more stories to tell than the so-called cowboys at OSU. He didn’t buy those jeans with holes. He earned every rip, catching his legs on barbed wire fencing. And the crud on his boots? I know every trail that dirt came from and how it got there.
Jake Holsten is the real deal, and my body recognizes every strapping inch of him. My heart threatens to combust from the potency of his nearness, and if I stand here much longer, I won’t survive.
“Move.” I anchor my hands on my hips.
He flexes. Not his muscles. He flexes his damn aura and stares me down like he’s aiming to hogtie and brand me.
I don’t look away, but I should. My eyes are more than windows to my soul. They’re telling him exactly what’s happening south of the border. He knows he affects me, every achy part of me, and fuck if that doesn’t put a sly smile on his face.
Glowing with that smirk, he steps aside and tips his hat at me. “Catch you later, girl.”
Fighting the urge to run like hell, I measure my strides to the door and step into the night air.
A fat black cowboy truck sits beside my motorcycle, and reclining in the passenger seat is the other half of the Holsten twins.
Jarret watches me approach, leaning toward the dash to get a real good look. I expect him to jump out and intercept me.
He doesn’t. As I strap on the helmet, he sits in the truck with the windows rolled down and says nothing. The few feet that separates us might as well be 928 miles.
I’m just as guilty for putting that distance there. Nothing’s stopping me from asking him how he’s doing.
Except fear.
Fear of rejection.
I fire up the bike and head back to the motel. Going after Levi Tibbs on my own would be naive and reckless. But I’m certain I won’t be doing it alone.
Jake might not give a fuck about the pact, but he made it clear in the bar he’s not done fucking with me.
He’ll make sure I don’t leave town until I’m chewed up and spat out.