She pulls back, her eyebrows cinched together. “What do you mean?”
“Come home with me tonight,” I murmur into her ear, and she moans quietly, her leg tightening around my lower back. From somewhere behind me, the roar of a truck engine makes its way into my sex-soaked brain. Dakota turns toward the sound, her hair brushing against my face.
“We’re going to have an audience pretty soon.” She starts to pull away.
“Don’t care,” I grumble, my lips on her bare shoulder. I move them across her skin, letting my teeth drag against her soft skin.
“Is this the whiskey talking?”
I pull back to look in her eyes. “Not the whiskey, Dakota.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh yeah? What is it?”
“You.” My lips fall against her cheek. I can’t keep looking in her eyes, it’s too much. Too much feeling, too much emotion, too much need. It reminds me of being at the beach, of standing in the ocean and watching a wave coming toward me. So much anticipation, overwhelming, frightening and exciting.
I kiss her cheek. Her jaw. The spot beside her ear. The constellation of freckles below her eye. “I’m drunk on you,” I whisper, my admission floating out, suspended in the cool evening air.
It’s the best I can do, the most I can give her right now. I can’t tell her I’m falling in love with her, because how can a man fall when he’s already there?
Reluctantly, I step back from the open passenger door. Dakota clears her throat, flips open the visor mirror and checks her makeup, and winds her purse over her shoulder.
She takes my offered hand and steps from my truck. “Let’s do this.” She stomps her foot rhythmically and turns in a circle.
“Are you about to show me up?”
She laughs, and I slip my arm around her waist as we walk in. The floor in The Chute is a deep-red brick, the walls covered in aging wooden planks and vintage signs. Country music pours from speakers, and a band sets up on a small stage off to the side. There are a dozen tables set up, but the main attraction is the bar. It’s a giant rectangle, one half inside and the other half open to the outside. Beyond that is the arena. I checked their website before deciding to listen to Warner, and tonight is amateur bull-riding night.
Dakota and I head for the bar. We order a drink, then settle at the last open table. Warner wasn’t kidding when he said this is the place to be on a Friday night. The band finishes setting up, the music from the speaker stops, and the lead singer steps up to the microphone. He wears a plaid shirt and jeans, and his generous middle hangs over his shiny belt buckle.
“Good to see you beautiful people again. And you ugly ones, too.” He laughs and winks, ducking his chin in a nod. “Me and the boys are gonna give you all something to listen to while you drink away your shitty week. Bull riding starts in an hour, so eat, drink, and don’t get too merry because nobody likes a sloppy drunk.”
Dakota laughs and scoots her chair closer to me. She leans into my side and I lay my arm over her shoulders. The band starts with something upbeat, and Dakota’s foot is tapping. Soon her shoulders are moving, just these micro-movements, but they’re in time to the music.
I’d ask her to dance, but I can’t dance for shit.
Fucking Warner. How did I let that asshole convince me this was a good idea?
A server stops by, we order another round and two pulled pork sandwiches. Dakota smiles at me, her shoulders still shaking, and she looks radiant and happy.
“Wes?”
Wyatt’s surprised voice interrupts my staring at Dakota.
“Hey, Wyatt.”
Wyatt sinks down in the empty chair at our table. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he says. “Weird to see you anywhere that’s not the ranch.”
I look at him from the sides of my eyes but let the comment pass. The server drops off our drinks and Wyatt orders a beer.
“Do you dance, Dakota?” Wyatt looks pointedly at me, as if I’m a broke dick who doesn’t have a clue that his girl is sitting beside him basically dancing in her seat.
She smiles up at me but answers Wyatt. “I know my way around a dance floor.”
“How convenient, because I do too.” Wyatt takes my beer and drinks half. Briefly I consider tackling him the way I used to when we were younger.
I take my beer out of his hand. “How the fuck do you know how to dance?”
He shrugs. “Mom taught me.”
“When?”
“Sometime during the twelve years you were gone, Wes.”
My thumb runs the length of my lower lip and I look away. I leave to serve my country and I have to come back to a little brother who’s had his precious feelings hurt? Defensiveness is my primary response, but deep down inside me, there’s a twinge of guilt for hurting him.
“Dakota, do you want to dance?” Wyatt asks.
I look over at Dakota. She’s looking at me, gauging my reaction. I kiss her forehead, letting her know it’s fine with me. I’m certainly not going to be out there dancing, not to any fast-paced songs anyway. I don’t want to hold her back.
Wyatt extends an open palm, and Dakota takes it. She quickly kisses me, then stands and winds her way through the tables to the dance floor. Now that people have had a chance to consume a drink or two, they’ve begun filtering onto it.
I watch Wyatt and Dakota and try not to let any of the irritation I’m feeling show on my face. He pulls her in, pushes her back out, spins her around. Wyatt is good. Dakota is better. She laughs, swishing her hips, doing complicated shit with her feet.
The waitress drops off the sandwiches we ordered and Wyatt’s beer, and I help myself to the drink. Why the fuck not, he’s currently dancing with my girl. The song ends and they come back. Dakota throws herself into her seat, fanning her face. She takes a long drink from her wine. Wyatt eyes the two empty glasses in front of me.
“Where’s my beer?”
“In my stomach.”
Dakota laughs loudly.
Wyatt shakes his head. “You can be a real asshole, Wes.”
“Careful there,” I warn him. “You’re starting to sound like a baby brother.”
His jaw flexes. He hates being called a baby brother. Always has. Warner and I were closer in age, and we were thicker than thieves, and we hated including Wyatt in our shenanigans. And Wyatt knew it.
He looks at something over my shoulder, his eyes lighting up in recognition.
“My friends are here,” he says, standing. He looks at Dakota. “Thanks for the dance.” His attention turns to me. “Wes, fuck you very much.”
I give him a two-fingered salute. “Right back at you.”
He walks away, and Dakota stares at me. “There must be something pretty contentious between you two.”
“Just brotherly shit.” I shrug it off, but I feel bad. Wyatt’s irresponsible way of living irritates me, but the injured look in his eyes always worms its way into me.
“He’s drunk,” she comments, watching him walk to the bar with two other guys.
What else is new? “I guess it’s a good thing I drank his beer.”
She exhales a laugh. “I guess so. He smelled like hard liquor when we were dancing.”
Speaking of… “You’re an incredible dancer. Where did you learn to do whatever that dance was?” My fingers brush the back of her neck and I feel the goose bumps raise.