Emily blinks. “Oh, wow! I thought she was just kidding. I don’t know that I’ve ever met a real cowboy. What do you do, like ride horses all day and chase cows?”
The question’s not nearly as stupid as it sounds. Most people have no idea what being a rancher is actually about, and I don’t fault them for not knowing. Not like I know what other people’s jobs entail, either. And Emily at least sounds pleasantly interested and is keeping us from awkward silence or a glaring contest with Reed. Even though I’d win that for damn sure.
“Yeah, ride horses or ATVs, sometimes the Gator. Take care of the herd, move ’em from pasture to pasture for grazing, keep ’em healthy to make it to market, keep the fences mended and secure. It’s a sunup to sundown job, with no end in sight. It’s hard work, but I couldn’t do anything else. Been doing this since I was a kid.” Look at me with whole sentences and small talk. I’m like a regular Chatty Cathy over here.
Emily hangs on every word, but so does Erica, though she’s trying hard to hide that fact. Reed’s looking for that beer, which Monica sets down in the middle of the table with a thunk.
“Here ya go, Rix’s sis.” She sets down a pink frozen drink in a beer glass. It’s got an orange slice on the rim as decoration, something I bet Rob rarely does. “It don’t got a name, but Rob mostly kept track so if you like it, he can probably make another about the same.”
Emily smiles at Monica sweetly. “Thank you.” She takes a sip through the straw, her lips puckering in a way that should have my dick standing up and taking notice. But nothing’s happening south of my belt buckle. She swallows and hums, “Oh, that’s good!” She leans back to see the bar, where Rob is looking over uncertainly. But when Emily smiles and lifts her glass, mouthing ‘thank you’ before taking another apparently heaven-inducing sip, he melts for her. Even from here, you can see him fall under her sway.
I wonder if that’s what she’s used to. I wonder why it’s not working on me.
Monica pours the rest of us our first round. Erica must need a drink to handle this little outing because she taps her glass lightly to the table and upends it, chugging the whole thing in one go. She finishes with a sigh, swiping the foam off her mouth with her fingers.
And my dick is rock fucking hard.
If she can guzzle a beer like that, throat open and swallowing reflexively, I know for damn sure she can do it with my cock stuffed down her throat, her nose buried against my belly. And that is a sight I desperately want to see.
I lift my glass her way. “Impressive.” I take a healthy swallow of my own beer. It’s not Budweiser, but something light. Might as well be water. I could probably drink this pitcher alone and not feel a damn thing.
Emily gapes at Erica. “Manners.” She hisses the admonishment, but it’s with a laugh. Shaking her head, she looks at Reed. “I swear our parents taught us manners. Rix has just forgotten how to use them because all she does is hang out with burping and farting boys all the time.”
Reed grins at the excuse, like it’s an inside joke between the three of them. “I know. She just needs a reason to behave.” He winks at Erica flirtily, expecting a smile back.
She burps instead, looking pleased with herself.
I can’t help but laugh, which sucks because I’m halfway through a drink and I get a little gagged as the beer-water goes down the wrong pipe. I sputter, and Emily pats me on the back. Pretty sure she’s feeling my muscles too. I watch Erica for any sign of jealousy, but she’s stone-faced.
“You okay there, Brody? I know she’s rough, but don’t let her get you choked up.”
I keep my eyes on her, but Erica’s moved on to ignoring me completely, pouring herself another glass.
“I’m good,” I grumble, my voice rougher than usual from the coughing fit. I take another sip to smooth it over.
Reed jumps in this time, taking the conversational softball. “So, a cowboy, two mechanics, and a car salesman walk into a bar . . .” It sounds like he’s starting a joke, but I deduce he’s talking about us.
“Car saleswoman,” Emily corrects with a giggle, reminding me of Sophie, and Reed smiles. Seems like that’s another inside joke. She explains to me as the newcomer, “That’s the family deal. If Rix can’t fix your car, I’ll sell you a new one. Our whole family, basically everyone we know, is all about cars. So please, can we talk about something else—anything else—for a change?” She’s begging me to be the subject changer, but I’m fascinated by a whole family that’s car-oriented the way mine is cow- and crop-oriented.
“How’d you end up all about cars?” I ask the question to Erica because she hasn’t said a word since her friendly chatter with Monica.
“Our dad,” Emily answers, not even giving Erica a chance. It doesn’t seem rude, though, more like it’s their usual MO of conversational flow. I’m betting Emily often takes the focus and responsibility off Erica, in a ‘I’ve got you, Sis’ sort of way. It’s familiar, like the way Shayanne always chatters away to make up for my selective conversational skills. “He ran the garage for thirty years, brought us up right there in the grease and grime. Reed too.” Reed nods agreeably at what seem to be pleasant memories. “They ended up grease monkeys. I got out . . . in a way. But the best salespeople sell what they know. And I know cars.”
Erica snorts at that. “You memorize the spec sheets, Em. That’s different from knowing what makes them tick.”
Emily grins at her sister’s dig, and I can see the affection between them. It’s like how I tell my brothers that I love them by swapping shots with them . . . just fewer punches and more words.
“You’re just jealous because I get employee discounts on a new car every two years. Think I’ll get a Mustang next time.” She’s teasing, dangling an invisible carrot over Erica’s head. Or maybe, invisible keys.
Erica sets her beer down, leaning forward with one elbow on the table, her chin resting on her fist. Her excitement pulls me into her orbit. “A Shelby? And so help me, if you say no, I’m gonna tell Dad you’re pussing out.”
Emily’s smile falters at the edges. “No, not a Shelby. Even with a discount, I can’t do that. Not even a 350.”
“What’s the price difference between a 350 and a 500?” Reed asks, but something tells me he already knows. Good for him if he does, because I have no fucking idea.
“Retail? A 500 starts around $73K, a 350 around $60K. Doesn’t matter, though, because Dad wouldn’t let me drive one. I’d get in too much trouble.” She looks to me, trying to involve me again in their car chatter. But unless it runs on diesel and has a John Deere logo on it, I’ve got almost no idea. “I’ve got the family lead foot and love for speed, but putting me behind the wheel with enough horsepower to go zero-to-sixty in three seconds is a death sentence. I don’t have the technical skills to control that like Rix does.”
I’m about to ask a follow-up question on that, but the jukebox roars to life, overtaking any conversation with a loud bass line and a guy screaming from what sounds like the deep, dark, demon-infested depths of his soul. Still, I store the information about Rix’s apparent driving skills and the family trait for speed.