She blushes, nibbling at her lower lip, the white of her teeth bright against the red lipstick. “I just wanted to say hi.”
Not sure this isn’t a trick, I drawl out, “Okay, well . . . hi to you too.”
The bartender sets down a pink frozen drink in a swervy glass. Lil Bit takes a sip and moans happily. “Mmm, this is so good. Though I should probably stop because it’s my third. Don’t want to make too many bad decisions.” She sounds like I’m a bad decision she really wants to make, and a couple of hours ago, I would’ve indulged that choice with at least three orgasms. Now, my cock is damn near shriveled up in revolt. “Want a taste?” She holds the straw my way, and what strikes me the most is how clean her hands are.
Stupid, but the truth. I glance to my own rough, dirty hands, knowing I’ll see the jagged, stained cuticles, short nails, and scarred skin. I’d expect a mechanic to have similar hands from all the hard work, but Lil Bit’s are as clean as a whistle and look soft as a baby’s ass.
“What soap do you use?” I lift my chin, indicating her hands.
Her brows fall together. “What? Oh, uhm . . . lavender vanilla. Do you like it?” She pulls her hair over her shoulder, and I get a whiff of something floral and light. Guess that’s what she’s talking about.
I wonder if the flower shit does something for the skin? I should tell Shay about that. Maybe she could add it to her recipes for her goat milk soap business because if it’d get our hands that clean, all of us ranch guys would use it, even if we did smell like floral crap twenty-four seven.
She’s looking at me expectantly, and I realize she asked me a question. I don’t remember what it was, so I go to my default grunt.
My phone buzzes against the counter, the screen bright in the now dimmer bar. I glance down.
Shayanne: You missed dinner, asshole.
Shay speaks my language. What she means is ‘I missed you at dinner, are you okay? Because I’m worried.’
I send her a middle finger emoji, which she’ll take to mean, ‘I’m fine, home soon,’ even though what I really mean is ‘fuck off.’
Lil Bit seems to be reading over my shoulder because she asks, “That your wife?”
I look at her through narrowed eyes, not happy that she’s all up in my business. Hell, I don’t let Shay get in my business and she is my business. Though now that she’s married to Luke Bennett, I pawn her off on him as much as I can because he signed up for that gig with a diamond ring. She’s his problem now, I think happily. Shay did good with him, much as I hate to admit it.
“Family business.” The implication is clear.
She seems to hear me say ‘no’, though, as in I’m single, because she goes right back into some smiley, hair-twirling version of flirting.
And it’s doing nothing for me. Earlier, I’d thought she was hot as she was handing me my balls for daring to disturb her. Now, this whole getup and flirty thing feels like a split-personality show. I don’t like it. Fake and filtered makes my bullshit meter go off. And it’s clanging in my head like a damn siren bell. It’s a pity because her flirting like this earlier would’ve been more than welcome. Maybe it’s because she was at work?
Off the clock, she’s doing all the right things, sending me every damn signal she can—laughing even when I don’t say anything funny, touching my arm . . . and nothing. I’m not encouraging her in the least, have barely grunted at this point, but still, she’s trying.
I’m mostly thinking she’s got Bessie and I shouldn’t piss her off, so I sit here sullenly and let her gush girliness all over me, knowing I’m gonna need a shower later. And not to jack off, but just to get the fake off. And maybe to try to figure out which is the real Lil Bit. Not that it matters to me.
As long as she can fix the truck, it’ll be just fine. And I won’t even have to see her again. Hell, I’ll send Mark to pick it up and not even have to see her then.
The bartender walks over, looking hesitant to interrupt, but he knocks on the bar in front of me like it’s a damn door. I meet his eyes and he lifts his chin toward the door. I turn and see Katelyn waiting for me.
She raises one eyebrow in question. “You still need a ride?” that eyebrow says.
“Gotta go,” I tell Lil Bit, or the bartender, or maybe no one, I don’t know. I pick up my beer and chug the rest of it. “Keep the change.” That was to the bartender for sure.
Lil Bit pouts, her bottom lip poking out in a move that has probably gotten her what she wants countless times. “Already?” She takes the liberty to trace a short-nailed finger along the tattoo on my bicep, so much in those three syllables.
I blink, looking at her and remembering her earlier. And just like that, I forget Lil Bit ever existed and my cock agrees whole-dickedly.
I get up from the bar, walking toward Katelyn without a word.
Katelyn looks over my shoulder. “Who’s that?”
“No one. Let’s go.” I hold an arm out, motioning for her to walk in front of me because I’m a damn gentleman despite the tattoos, rough hands, and fuck it attitude I wear like badges of honor.
Katelyn says quietly, “Looked like someone to me. She was eye-sexing you when I walked in, and she watched every swaggering step of you leaving. I think you’ve got yourself a fan, Brody Tannen.”
“What’d you do?” Mark’s growl would stop most any bar fight in its tracks.
He’s a big motherfucker and has a presence about him that says he’d just as soon knock your head off your shoulders as look at your stupid face. In most cases, that’s true. Much as I hate to say it, it’s one of the things I like best about him. We’re two peas in the same pod, and because we understand each other, we do our best not to step on each other’s toes.
Not too long ago, I would’ve told you that me and the oldest Bennett being anything but enemies was damn near impossible, that it’d be more likely for my cows to sprout wings and start flying around the field like birds than for us to be cordial, much less friends.
I’d have lost that bet.
The transition when the Bennetts bought our ranch wasn’t all rainbows and cupcakes, more like fists and insults, but the cows are still mooing and Mark’s a good friend now.
That don’t mean the accusation doesn’t sting like a bitch, though.
“Not a thing and you know it.” My growl back is equal in measure, one of the things I think Mark likes about me too. It took awhile for him to get used to someone calling him on his shit because he was accustomed to his word being law as the oldest. Well, except for one person, who rides herd on us all.
Damned if I’m not the same way, both of us having spent years running our family ranches. We were like two bulls ramming into each other for a while, but we’ve got a good stasis now. It’s just a whole lotta fun to test it sometimes.
Luckily, in this family, it’s just another normal evening, so those bar-fight-stopping growls don’t give anyone the slightest pause. The swoosh of a beanbag against wood keeps right on sounding out in the evening air as Brutal and Cooper play cornhole on the set they built as a father-son project.
I should’ve seen that coming as soon as Brutal told me his girl, Allyson, had a son, but I hadn’t been prepared to add a smart-mouthed nine-year-old to our family. But we did, and Cooper’s just another one of us now. A tiny version, but family. Brutal, my monster of a brother, is like the hard-shell coating on an ice cream sundae, totally ooey-gooey messy underneath that tough exterior, and he’s taken to fatherhood like it was his life’s purpose all along. His latest fascination is teaching Cooper all about hand tools, hence our newfound evening routine of cornhole after dinner.