Chapter 7 Against my better judgment, I allow Chaos Hayes to do what he does best, and sweet-talk me. He successfully convinces me to turn up at The Loaded Hog tonight. Some people in my situation might feel like a frog being boiled alive, having to spend time at a bar after giving up drinking. For me, frankly, I don't mind being here. It's a place I feel comfortable, even if there's a flurry of hazy memories that race through my mind every now and then. Flashes of a time when I was no better than a shit-faced cowboy stumbling around with a bottle in hand at every opportunity. Though, the idiocy I got myself tangled up in magically disappeared once I stopped seeking out the type of people that attract nothing but trouble. Funny how that works. It helps that the Hog is run by friends now, I suppose. They look out for my ass and will be the first to let me know I don't have to stick around if I don't want to. But they also know me well enough. They understand my need for being around people, and how keeping that in balance is actually a helpful thing . . . even if I'm doing it all while staying sober in this shiny new era of Kayce Wilder. Walking through the doors, a live band belts out a honky-tonk tune, and the booths are all packed. It's more or less a comfortable standing-room-only vibe tonight, with an area set up along one wall where Oscar looms larger than life. The guy is in pro bull rider mode, flashing a practiced smile while giving a thumbs up for a camera. Close by his side sits the familiar face of his wife, Tessa, and in the next booth over from hers are the folks I spend most of my time with in Crimson Ridge; Storm and Briar, and the crew from Rhodes Ranch, including Brad and Flinn. A major difference is that my dad and Layla aren't here among them. This fall, it feels more noticeable, since they'd ordinarily stick around until winter before heading off overseas for her veterinary placement work. Another unmistakably absent presence is Sage, without the vibrant spark she brings to every occasion and, conversely, the quiet steadiness of Beau. It seems odd not to have them around, either. Those two aren't going to be away much longer, but are currently wrapping up her gig as a marketing specialist for the pro rodeo tour. Who would have thought they had become a thing last summer, hushed up and right under all our noses? No wonder the guy spent the year after she left town moping around like a bear with a sore head. He looked fucking miserable every time I saw him for months and months on end. Now we all know why . . . it was because Sage had gone, and he was dying on the inside every day without her. A small crowd waits patiently for their turn to grab a selfie with Crimson Ridge's latest rodeo sensation. While Oscar might carve out windows of opportunity to travel home between events-maximizing the amount of time he can spend with Tessa through this stage of her pregnancy-the likes of Sage's work keeps her, and Beau, choosing to stay on the road, rather than going to the effort of flying back and forth. For a night like tonight, Oscar's most recent win is an added benefit for the town, now that he and Tessa are officially residents and all. When I make my way over and reach to the end of the booth I slap a palm on Storm's shoulder. "I heard there was a geriatric bull rider here tonight trying to relive his youth. Is this the storage unit where they park the museum exhibits?" Storm grunts at me and curses something creative under his breath. "Wilder." From the other end of the table, Lucas Rhodes-Brad's father-dips his chin. "Brad tells me nothing but good things about your last event. Training was looking smooth the other day, from what I saw." "Yeah, well, someone has gotta topple Hayes off his perch." I jerk my head in the direction of where I can see his sandy-blond locks sticking out above the crowd as he talks to some of the patrons. "Hey. You eaten yet?" Brad distractedly greets me, then looks up from something he's typing on his phone. "Flinn was just about to go to the bar and order for us." He affectionately bumps his shoulder against his man. "Since when?" Flinn readjusts his weight to lean back in the booth seat, looking anything but ready to leave his spot. Briar and Sky are seated between their two respective cowboys across the other side of the table, flanked by Storm and Lucas. The two girls send pleading eyes in Flinn's direction. He's at the end of the booth with the easiest path to slip out of his seat. "Pretty please." Two fluttering sets of eyelashes and coaxing looks are offered when they slide their menus across the table. "Hi, Kayce," Briar adds, with a bright smile flashing my way. "How are things up on top of the Peak?" "Same as usual. Hungry horses. Even hungrier cattle." Her expression is soft. I know she loves coming up to spend time with Layla at the ranch. She and Storm are about the closest thing we've got to neighbors on the mountain, I'm sure she misses having her friend nearby. "You're managing ok up there on your own?" Sky chimes in. Pink, bobbed hair catching the glint of festoon lights overhead as she takes a sip of her soda. "Nothing I can't handle." I shrug. "Certainly ready to demolish a heap of food, though. You coming, Flinn, or want me to do the honors?" I hook my thumb in the direction of the bar. "Fuck, yes. Please and thank you, kind sir." His face lights up, and he starts listing off on his fingers a multitude of meals and sides they want to order as the rest of the table descends into laughter. Brad shoves at his shoulder. "You're such a shit." "What? Wilder offered. Heard he was picking up the tab tonight, too." He feigns innocence. "It's fine." Shaking my head, I snap my fingers and point at the table. "Though you're all gonna have to deal with getting what you're given . . . don't blame me if I can't remember and you all end up with a garden salad." With one hand, I scoop up the pile of menus before walking off. "Six house burgers and fries. Don't fuck it up." Brad cups his mouth and calls after me. I pause beside Tessa, and stoop to give her a quick peck on the cheek. She's in the middle of chatting with a group of people waiting to have their photo taken with Oscar. The guy is still busy signing autographs like a machine, but gives me a salute as I go past. We've met a handful of times since they moved to Sunset Skies Ranch. On the odd occasion our paths have crossed at rodeo events, too, less so over the past year while he's been working his way back from injury. Crossing through the crowd, I spot Knox Hayes pouring drinks behind the bar. Dark hair, tattoos on nearly every visible patch of skin, requisite bad boy scowl fixed in place. It never ceases to amaze me that the guy wanted to take on a venture like this when he's chronically averse to people. But then I guess we all do what we gotta do after surviving shitty upbringings. He's been running with the Hayes boys, taken in as part of their family, for a long fucking time. Knox hasn't ever said as much to me, but I figure he must have wanted to build some kind of legacy of his own, since the brothers have their family ranch. He might have taken on their surname instead of the one he was born with, but it's still never gonna quite be as solid as being blood related. Knox doesn't even ask me what I want, just slides the usual soda order my way, and I leave our group's food order with the kitchen. After helping the Chaos Twins around here often enough, I've gotten to know just about all of their staff who work the bar with them. I'd never expect any of these people to run around after me like I'm a customer or some shit. By the time I make my way back across the room to rejoin everyone at the booth, there's another figure filling the spot where I was standing a moment before. They're all staring at him like he's a piece of art they've been blessed with a private viewing of, or something equally as ridiculous. Raine's broad shoulders and scruffy hair are unmissable. My throat tightens, fingers clench around my glass, and I can't goddamn wrestle my pulse to the ground. Instead of idling at a normal pace, the damn thing kicks up a gear and tries to take off on me. Fuck this. When I step up to the table, I kick Flinn's boot with my own, where he's sprawled over the edge of the booth. With a quick jerk of my chin, I silently tell him to shove over and make room. Sensing my arrival, Raine gives me a solitary flicker of his gaze, all heavy brow and firm planes of his cheekbones above that stubble he never tidies up and doesn't pay me any mind or acknowledgment. Those dark eyes slide off me as quickly as they flashed my way, before he excuses himself and moves on. Asshole. Though he doesn't go far. The back of my neck prickles, it would be just my luck . . . he's settled down at the booth right behind ours, joining Tessa and Oscar. Raine being indifferent to my presence is nothing new. This was so often our dynamic when we competed against each other. In all our years as rivals in the rodeo arena, he'd give me a slight curl of his upper lip, maybe a snide remark, but more often than not, he was happy to ignore my existence. It never used to bother me too much back then. Sure, it stung, but I got the fuck over it and learned to focus on my own game. Besides, I figured it was better if his venom was directed elsewhere. So why am I left with a skin-crawling sensation in the here and now? Why are my ears straining for any hint of conversation to float across from their table? When he's a dickhead to me, he's talking to me at least. This? When he pretends I don't exist at all, it feels like a murky, sticky tar in my stomach. Even after all the crap with my mom, and the work I've done to repair the damage I caused more recently to those closest to me, this right here feels just as uncomfortable as any of that. A reaction I wasn't anticipating myself to have at all. We're nothing to each other, that much I understand. But even so, this kind of situation puts doubt back in my head. Filling every corner of my mind with the white noise and scratching claws that remind me yet again of the fact that I'm an eternal fuck up. I loathe feeling this way. I hate feeling as if I'm so much of a terrible thing in his world that he'd rather ignore my presence completely. Our meals fill the table, and conversation flows around me, a swirling pool of jokes and nonsense chatter. But I'm not in the mood for any of it. Where normally I'd be chowing down, and enthusiastically in the thick of the subject my friends are talking about, tonight feels like it's all too oppressive. The company isn't the problem. No, it's got nothing to do with them and everything to do with my inner turmoil. For some reason, the intrusive thoughts are front and center, loud as fuck, fixated on the fact everyone here has got their shit together. It's too much like being smothered by a blanket of happy couples being mushy and in love to the point I can't breathe. Yeah. That's enough to get rid of my appetite. Shoving a few more mouthfuls down-I've forced myself to at least eat enough up until now so that I won't get dragged into talking if I'm not chewing-I mop up the last of my fries and sauce, then grab hold of my plate. "I'm gonna drop this off to the kitchen," I mumble, and haul myself out of the booth before anyone can ask me a damn thing. If there's anywhere I want to be right now, it ain't sitting there, nor is it with the nagging pressure of knowing my stepbrother is only a few feet away. Without looking back, I fist my jacket in one hand and head in the direction of the bar. My eyes scan the room for the sight of wild blond hair. "Seen Chaos?" Raising my voice over the music, I catch Knox's attention as he's running the soda hose along a line of tumblers crammed with ice set out on the bar top. He slopes his head toward the end of the room. "Pretty sure he went outside." "Got it. Need any help with those?" I offer. At least if I've got something to keep my hands busy, I can try to ease this bullshit feeling bombarding me. My veins are burning up from the inside out, fizzing with something messy and uneasy that I can't wait to get rid of. "Nah, man. Shit's under control tonight." He flips an extra glass up onto the counter, fills it, then slides it my way. As he does so, the guy gives me a curt nod. Knox's equivalent of telling me to kindly fuck off, quit bugging him, and leave him to it. "Thanks." I dip my chin and keep my ass moving. Swiping up the soda after offloading my plate to the kitchen, I'm pretty fucking relieved to wander outside, leaving the crowd and thump of music in my wake. If there's anything I need right now, it's fresh air. Maybe that's the thing eating away at me tonight? A packed room usually doesn't bother me in the slightest, but there's a first time for everything, I suppose. The night air is sharp on my senses when I step outside. Fall has taken hold, dropping the temperature rapidly when the sun drifts out of sight behind the Peak. The garden area is scattered with people at outdoor tables and a courtyard set up with strings of bulbs crisscrossing overhead. A fancy fireplace, custom built, allows the night air to feel comfortable enough while being outside. Shrugging into my jacket, I let my gaze drift around the small clusters of folks enjoying the night air and the softer bass of music floating through the doors each time they open. Looks like Chaos has disappeared. Knowing him, there's every chance he's already long vanished for the night. Or, more likely, he'll be hidden around the back somewhere with one of his fuck buddies. He's never going to turn down an invitation if his dick is interested. Letting out a long breath through my nose, I figure this is more the pace I'm happy to stick at for the moment. I'll hang here a while before deciding if I'll just dip out and make my way back up the mountain to my empty house and cold bed. I stroll in the direction of the blazing fire and park my ass up on the ledge of the wall running around the perimeter of the garden. It's been built with a wide wooden rail on top to double as seating, and in the process of settling in, I put my glass down beside my hip while getting my phone out. You drag me down here, then ghost me? I'm out in the garden if you want to pull your dick out of someone's mouth and actually hang. Otherwise, pretty sure I'm gonna head off soon. Swiping past all the other notifications sitting there, leaving them all unread, is easy business. I'm not in the mood for her crap at the best of times, especially not right now. Crossing my boots at the ankle, I scroll through Instagram for a bit. I'm right in the middle of watching a clip Sage has posted from the most recent pro tour event when I feel someone hovering. Lifting my gaze from my phone, the face in front of me is not one I recognize, but he must be in his early twenties. He's sporting close-cropped dark hair and freckles, standing a foot or so away, offering a shy smile. "Hey . . . uhh . . . you're Kayce Wilder, right?" He looks almost apologetic. "That's me." I flash a grin in return and slip my phone into my jacket. Reaching out, I give the guy a brief handshake. Between the rodeo community, Devil's Peak Ranch, and the trail riding work I do for Beau, it's easy enough for people to know me, or know of me, even if we haven't properly met before. His eyes brighten a little and he quickly rubs that same palm I just shook over the back of his neck, stepping a fraction closer as he does so. "I saw you ride at the last event." His words rush out. "You were really good out there." "Thanks." I shake my head a little with a grimace. "Although . . . not quite enough to walk away with the win, as you woulda seen." "From where I was sitting, I thought you deserved it." There's something in the way he states those words, an earnestness that grabs my attention. Suddenly I realize, with a stronger thud in the side of my neck, this guy is looking at me with the sort of keen expression I've only ever picked up on when talking to girls in the past. Holy shit. That subtle recognition scatters my brain cells like tiny marbles. I haven't ever looked at guys with that sort of awareness before, and right now, it feels like this is a whole new dance I gotta learn real fast. In theory, do I find a guy like this . . . attractive? Am I into country dudes with his sort of clean-cut vibe? A neat white button-down paired with pale jeans. He's about my height but has a much leaner frame, almost lanky. Shit. I don't even know. This is all so brand new for me that I'm still trying to awkwardly determine the lay of the land. Still working out which way is up where my newly discovered, rather confusing, interest in men is concerned. I sniff and take a sip of my soda, trying to collect my thoughts. Do I dare say something that pushes into the kind of territory that might be considered flirting? Do I let him take the lead with where this conversation might head? Christ, I've seen Chaos fuck around with teasing and playing the field from up close plenty of times. It's not goddamn rocket science. I just need to chat to the guy. So why do my words feel like they're stumbling over themselves before even making it halfway to my mouth? "Sorry. That sounds a bit stalkerish." He laughs, a nervous flutter that fills my awkward silence. "I swear it's not like I usually rock straight up to someone and blurt shit like that out of the blue." That makes my lips curve up a bit. Ok, at least he's making a joke, being kinda endearing about it. "Nah, it's ok. I can talk rodeo all day." I rub my now very clammy palms over my thighs. Still not quite sure whether I want this guy to get the idea that I'm interested. Right now, in a normal situation like this, I'd happily sit down and chat about ranching and broncs and generally shoot the shit. I'd do it without a second thought, because I never once assumed a man might be interested in anything else. I never once considered that I might be looking for more. Maybe the kind of conversation leading to a night chasing desire and exploring a physical attraction. But something nags at me, a voice of warning immediately announces itself. Clarity drops in with a thud that I don't want to lead this guy on. Most importantly, not when I'm unsure if I'd even want anything more than a friendly chat with him. Shit. Shit. This is way harder than I ever imagined. "Have you ever competed?" I ask. Pushing to my feet, I step closer to the fire, needing to do something with my hands. Leading me to bend over and lift one of the stacked logs. "No way. I couldn't do what you do." He chuckles softly. "You've got the gift of making it look effortless . . . when the rest of us mere mortals know it's anything but." Shrugging one shoulder, I toss the wood into the flames, then reach for another. "Comes with practice, I guess." I hear him rustling for something in his pocket. "Man, you're way too modest . . . practice, sure, but add having a fuck load of talent to that list." As I crouch down, that's when I definitely feel the guy's eyes all over me. Heat races up the back of my neck, knowing he's absolutely, undoubtedly checking me out while I'm not looking his way. The flames build higher as I linger, not exactly knowing what to do in this situation, and my mouth feels more than a little dry. "Thanks . . ." I add the next piece of wood to the fireplace, then slowly straighten up. I haven't quite turned around, when I see it out of the corner of my eye. With both hands cupped to his mouth, a click is followed by a flare of orange as he lights a cigarette. He sucks in a long draw as he pockets the pack and lighter. That keen look reconnects with my gaze just as his lips purse and curve around the filter. It's a crooked little smile that reaches up to his eyes with layers of hopefulness written there. Subtext I'd recognize from a mile away. The kind of expression I've shared with any number of girls late at night, before going on to make terrible goddamn decisions. A question hovering in the subtle tip up at the corner of his lips, one that asks . . . what do you think? Just as I'm opening my mouth, unsure how to reply, my shoulder gets jostled from behind. A hand covered in ink shoots out. My jaw hangs wide as I watch the glowing cigarette get ripped from the guy's mouth. Followed by a heavy boot coming down to stomp it into the dirt.