“Suit yourself,” I said, shrugging. “I don’t care either way.”
Her face closed up and she looked away. Stop being such a dick, dumbass. I reached over, catching her hand. I’d meant to give her a reassuring little squeeze or some stupid shit. Somehow the touch of her skin short-circuited my brain, though. She felt warm and soft. I wanted to crawl inside her, and not in the way you think, you fucking pervert.
Okay, so maybe I wanted to do that, too.
“I’m sorry,” I told her, the words soft. “I don’t give a shit either way if you drink the beer, Mel, that’s all I meant. I’m a jackass, but I’m not actively trying to make tonight bad for you.”
She gave me a faint, almost trembling smile as her fingers wrapped around mine, giving a little squeeze, which I swear I felt all the way to my cock.
The loudspeakers crackled to life.
“Please stand for Coeur d’Alene’s own Josina Bradley, who will be singing the national anthem,” the announcer said as riders started pouring into the arena at full gallop, American flags streaming from staffs braced against their stirrups. All around us cowboy hats came off as the troupe of girls on horses—young rodeo queens and princesses—came to a halt in a long line in the center, pinwheeling toward the audience with as much precision as the club did when we rode in a pack.
The music started, and I held Melanie’s hand—friends hold hands, right?—through the whole song, and then through the Canadian national anthem that followed. All around us people were cheering but we stayed quiet. I suppose I could tell you all about how hard it was not to pop a boner in front of everyone or all the different ways I was imagining fucking her. Right here, right now. Under the bleachers. In the bathroom.
In the sheriff’s tent . . . Nice.
It was all true, of course. But that’s not what stands out to me the most. More than anything, I remember standing next to her, holding her hand. Smelling her and knowing that she was safe and perfect and beautiful.
And for tonight, she was all mine.
MELANIE
It felt like a dream, just sitting next to Painter, holding his hand while we watched the rodeo. I was still embarrassed over what’d happened out at the Armory, of course. But his presence seemed to fulfill that strange craving I’d felt from the moment I’d met him—like an aching itch inside me was finally satisfied. (Well, not totally satisfied, but you know what I mean.)
On the far side of him, all the club people were laughing and talking and cheering. We were quiet. I don’t know about him, but I was scared to say the wrong thing, to break this weird spell that had fallen over us . . . so I sat back to watch the roping and the barrel racing, savoring every second in his presence. Didn’t hurt that the side of Painter’s leg pressed against the side of mine, every inch of it hot and hard and so close I could’ve just reached out and dug my fingers in deep, if I’d had the nerve. Somehow I managed to hold off—I’d already humiliated myself once in the last twenty-four hours.
Still, when Painter wrapped his arm around me, I told myself that I might as well enjoy it, seeing as it’d gotten dark and was starting to get cold. (Okay, so it was at least eighty-five degrees and I was sweltering, but what’s a woman to do under those kinds of circumstances?)
The rodeo was winding down when his fingers started moving across my shoulder. I could smell him all around me—male sweat, which was weirdly sexy. Leather from his cut. A hint of beer, although not too much. He’d only had a couple over the course of the night.
I wanted to lean over and sniff his neck like a creeper.