“She’s delusional, and you don’t need to worry about the crap she shits out of her mouth.”
I laugh at the visual she paints. “Do you see the cowboy you have your eyes on?” If she doesn’t, we’re leaving.
“Yup, I do!” Grace practically bounces. “How do I look?”
I give her a once over, fluff her hair, and pull one sleeve off her shoulder. She always was beautiful. Her hair is woven to a side braid and her deep blue eyes pop with the dark liner. “You look perfect.”
“Trent—” She starts to say something and then stops, shaking her head. “No, I’m not thinking about that man. He had his chance. I’m over him.”
The Hennington boys don’t seem to think their hold runs out though.
I glance around her, trying to see who the cowboy she set her sights on could be, but my eyes land on Zach. Dammit.
“Grace, he’s here.”
Her breath catches. “Who? Trent?”
“No, Zach.”
“So what? You’re not with him. You don’t even like him.”
I know Grace and she knows me. I may not like him. I may not want even a second of time with him, but there’s no denying how we still look at each other. We both try to fight the rope that binds us, but the knots are too tight.
“Right. Not a big deal.” I try to play it off, but the slight lift of her lip tells me she doesn’t buy it. “Shut up.”
Her hands rise. “I didn’t say a word.”
She turns her head and lets out a heavy sigh. “What is it?” I ask.
“I need a shot. I’m being a chicken.”
I shake my head. She’s always been shy. It was always one of us pushing her out of her comfort zone. Good to see some things are still like I remember. “Okay, shots it is.”
Nothing like some liquid courage.
Grace gets a Buttery Nipple whereas I get Jameson on the rocks from the bartender, Brett. He graduated high school with us and was always the one throwing parties. Funny that he chose this line of work. He hands us the drinks with a smile and lingering eyes.
“No fair that I’m the only one doing shots!” Grace complains.
“Wanna trade?” I offer her, but she shakes her head.
“I don’t know how you drink that stuff anyway.”
“Bottoms up!” I raise my glass.
We clink, and she chugs. I sip my whiskey, looking around and enjoying the music. She stares at the dance floor looking forlorn. I feel bad that she’s unhappy, so I quickly finish my glass and order us another round. Grace’s mood perks up as we keep drinking.
Two more glasses down, and somehow Grace gets me to do a few of her nasty shots. I’m feeling light and free. It’s like floating . . . albeit with cement blocks on my feet.
Zach and Felicia slow dance, and it takes everything within me not to pitch a fit. The feeling I was enjoying dissipates. I hate her. Self-righteous bitch. I hate him. Reckless boy. I hate men because they’re assholes who break your heart and then make you live a life you didn’t want.
I chug the remnants of my Jameson and thank God for the one man who always keeps me feeling good.
Then I look over at Zach, who smiles. Fuck you and your dumb smile. I hate you. I fake smile back and then turn toward Grace with a grimace.
“Why the long f-face?” Grace stutters.
I close my eyes so I don’t have to see them. “I hate her. I really hate her. And she’s ugly.”
Grace looks over and laughs. “Inside and out.”
“Right.” I giggle. “Whatever, I don’t want him anyway. He can keep his stupid girlfriend with her stupid hair and her stupid lips. I don’t even like him.”
“Suuure,” she slurs while falling off the chair. “Crap!”
We burst out in loud fits. Shit, I’m drunk as hell. “How much have we drank?”
“Not enough! Bartendeeeeer!” Grace slams her hand on the bartop. “Get my girl and me another round.”
We take another round of shots, which some very nice man at the end of the bar pays for. Grace and I are now completely blitzed. “Let’s dance!” she yells, or at least I think she does.
Bouncing to the dance floor, we hold on to each other as we do what I think are the right steps. I’ve been doing this my whole life. I’m functioning solely on muscle memory.
At the end of the song, a handsome cowboy grabs me. “Wanna dance?”
“Why the hell not?” I smile.
He holds me close against his body and leads me around the floor. I giggle and rest my head on his chest so I don’t get sick. His hands are strong and firm. Everything I remember about these kind of guys. They’re rough and rugged with muscles to die for. But this cowboy doesn’t know my current baggage, so I let him roam the range a little. Plus, right now . . . I don’t even care.
“You’re Presley Townsend, right?”
“Benson, but yes.”
“Well, you’re as pretty as I remember.”
That stops me for a second. “I know you?”