Wrangler (3 page)

“Yeah, I am as a matter of fact.  I gotta find a place first.  I don’t think I can live without her.  That’s my girl.”  My heart tightens just thinking about her being back in Oklahoma without me.  She and I haven’t been apart more than a handful of days since I got her.  I’ve got a transport waiting to pick her up, I should just ask Roger to board her at his place.  Not sure why I’m hesitating, maybe I’m still not a hundred percent sure coming back to Michigan is the right move.

“I remember when you picked her up over at that livestock auction.  Poor filly was a tail hair away from dog food.  You do have a way with the damaged ones.  Something I’ve never seen before.”

Arabelle was all hip bones and hate when I led her out of that auction ring. Of all the horses in all the years I’d trained, she was the turning point for me.  I saw the fire in her eyes; I knew she was special but she’d known nothing but sorrow and cruelty.  Now, she’s a champion cutting horse but so much more to me.  And as close to a relationship as I’ve ever had.  She’s the center of my training program and goes with me to every clinic and seminar I teach.

The hulk guarding the bar door looks like he just stepped out of the old West. Cowboy boots and a Stetson, jeans so tight his left-hanging package draws a giggle and some admiration from the girls as they wait for us to catch up.

We both reach for our wallets at the same time, but Roger puts a hand on my wrist.  “Whoa, dude, I got this.”  He stops next to the girls and pulls out a crisp hundred.  “Put your money away.  Welcome home.”

“No, I got it.”  My wallet is stuffed with far too many Benjamins to be in a bar, but I didn’t think of that when I emptied out my checking account yesterday.  I left most of my money in two investment accounts I’ve been playing with, but I didn’t want to leave a pile in Oklahoma State Bank & Trust. They don’t seem to have a branch anywhere in Michigan.

The Electric Slide has turned to Zac Brown and Sally starts snapping her fingers in the air and shaking her ass as we all step inside.

Roger shoves the hundred into the bouncer’s hand and doesn’t wait for change. 

“Come on.  I don’t have many redeemable qualities, so at least let me pay.”

“You know, you’re not an asshole,” I mutter next to his ear.  “You just try really hard to make everyone think you are.”

“Yeah?  Tell that to Courtney.  I don’t even think she knows my real name anymore.  She calls me asshole like it’s on my birth certificate.”  Roger tips his hat at some ladies that pass by.  “She might come by later. Wants to say howdy to her brother-from-another-mother.”

Courtney is Roger’s sister.  She’s almost my sister.  She’s rough around the edges and keeps Roger’s ass in line.

“Sounds good.  She’s doin’ okay?”

“She’s fine.  Just broke up with her girlfriend, so she’s a little bitchy, but what’s new.  Just don’t be surprised tonight when she comes barreling through the door with a tackle hug for you.  Just sayin’, be prepared. She’s like a fucking hurricane in heels.”

With that, we’re in the door.  The bar is a massive space, even bigger than when I left.  Enormous vaulted ceilings with old barn beams holding up the peak of the roof.  The dance floor is covered with a variety of city and country types all fighting for space, and there’s a smell of beer, testosterone and too much perfume.

Unfortunately, I hate bars.  Even nice ones like Crutches. 

Back when Roger and I were sixteen, old man Reynolds who worked as a hand on Roger’s family farm bought us a fifth of Jack one Friday night. We proceeded to down the whole thing in a matter of a couple hours and I puked for the rest of the night. I’m telling you, puking in the ditch at the side of a cornfield with my best friend next to me moaning for his mamma isn’t my idea of a good time.

Since then, drinking never held any interest for me, and neither did meaningless hook-ups.  Roger, on the other hand, is perfectly at home in this establishment as we wind through the crowd to an abandoned table not far from the back bar and thankfully a good distance from the dance floor speakers.

“I want a rum and Diet Coke.”  Sally chirps us her order, flips her head around to Roger, then back scanning the crowd looking like an excited toddler. 

Brunette turns and holds up two fingers then leans down to whisper and giggle in Sally’s ear as they soak up the abundance of the male selection in the crowd.  I jerk the chair out from the table and sit my grumpy ass down.

Roger chuckles as he plops down in a wooden chair next to me. He sweeps the wide-brimmed hat from his head and settles it on the table, then rakes a hand through his close-cropped hair and grins at Sally as she wiggles herself into the chair next to me.

I puff out a deep breath I’ve been holding and press my fingers into my eye sockets. Making eye contact would only encourage her.

“Can we get some service over here?”  She snaps across the table into the crowd.  When I look up, I see her flapping her hand impatiently at someone.

I look where she’s looking but all I see is a tray filled with drinks being maneuvered through the crowd. I shift my body weight in an attempt to gain a few more inches of space between myself and Sally. 

Her hand shoots up higher in the air and this time her voice takes on a bitchy tone that makes me embarrassed to be sitting at the same table. 

“Girl!” Her gums flap along with her hand.  “Hey, are you working or not?  How long do we have to wait to get a damn drink?”  She’s shouting now and I shove my chair back popping up and away from her.  I’m not sitting next to this all fucking night and Roger catches the look in my eye. He gives me a sympathetic blink. Even for him, this is too much.

I turn to walk away from the table, but there’s no way I can let it pass. “Hey,” I snap, then I check myself, remembering Sally is a woman and even if she does look like a blond Oompa-Loompa, she deserves respect. I gather my restraint before I continue.  “Don’t talk to people like that.”  I rap my knuckles on the table in front of her, making sure she’s paying attention.  “Don’t be rude, it’s busy in here.” 

I heave a deep breath out and consider going outside and hitching a ride home.

“What the fuck do you care?”  Sally’s snarky tone tightens the muscles down my back.  “She’s a
waitress
, for crissake.”  Sally laughs and suddenly leaving is not on the agenda.

She needs to learn some manners. Part of me wants to tear into her, but the soft spoken, gentleman part of me takes a seat on the other side of the table, because few things piss me off more than people deciding how they should treat someone based on some false hierarchy of importance. 

And on top of that, from what I’d overheard of their jabbering in the Rover, Sally is unemployed.  The irony rakes on my nerves and my fuse is rapidly burning down.  My antsy ass is back on my feet ready to take that walk again but I have a few words before I go.

“Everyone deserves—”  I’m ready to lay into her with both barrels when I see the waitress’ tray start our way and I catch the first glimpse of her face. 

I never knew what people meant when they said they felt the ground shift under their feet, but sure as shit do right now. Don’t ask me to explain it, because I can’t, but there’s this soft jolt in my chest, pulling me up sharp. And when I lock my eyes on her I see something I’ve never seen before.

I’ve felt it before though.  Once.  The moment I laid my eyes on Arabelle in the auction ring that day, I knew something was about to happen, like I know something right now. I’m just not fucking sure exactly what it is.

“What can I get you folks?”  The voice of an angel rings in my head like chapel bells.

You can get yourself under me.

The words that rocket through my head shock me. The sweetest face I’ve ever seen is looking back at me.  Warm home grown innocence and curves that light up parts of me left dark for too long have me blinking trying to make sure this isn’t a dream.

Her name tag reads Lori, but she doesn’t look like a Lori.  Everything about her says
mine
and I shake my head trying to get a grip.

She’s staring at me and her eyes catch mine for a long moment.  They are not just looking at me, they’re tagging me, and my cock decides his long winter is over.

Sally and the brunette bark their drink orders her way and she acknowledges them with a quick smile, then her eyes are back on mine.

I’m the first one to admit I’m confused by what’s happening right now, but I’m powerless to stop it.  This girl has cast a spell on me in the matter of a few seconds and my mind quickly goes to the thought of her clothes laying on my bedroom floor and my fingers diggin’ into her hips.

“And you?”  Her dark eyelashes flutter in my direction and I can’t help imagining those eyes going wide the first time my cock slips between her luscious thighs and upward into what my mind believes already belongs to me.

“What about me?”  I shift and take a step around the back of Roger’s chair.  I swear to fuck I catch her scent and it runs like fire over my skin.  “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Her quizzical smile and slight eye roll doesn't deter whatever this is that she’s brought to life. 

Fuck, she’s got a goddamn dimple. And the growing boner in my pants sees it too.

Suddenly I’m aware of every dick-swinging mother fucker that is glancing her way.  I don’t give a slinging horse shit if they just want a drink. I don’t want anyone looking her way.  I don’t even fucking want her in here; it doesn’t make sense but I want to take her away from here so no other man can ever put his eyes on her again.

It takes super human effort to hide everything that is happening inside my body and mind right now.  Feelings I cannot identify are creeping up from my toes until they wrap around my skull.  The feelings are not just inside either; there are great heaving feelings in my crotch ready to stampede their way out of my Levis.

I may cum just from looking at her dimple.  Can that be possible?  I don’t give a shit; my hard-on sees the same thing as me and sooner or later, she’s going to get a good look at just what her dimple does to me.

“Chad.”  Roger’s laughter shakes me from my trance.  “You going to order or just make the poor girl stand there being uncomfortable for the rest of the night?”

She’s fighting another smile and I don’t see discomfort. I see tiny sparklers lighting up her chocolate brown eyes.  She’s magnificent and I take another step forward to which she counters back.

“Do you want a drink or not?”  She loses the smile and I see her swallow.

“No, I don’t want a drink.  I want your number.”

Roger lets out a hoot then interrupts. “Sorry. Look, Lori, he’s been in a secluded mountain cabin for a few too many years so his social skills, although lacking before, now seem non-existent.  He doesn’t bite though. Well, not unless you want him to.”  Roger licks his lips and the thought that he’s looking at her with anything but the purest of notions makes me want to level him.

“Okay.”  She tips her head trying to establish if we are done here. 

She lets out a little girlish giggle and I lose my fucking mind.  All that sexy with an innocent sweetness on top and drops of cum begin to soak my boxers.  It’s like I’ve been saving up every lustful thought I should have had over the last God-knows-how-many years and they are all coming to call right now inside my fire-seared brain.

I don’t want her to walk away, but I’m not sure I can tie her ass up and sling her over my shoulder without raising some eyebrows.  So I just soak her up and smile.

“Well, I’ll be back with your drinks.”  She turns away, and my eyes follow. 

Her waist is the perfect size for my hands, her ass is the perfect size for fucking, sucking, biting and watching.  In fact, there isn’t a part of her that isn’t the perfect size.  She’s all slow s-turns and deep valleys.  Who wants a boring straight-away; I’ll take all she’s got and make the most of every luscious inch.

I tilt my head to get a better angle watching her move through the crowd. She’s wearing these shiny ballet flats the color of an Oklahoma spring sky, not boots or high heels like the other waitresses.  Her matching baby-blue skirt hits her mid-thigh.

My eyes follow the curve down her inner leg, past her knees as she bends them and walks up on her tip-toes like she’s being careful not to disturb someone, sidestepping a couple of Barbie-bar flies with makeup so thick it looks like they’re wearing Halloween masks. But the way she walks, it only gives me a better perspective, and all I can think is just how much I want to trace those curves, memorizing them with the tip of my tongue, then start all over with my fingers.  Rinse and repeat.

I’d never considered what my ‘type’ might be, but seeing her it dawns on me that there’s a reason for that.  I don’t have a type.

It’s her.  She’s it.  My
type
is this one girl.  Ripe and lush and as sweet as apple pie.

I don’t know if she has a boyfriend, if she’s married or hell, she may have a wife for all I know.  But one thing is clear in my mind, whatever she is, there’s part of me that’s already decided I need to be part of her life.

She makes her way past a group of five city boys wearing jeans without a Levi’s or Wrangler label.  In fact, I think they may have taken a wrong turn and shopped in the women’s department for those fancy pants.

There is something about a dude that cares a little too much about his appearance that ruffles my feathers.  Like they don’t have enough to offer from the inside and that makes them a bit too concerned over what they look like on the outside.  Doesn’t send up real-man signals as far as I’m concerned.

Whatever, what they wear is none of my concern, but what is my concern is the way the fuckers eye her as she tries to squeeze through and don’t give her the goddamn courtesy of stepping aside and giving her room to get by.

She’s forcing a polite smile, but I see the discomfort on her face. She’s pissed, but she’s too polite or too shy to say so. Instead I see her mouth the words ‘pardon me,’ her full lips shaping each syllable like the words are made of fucking clay, but the douche patrol ignores her and I’m seeing red.