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I allow my eyes to travel over to where the treacherous Dixon-blooded woman is currently making my dinner.
I can’t fire her.
I can’t be around her.
I can’t fuck her.
I can’t fucking stand looking at her all the damn time and not getting to feel her wavy, copper-colored hair and freckled skin underneath my fingers.
Most of all, I can’t take watching my brother do it right in front of my eyes.
I slam the glass down on the island, turning to Cash. I clap my hand on his back. “Let’s go out tonight.”
Cash looks at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. I need him to drive at the rate I’m going.
He shakes his head with a sigh. “I guess I’d better. Who knows what kind of mess you’ll get into on your own?”
After taking a hot shower and shaving, I change into a plain blue T-shirt that fits me tighter than it used to and a worn pair of Wranglers. My hair needs cutting. I put on my tan felt Stetson and my snakeskin boots with blue-and-brown-hued scales. I’m ready to lay some good old-fashioned cowboy charm on a woman, preferably a redhead.
We leave as soon as we finish scarfing down dinner.
Once we pull up to Old Harry’s and see a few cars and mostly trucks filling the dirt parking lot, I get an uneasy feeling in my gut. The word about my early release has spread far by now—and not just to the women who wrote me letters.
The doors are being manned by two brawny bouncers who look vaguely familiar. One of them has an armful of tattoos with different parts of the female form and anatomy, along with a neck tattoo of a chain. The other one is tall, at least six inches taller than my six-foot-three stature.
“Redfords, boss wants to see you,” the one with the neck tattoo says. Instead of opening the main door, he starts leading us around the side of the building.
I glance at Cash and Sterling. They both shrug, clearly not knowing what this is about. Cash briefly rests his hand on the handgun concealed in his waistband. I had assumed once I was free I’d be on probation and not allowed to carry in public, but since my conviction was overturned, the cold press of my pistol on my hip brings me a peace of mind I haven’t felt in years. If things go downhill, I know I can trust my brothers to have my back.
“We at least gonna get some bottle service?” I ask, following the bouncer.
Around the corner, there are three identical black Dodge pickups with extended cabs. One of them has bullet holes in the side of the truck bed, but other than that, they’re in good condition.
“Boss’ll fix you up,” he says, reaching up to knock on a metal door that says Employees Only.
A few seconds later, the door creaks open. A woman wearing a men’s pearl-snap button-down shirt, baggy jeans, and a flat-brimmed cowboy hat stands in the opening, blinking up at the three of us with oversize, calculating brown eyes. Her hair is tied back. She has a hunting knife sheathed on one hip and a nine-millimeter pistol strapped to the other one.
Without a word, she turns around to lead us through. I step over the threshold, followed by my brothers. The sound of male voices and high-pitched laughter reaches my ears. The place smells like an old distillery, musty with the strong odor of spilled alcohol. The walls are lined with old barnwood, looking like a bad splinter and a tetanus shot waiting to happen.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Jo,” is all she says.
The hall finally ends, opening up to a room with the same cramped barnwood furniture that looks like it came from an estate sale in a retirement home and a crowd of old cowboys. I immediately recognize a handful of them as the organizers of The Riders we sell bulls to.
“Redford, about damn time you showed up here. Heard you were the fucker who abducted one of the girls the night of my wet T-shirt contest! I was worried you were back in jail after I found out who she was.” Old Harry stands up from a poker table in the corner, a cigarette stuck to his lips.
A few Stetsons turn my way as hushed murmurs float throughout the smoky room.
A woman in Daisy Dukes with a low-cut blouse approaches us, smiling suggestively. Her blond ponytail sways with her steps.
“What can I get you, gentlemen?” She bats her overly thick eyelashes.
“Whiskey, neat,” I say.
Cash doesn’t want anything, but Sterling asks for a beer.
Harry gestures for us to sit at the poker table as he lights another cigarette, and the cowboys in three chairs vacate them. I choose one with my back to the wall, keeping my eyes on the exits and occupants. Cash chooses to stand, and Sterling sits beside me, leaning back and exhaling as his dark eyes sweep the room. Of all of us brothers, Cash is the silent one, but he’s always on high alert. Our blood runs thicker than water, and I know both of them would take a bullet for me. Duke would too; he’s just still in his early twenties, fucking around like life isn’t mostly pain with little bursts of pleasure mixed in.
