Page 24 of Unruly

It’s the second time she’s slapped me. The thought flickers through my head, almost funny if it wasn’t so fucking hot.

I don’t move, don’t even reach for my face.

She kissed me. I know that. She knows that. The slap isn’t for me—not really. It’s for herself, for the whiskey, for whatever crack just opened in her and let loose something she wasn’t planning to let out tonight.

“Don’t,” she says, voice low and cracked at the edges. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say quietly, the corner of my mouth twitching despite the sting in my cheek.

She shoves the whiskey bottle into my chest, and I catch it. Then she turns and walks back toward the barn, floral skirt swaying around her legs, pink hair catching the moonlight once before she disappears through the gate.

I stand in the field with her whiskey bottle and watch the barn door close behind her.

I stay there for a long time.

She kissed me.

I kissed her back.

She slapped me and told me never to touch her again.

She was the one who kissed me first.

I’ve been kissed before. A lot. I know exactly how that usually goes—how it starts, where it leads, and how it feels the next morning, when it’s done. I have never once stood in a dark field afterward, holding a woman’s whiskey bottle, thinking about it this hard.

The problem is that she kissed me first.

She wanted me—even if it was just for five sloppy, whiskey-soaked seconds—and it scared the hell out of her.

She’s going to walk back into The Bar tomorrow, call me “kid,” hand me my beer without letting our fingers touch, and act like none of this happened.

And for now … I’m going to let her.

I take a long drink from her bottle and look up at the same moon she was staring at earlier. I’ve never been a man who holds on to things. I reach for what I want, take it, and move on. That’s always been enough.

But I want her.

I want to peel back every layer of armor she wears like a second skin and find out what’s underneath. I want my hands back on her waist. I want to hear that small broken sound she made against my mouth again.

I am so completely fucked.

HALLE

Maybe I do need a therapist, because what the fuck was I thinking?

Kissing Cash was harmless; he’s probably kissed a dozen girls this week alone. But with the whiskey, the moon, the way he looked at me…

That was a mistake. A big one.

Now the memory keeps looping in my head like one of those shitty country songs that gets stuck on repeat at The Bar. All I can think about is his hand finding my waist and the split-second where he kissed me back before my brain slammed on the brakes. I’m thirty-two years old, divorced, and still putting myself back together with home renovations and pink hair dye.

And he’s…what, twenty-one? Twenty-two?

I’m not letting my rebound be a kid. Everyone already thinks I’m making poor choices. If I go down that road, it will prove everyone right.

The Bar is dead tonight, which isn’t helping me to not spiral. A slow Thursday means fewer distractions and way too much time alone with my thoughts. Aunt Aria called in sick—food poisoning from some sketchy takeout. So it’s just me, Uncle Matt, and a handful of regulars who nursed two beers apiece. The low hum of the neon sign buzzing above the back counter mixes with whatever country song is playing.

My reflection in the mirror behind the bottles catches my eye—hair twisted up in a messy knot, smudged eyeliner, and the little crease between my brows that’s become permanent since walking out of what was supposed to be our forever home.