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Savage chuckles under his breath beside me, leaning around me to grin at the woman. “Cash doesn’t sing anymore.”
“Why not?” a second woman chimes in.
I’m pissed that I let Savage convince me to come to Longhorn’s. Bars are not my scene anymore, and I despise the attention I get while I’m out. It’s a constant reminder of the past.
“He gave it up,” Savage says.
“Gave up music?” The first woman tries to lean in. She’s too close, and I scrape my barstool back and get up.
Savage eyes me over the edge of his beer can but doesn’t say anything.
“Restroom,” I grunt, because I’m an asshole but not a rude asshole. I turn to leave Savage with the wolves and freeze.
June is here, in another man’s arms.
The blond who’s holding her wears a grin like he’s won the lottery. I don’t blame him for that. He has.
The guy sways June onto the dance floor. She laughs as he turns her in a circle. He wraps his arm around her, pulling her close, and a monstrous thing happens to me. An unfolding, snapping in my chest.
Before I know it, I’m across the bar, standing behind him. June catches sight of me over his shoulder and sucks in a breath, her eyes widening. “Cash?”
“No, honey, it’s Charlie,” the goof says.
I tap him on the shoulder, and he turns. “Huh?”
“Mind if I cut in?”
The guy sizes me up, weighing his options.
My fists clench, and my nostrils flare like I’m a caveman with a club. Everyone in Longhorn’s stares at me, but I don’t care.
The nanny.
“Sure, I guess,” the guy says, and moves back a step.
I take June’s hand and spin her into my arms. She lets out a whoop at the change in pace.
I move June across the dance floor, my arms around her waist, my hands pressed against her strappy top. It’s covered in yellow flowers and rosebuds, and I want to rip it off her body and suck her flesh into my mouth. Her body feels perfect against mine, supple, like she was made to press against me like this.
I’ve had a sip of beer, for God’s sake.
Her fingers are interlaced around my neck, her gaze flickers from my face, down my chest, away, and back again.
I study her, open my mouth to say something, but the DJ changes the song. The first notes of “Tougher Than the Rest” by Springsteen pound through the speakers, and June bites her bottom lip.
This song. It’s like the asshole DJ has chosen this song specifically to fuck with me.
It’s the song my mother and father danced to when I was a kid. It was one of the songs June and I jammed out to in our teens. We would sing it together, me playing guitar, and her keeping time on her thighs.
June swallows.
I want to run my hands all over her body, through her hair, make her look into my eyes and see what I’m feeling.
Instead, I hum along to the song.
Her head snaps up. “Cash,” she murmurs.
“Hmm?”
