“Maybe, but I’m not like you, Allie. I don’t just see something I want and take it.”
Even if I were like her, there’s no way Calder and I could ever be together. Calder is the oldest son of the most feared family in Black Hollow Creek—the Bishops.
I only met him officially for the first time a little over a year ago when I fell off a horse and broke my wrist during the harvest festival. Calder saw it and helped.
Innocent. Simple.Even though my feelings since then have been anything but.
It was my first and last time riding since my mother died. He was gentle and kind. When he picked me up and cradled me against his chest, I felt safe. It was the strangest thing. From that moment forward, an infatuation with him was cemented into my bones. I watched him every chance I got—at church, at the store, and at social gatherings. Of course, it was always from a distance.
I knew better. My father warned me that the Bishops are beyond saving. Even after he helped me, my father warned me off. I didn’t agree. I’d witnessed Calder do kind things like buy groceries, fix someone’s tire in the rain, and leave anonymous gifts.
Calder Bishop is kindness wrapped in menace. Part of me has always wondered how much of his grumpy cowboy vibe is an act.
“Sounds like you could learn a little something from me.” Allie winks. “Now go change into something a little less church mouse.”
I roll my eyes but go, anyway. Upstairs, I find a simple blue dress and change into it. It shows off way more leg than my father would ever approve of, but tonight isn’t about him. It’s my birthday, and he won’t be there to watch over me.
As I tiptoe back downstairs, Allie whistles quietly. “Calder Bishop won’t know what hit him.”
“He won’t even be there,” I grouse, but inside, I’m pleased I look and feel good.
My house is on a dead-end road on the far side of town, and The Rusty Nail is on the opposite side of town. Allie and Ichitchat while we walk the twenty minutes, and for the first time in a while, I feelnormal.
Once the blinking fluorescent sign of the bar comes into view, my nerves spike through my system. I’m a ball of barely contained energy when we reach the door and walk inside.
We step into a wall of heat, and the conversation dips enough for me to feel every stare.
The air is dim, thick with smoke and the scent of stale beer, along with the low hum of a jukebox tangled with laughter. My shoes feel too clean, my dress too soft. I freeze just inside the doorway—because for a girl raised on hymns and good manners, this is another world.
“Wipe that look off your face and follow me,” Allie orders, and interlaces her fingers with mine.Wipe what look?She doesn’t give me the chance to ask, though, as she drags me toward the bar.
She strikes up a conversation with the man on the other side, whom she calls Rick. I’m too busy taking in all the new sights and sounds to pay much attention to their conversation, so I’m not sure what she says to him. All I know is that he hands her two beers and tells her to get lost.
Allie turns to me with a grin and shoves a brown bottle slick with condensation into my hand. “Drink up, birthday girl.”
I smile and bring the drink to my lips for a tentative gulp. The bitter, grassy taste lingers on my tongue, followed by a foul sourness that makes me grimace.
Why do people drink this?
“Good, huh?” Allie asks. I nod and give her a thumbs-up. She laughs and shakes her head. “You’ll get used to it. Besides, the more you drink, the better it gets.”
“I don’t know about that,” I murmur, taking another sip of the beer.
“Let’s go sit over there,” Allie says, dragging me toward a booth near the pool tables.
I move slowly, like I’m waiting for a trapdoor to open and swallow me whole.
I’m completely out of my element here.
Country music filters from the jukebox speakers. It’s a popular country song my father would call “devil worship.” I remind myself, and the old familiar guilt threatening to claw back up, that he’s not here tonight. That it’s okay to let go and have a good time now and then.
That nothing is wrong with wanting to be someone or something else.
“Want to play a game of pool?” Allie asks, gesturing toward the empty table near the back. I nod, grateful for something to do with my hands besides clutching this beer bottle.
The table sits beneath dim overhead lights, scratched green felt bearing the marks of a thousand games. Allie racks the balls with practiced ease while I select a cue and test its weight.
“You break,” she says, stepping back.
