DOLLY
The thin black dress keeps riding up to the bottom of my ass cheeks, making me feel like I’m naked in public. I shiver in the November air. The long sleeves aren’t doing anything to warm me up, considering the fabric is almost sheer. Goose bumps prickle over my thighs. I cross my black cowboy boots under the bar in an attempt to appear casual, wishing I were anywhere but here.
The Sundance Pavilion is a massive outdoor venue with a stage, multiple bar tops, food trucks surrounding it, and twinkling lights hanging from the large oak trees it’s built around. Tonight’s crowd isn’t one I usually see here when I come to country concerts like Monroe Blue’s, considering the band playing is heavy metal. The patrons milling about are mostly leather vest-wearing biker gangs, couples who smell like cigarettes, and every divorced dad in the county who owns a Harley-Davidson.
It’s the kind of crowd Cain probably would’ve felt right at home with. I shudder at the thought.
My brothers are all here—I know that, even though I can’t see them. I’m not supposed to leave the main area, not untilsomeone approaches me who could be the guy sending the threatening letters.
Sam is here, too, planted somewhere with a gun. I wish I knew where so I could see his broad shoulders or feel his hand on my hip. He stood by in silence while they made the plan, resting his eyes on me and clenching his jaw each time one of my brothers mentioned me needing to be alone to attract the stalker.
Holden thinks it’s the only way we’ll ever find the guy. He could mess with me for years, and our lives can’t go back to normal until he’s caught. Even Cash flew home to help. He even brought a mic with a wire for me to wear, with earpieces for all the guys. They can hear everything I’m saying and anyone who gets within two feet of me. With him here, it makes it five against one. Sam is like one of the guys, and they fully trust him.
I can’t think about Sam right now.
My thighs might start shaking from muscle memory. Or I’ll start crying because I’m so pathetic that I gave my virginity to my childhood crush who will never see me as a potential romantic partner.
Either way, I can’t think about Sam.
I crack my knuckles, steeling myself to focus on the people around me.
You’re a spy. Like a hot CIA spy in a thriller novel. You’re a badass bitch.
I feel so many eyes on me. I know half of them are all my bodyguards, and the other half are the pervy old men here without a date.
“Can I get you a refill, sweetheart?” The bartender approaches me. She’s a leathery woman with kind brown eyes.
“You know what? Yes, I would love another one. Maybe a double this time?”
She nods. I’m drinking Jack and Diet Coke with maraschino cherries because it felt pretentious to order wine in a crowd like this. A man approaches from my left. The strength of his cologne assaults my nostrils. I sneeze before bracing myself to turn and face him.
He smirks at me, one golden tooth on the side of his two front teeth. He’s fairly young and muscular, with a shaved head and tattoos on his shoulders.
“What’s a little doll like you doing here, all alone?”
“Um, who says I’m alone?”
Oh no. I shouldn’t have said that.
I’m terrified. His grin widens; apparently, he’s hoping I am. He has a massive spider tattoo covering the front of his neck.
“I’m not afraid of a little competition. Although, if I were your boyfriend, I would not leave you alone here, dressed like that.” His eyes travel down over the tiny low-cut dress Rosie swore wasn’t actually lingerie.
You can see my black bra and panties through it, so I’m not sure I believe her.
“Yeah, um … maybe I’m single,” I hear myself say.
I have no idea how to flirt with men—that much is crystal clear. I feel my cheeks heat, knowing Sam can hear me mumbling like an idiot. The bartender returns with my drink, eyeing the newcomer with distrust.
“What do you want?”
“Fireball shots, three of them.”
That’s when I notice the man behind him. He’s shorter and bald, and they’re both wearing the same black leather vests with skull symbols on the right side. I swallow over the lump in my throat when the bartender returns with the shots.
“Put her stuff on my tab,” Spider Tattoo says, tossing two one-hundred-dollar bills on the bar top.
Great, dirty money.
