"No, baby, I want to make him see that you are owned by no one. That you made the choice.You chose me.That the thing he thinks he owns chose someone else. And I want him to see it in the most visible, public, impossible-to-ignore way I can think of." Pure mischief glimmers in his eyes now,showing the part of Tex that believes the best way to handle a terrible situation is to do something so outrageous the situation doesn't know how to respond.
"Do you remember," he says slowly, "the first night I brought you here? After the truck. After the hurricane. You were soaking wet and I took you to the gift shop to find dry clothes."
"Of course I remember. There was a rack of tourist shirts, and a stack of sweatpants with sayings on the back of them. I was chilled to the bone, exhausted and terrified of you."
"You kept calling me sir," Tex says. "And I told you if you called me sir one more time, I was going to make you wear—"
"The pink shirt."
The memory surfaces sharp and clear. A hot pink tank top on a hanger, the kind of thing you'd buy as a gag gift at a beach shop, loud and ridiculous and impossible to ignore.PROPERTY OF BIG TEX'Sacross the chest in white block letters. Tex had held it up and grinned and I'd almost smiled back at me, which at that point was a miracle because I hadn't smiled in forever.
"With Property of Big Tex's across the front," he says. "That shirt is still in the gift shop. And those black sweatpants you wore the first week—the ones that say 'follow this ass to Big Tex's Roadhouse' on the back—those are still in your closet, right?"
They're still in the closet because I would never part with them. They were warm and soft. They're folded on the shelf next to my other clothes.
"You want me to wear the sweatpants tonight?"
"You bet your sweet ass, I do. I want you right out front in that parking lot tonight where Ron can see you. And I want him to seePROPERTY OF BIG TEX'Sacross your chest andFOLLOW THIS ASS TO BIG TEX'S ROADHOUSEacross your gorgeous ass. I want him to watch you carry plates and work the crowd. You need to be visible and confident. And mine. Let's not forget that very important point. Not his.Mine. Because you chose me. And baby, I am ever so grateful you did because I love you more every damn day."
I shake my head at him. "You can't be serious about all this. This is a crazy plan."
"I'm dead serious. And I want you to fix your hair tonight." He reaches across the table and touches a strand that's fallen across my forehead. "You've been in the Florida sun. You've got a tan now that makes you look like a California surfer. You're hot, Stormy. You know that, right? You're the best-looking person in any room you walk into and you have no idea because nobody ever told you. And the people who noticed, used it against you. You're sizzling hot sex-on-a-stick, baby. I need you to know it. Tonight, I need you to own it and work it. Fix your hair. Roll the waistband on those sweatpants. Make them low. Walk into that parking lot like you belong there, because you do, and let Ron Jackson see exactly what he lost."
I'm not sure I can do this. "Do you think he'll drive by and see me?"
"He's been here for a day. He checked the bike shops yesterday. The bike isn't anywhere. The tracker is at an impound lot that doesn't have his motorcycle. His charm hasn't worked on me. He's running out of moves and the one move he has left is this bar. He's going to drive past tonight.Maybe twice. Maybe three times. And when he does, I want him to spot you right out front working the parking lot."
"In a hot pink shirt that says I'm your property?"
"That says you chose me with free will." He says it without the joke. Just the words, flat and true. "Not the way he means property. The way people belong to each other when they choose it. You chose me just like I chose you. You chose this bar. You chose to stop running. That shirt is the most ridiculous, loudest, most obnoxious way to say what's already true. You're home and you're mine and he can't fucking have you. End of story."
"And when he sees it and loses his mind? Then what's the plan? He comes to the bar?"
"I sure hope so. I hope he walks into a lot full of bikers who know his name and what he is. Mickey is ten minutes away. Sheila's behind the bar with her phone. Denny and his crew will be in the lot. Every piece we have is on the board. Tonight. On our terms. In our house. It's now or never. Let's push him tonight and try to end this."
I sit with the plan. I turn it over, carefully, examining every angle. Ron seeing me in that shirt. Ron reading those words.PROPERTY OF BIG TEX'S. Not property of Ron Jackson. Not the thing he built and broke and rode every day. I'm someone else's now. I'm claimed. Branded as Big Tex's.
Ron's brain won't be able to process it. He will lose his shit. The patience will evaporate. The polite man who walks the legal line will be replaced by the other Ron. The real Ron. The one I know well. The one who kicks and beats and abuses. The one who can't stand the idea that his property has someone else's name on it.
"It's a honey trap," I say.
"Think of it as a special invitation for him to show the world who he really is, because the only thing protecting Ron Jackson is the mask. The smile. The performance. Take that away and he's just a man with fists in a room full of people who are bigger and have been waiting for him. Do you trust me?"
"You know I do. With my life."
"Then trust me tonight. Wear the shirt. Work the lot. Be visible. Let me and Mickey and Sheila and the bikers handle the rest. If Ron Jackson drives past this bar and sees you in that parking lot and decides that tonight is the night he's going to come take back what's his—let him. Let him walk into this bar. Lure him inside. Let him show the world the man behind the smile. And we will end this. Tonight. It's a solid plan."
"Okay, it sounds bat shit crazy, but I'll do it. I'll put on the hot pink shirt and start a war if you think it'll work. The sweatpants too?"
The grin breaks across his face like sunrise over the Gulf.
"Darling, the sweatpants are non-negotiable. We've talked about those pants before."
I almost laugh. It's sitting right there in my chest, pressing against the fear, trying to get past it. The fear is still there—it's always there, it'll probably always be there in some form—but the laugh is there too, and the laugh is winning at his ridiculous idea.
"Fine," I say. "But if I'm wearing a hot pink shirt that says Property of Big Tex's, you have to make me a promise."
"Anything, name it."
