I walk back to the open door. I lean in, bracing my arms on the roof.
I don’t say anything about what just happened. I don’t apologize. I don’t make excuses.
I just lean in and scent her. I bury my nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling deep. She smells like sex and sweat and vanilla. It’s the best scent in the world.
I cup the back of her neck, my thumb stroking the soft skin behind her ear.
“You’re perfect,” I say.
She turns her head. Her eyes are wide, swimming with unshed tears.
“I have to go,” she whispers.
“I know.”
She pulls away from me. She reaches onto the dashboard and grabs a straw cowboy hat—the one she won in the dart game earlier. She puts it on her head, pulling it low over her eyes.
“Don’t go,” I say.
“I have to,” she repeats. She climbs out of the truck. She adjusts her shirt, smoothing down the wrinkles.
She pauses. She looks at me, her gaze lingering on my mouth. Then she turns and walks toward the bar.
I watch her go. The parking lot is dark, the only light coming from the neon sign above the door. Her hips sway with every step—a natural, hypnotic rhythm that makes my mouth go dry.
I adjust myself again, wincing. My cock is throbbing, a painful reminder of what we almost did.
I know I’m going to relive this moment for years to come. The taste of her mouth. The feel of her body. The sound of her telling me not to stop.
I shove my hands in my pockets and head back inside.
The noise hits me like a physical wave. The band is playing a cover of a popular country song, the fiddle player wailing away. The room is even more crowded than before.
I weave through the bodies, heading for the bar. I need a drink. I need to numb the ache in my chest and the ache in my groin.
I scan the room.
Boone and Rhett are in the corner, playing pool. Boone is leaning over the table, lining up a shot. Rhett is watching him, a pool cue resting against his shoulder. They look relaxed. They look like they belong.
I envy them. They don’t have a career dangling in front of them like a carrot on a stick. They aren’t torn between two worlds.
I grab a beer from the bartender. I lean against the rail near the pool table, watching the game.
Boone sinks the eight ball. He straightens up, a satisfied smirk on his face.
“Where have you been?” Rhett asks, looking at me. He takes a sip of his drink.
“Around,” I say. I take a long pull of the beer. It’s cold, but it doesn’t help.
I look out over the crowd.
And I see her.
Saramaria is standing near the stage with Willa and Pearl. She’s laughing at something Pearl is saying, her head thrown back.
She looks beautiful. She looks free.
And I realize, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that this might be the last time I’m ever that close to her.
