“I don’t want to,” I reply.
“Don’t care,” he retorts.
“Colt.” A warning tone laces my voice.
“Dallas, you’ve been moping around here foryears. Bumble’s away, you’re free as a bird. Would it kill you to have some fucking fun once in a while? Wear some cologne, brush your hair, fuckingtalkto a woman,anything.Come on man.”
“What part of ‘I don’t want to’ are you not understanding?” Colt scowls, throwing a flannel shirt at me and winking as he says, “Clean yourself up, pull the crop out of your ass, and meet me downstairs in ten. And wear the one in the blue bottle, it’ll work for you. It’s gonna be a night to remember, old boy. Don’t fuck it up.”
I don’t know what possesses me to follow his instructions, but as if on autopilot, I do, in fact, wear the one in the blue bottle. It smellsamazing. I hate it when he’s right. My boots slide on with ease, and I mentally kick myself for not owning a nicer pair, or you know, a second pair in general. I’m ticking off the list of shit Colt demanded I do before we leave. Again, I’mjustas surprised as you are.
Clean shirt, cologne, I draw the line at brushing my hair; it’s got a curl, do you know how hard it is to brush curls? Good god, I sound like Billie. No, worse, I sound like her mother. I’m shaking my head as I take the stairs two at a time. Colson is at the door waiting for me, phone in hand.
“You look hot,” he winks at me.
“You look like you’ve got a lot of teeth for a smart ass.”
His palm connects with my shoulder, a manly show of affection if I’ve ever seen one. I’m gifted with a grin so large, every tooth is on display. “Pearly white, old man. Love you.”
“Yeah, love you too,” I groan. We always have and always will.
Well, here we go, I guess.
The bar is too crowded. I’m forty-fucking-five. I do not want to be sitting in a bar, watching my little brother buy drinks for women twice his age in hopes he’ll get his dick wet. I find myself wondering what it would be like to live in Colt’s shoes for a day.
My mind tracks back to my teenage years and how they were filled with nights on the road with Dad. When Mum died, Colt was away at school, so I packed up and went on tour with Dad and the rodeo. That’s how I met Billie’s Mum. Back then, she was the only female barrel racer on the circuit, well, the Wattle Ridge circuit anyway.
One night, I have the genius idea to sneak into one of the local bars in Blackridge while Dad was preparing for his ride. I’m barely fourteen. I climb out the window of our trailer with all intentions of getting a beer before the show. My jeans catch on the lock and tear a bloody great hole halfway up my ass.
My heart races as I wrestle with my own limbs and try to break free from my self-inflicted prison. I’m about to give up and call for help when the most melodic laugh I have ever heard echoes from the darkness.
“Hello?” I call. Only the giggle answers me.
I call into the void again, starting to feel a weird combination of pissed off, exposed, and oddly terrified. I have no idea who is out there, how much of my ass is on display, or how much like a dickhead I look whileI’m half wedged in the window of a fucking caravan. The thought of it now makes me laugh, despite it not being remotely funny back then.
I was a fourteen-year-old boy, ripe with ego and testosterone and the son of a notorious speed-racer. It wouldn’t matter who found me like this; clearly on the brink of an escape plan of chaos. My non-existent reputation would be shattered.
The leaves across from me rustle, and steady footsteps creep out from behind the shadows, giving way to what I can only assume is an angel here to carry me to my fate.
“Whatcha' doing, Northlane?” the angel asks me.
“How do you know my name? Who’s out there?” My reply comes out shaken and breathy. I’m jammed in a window with a lock up my ass, what do you expect?
The angel waltzes up to me, the string lights adorning Dad’s trailer radiate off her face as she steps out of the shadows and reaches for me. I accept that this is how I die, and no, I am not being dramatic.
“Samantha Ballantine-Brior,” the angel offers. Well fuck me sideways, the angel has a name.
She’s a tiny, muscular blonde with ringlets bigger than my belt buckle. Her eyes are so blue they pierce through my skin and deep into my soul, nestled delicately under perfectly shaped brows.
Samantha is wearing a baggy, green T-shirt with the rodeo logo plastered dead centre, the hem loosely tucked into her jeans. She smiles at me and I think I’ve gone to heaven. Her hands meet my skin and a rush of heat spreads through my veins, goosebumps rising across every inch of me.
“You just gonna sit there or are you gonna’ actually help me get your ass down from there, Northlane?” she taunts.
The sound of a keg being re-tapped pulls me out of my past, and I suddenly feel incredibly thirsty.I slide myself out of the booth and make my way towards the bar. I have barely taken three steps when a familiar bubblegum-haired pixie-nymph crashes into my shoulder, groaning on impact.Annabeth.
“Fucking hell, Ella!” she shouts.
A curvy, made-up blonde with lips half the size of her face and boobs hiked up to her chin appears up behind her, stumbling as her eyes light up like the neon lights that cover almost every surface of the bar. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating slightly, but she definitely doesn’t look like most of the women around here. Well, neither of them do. A barbie and a pixie in Hawks fucking Hollow.
