"You wanna play?" I ask.
She nods. "I do. I've been watching you, Ace. And I like what I see."
I bite my lip.
She's beautiful. And she's right here, right now, not hundreds of miles away pretending I don't exist. Maybe my brothers are right. Maybe almost six years is long enough to mournsomething that ain't coming back. Maybe tonight I'll let myself have this. Just this.
"Let's play."
I tilt the bottle, let a slow pour of whiskey hit my chest. Just a little. Enough to run. The amber liquid traces the grooves of my abs, and Abbie leans in and runs her tongue up the trail.
The crowd roars.
And I'm tempted. Really fucking tempted. Because her mouth is warm and her hands are on my belt, and this is exactly the kind of reckless, birthday-night bullshit a twenty-seven-year-old bull rider should be doing. This is normal. This is what moving on looks like.
Except, all I can see behind my closed eyes is Harper.
Honey-blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. That crooked little grin she does when she's about to say something that'll wreck me. The way she used to kiss me in the bed of my truck under a sky so full of stars.
Fuck.
She's like a damn ghost. Haunting every woman who touches me. She ripped my heart out of my chest, packed it in her suitcase next to her journalism textbooks, and drove it to Los Angeles. And she took my dick's will to live right along with it.
Time ain't healing this wound. Whiskey ain't healing it. And another woman's mouth on my skin damn sure ain't gonna work either.
Abbie trails her lips all the way up my neck and presses her body against mine. Her fingers curl into my belt loops, and her breath is hot against my ear.
"What the fuck, Abbie?" a guy shouts.
The voice hits me like a bucket of ice water. I open my eyes.
A guy is shoving through the crowd toward us. He’s tall, built like a fence post, red-faced and furious. He's wearing a black snap-button shirt withRanch 42embroidered on the chest, andhe's got four buddies fanning out behind him, all wearing the same shirt. Great, our neighbouring ranch.
Abbie jumps back from me, her eyes wide and color draining from her face.
"Brady, it's not?—"
"Shut up, Abbie." He snaps. His eyes are locked on me as he barges past her.
"You think you can just put your hands on another man's woman, Sterling?"
I reach for my beer on the bar, take a slow sip, and set it back down.
"Well, Brady, I don't know how y'all do things over at Ranch 42, but where I'm from, if your girl's chasin' whiskey off another man's stomach, that ain'tmyhand’s problem. That's a problem for not lookin’ after her right."
Someone in the crowd goesooooh.I try not to laugh.
Brady's jaw tightens. His boys are spreading out behind him now, trying to flank us. But, we’re Sterlings and we’ve already got in position to take them down.
When it comes down to it, we’re far more dangerous than any other cowboy. Because we have a mafia empire behind us.
A few weeks ago, I drained the blood from my brother, Beau, and let him die. I ain’t scared of a bar fight.
Colten appears on my left shoulder. Jett materializes on my right. They don't say a word. They don't need to.
"Walk away, bud," I tell him. "It's my birthday. I'm in a good mood. Don't make me ruin yours."
"Fuck your birthday." He takes a step closer, his nostrils flaring. "And fuck your family. You Sterlings think you own this town?—"
