Page 6 of Stay Wild Darlin’

“Yeehaw, boys,” I drawled, earning a few whoops and tips of their oversized cowboy hats.

They were all the same—city guys playing dress-up for the weekend, chasing the rodeo high without ever getting their hands dirty, but they liked my Texas accent, which I drew out when I was at work.

I turned my attention to the gaggle of women who had walked in, their boots clicking against the wooden floor.

The bar was electric tonight. The bull-riding event had brought in a crowd, and from my coworkers’ warning, it was going to be a long, rowdy night. I took a deep breath, wiped my hands on a bar rag, and headed over to the corner booth where a new group gathered.

One of the girls, a blonde with too much eyeliner and a rhinestone-studded tank top, leaned forward. “So, do the bull riders come here after?”

I gave her a practiced shrug of nonchalance. “I’m still new, so I’m not sure, but from what my coworkers say, they usually swing by for wings and a beer after the event.”

It was a total lie, but a harmless one. If they thought their cowboy fantasy might walk through that door at any minute, they’d keep ordering drinks, and that meant more money in my pocket by the end of the night.

The brunette sitting next to her glanced toward the entrance, lips pursed in consideration. “We’ll stick around, then.”

I grinned. “Good call. What can I get y’all?”

They rattled off their orders—tequila shots, a round of beers, and something fruity with too much sugar. I nodded, scribbling them down on my notepad, and spun on my heel to head back to the bar.

I’d expected to have a teaching job lined up two freaking months ago, but here I was—bartending, hustling for tips, and trying to keep my bank account above zero. Since I was a new teacher with zero experience outside of my student teaching hours, finding a job was harder than I’d anticipated.

I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead, adjusting the bandanna keeping my hair out of my face. My lips were painted dark red, an attempt to add a little life to my pale skin, which was the color of milk from never seeing the sun. The bar’s uniform did nothing for me—denim shorts cut so high they barely covered my oversized ass, and a cropped flannel that was supposed to be sexy, but only emphasized the fact that I was flat as a board.

It wasn’t the worst gig, but it wasn’t where I was supposed to be.

Still, I forced a smile as I slid the drinks onto the tray and made my way back to the booth. “Alright, ladies. Here’s hoping y’all get lucky tonight.”

They laughed, clinking their shot glasses together, and I turned back to the bar as the front doors swung open and a fresh wave of rowdy voices flooded the room.

Well, damn. Maybe I hadn’t been lying after all.

The energy in the bar shifted instantly. It wasn’t any group rolling in—it was them.

They weren’t the six-foot-something cowboy fantasy the city girls expected. These guys were shorter and built like bricks. Their cowboy hats weren’t fresh off a boutique shelf, but worn and scuffed. Their boots told similar stories of being broken in and dirty.

There were a handful of them, all laughing, talking, a few pushing at each other’s shoulders like rowdy brothers. A couple of girls followed, but they looked like the real deal too.

The group moved in like they owned the place—because, in a way, they did. This was their world. Their stomping ground after an event, where they drank, celebrated, and licked their wounds from whatever beast had thrown them earlier in the night.

“Here we go,” I whispered to one of my coworkers as I grabbed my tray, knowing my tips were about to skyrocket.

She snorted. “Bet you twenty bucks someone slaps your ass before midnight.”

I shot her a glare. “I’d rather make twenty bucks in tips, thanks.”

She smirked and went back to drying glasses while I made my way to the newest arrivals. The group had scattered, some taking over a high-top table, others making themselves at home at the bar.

Time to work. Plastering on a customer service smile, I made my way over, ready to charm them out of their cash.

“Welcome to The Rusty Spur. What can I get y’all to drink?”

One of them, a cocky-looking guy with short blonde hair and green eyes, leaned against the table. He gave me a slow once-over, his lips curling into a smirk.

He was an interesting one, I’d give him that. The kind of guy who looked like he walked straight out of a rodeo poster. His jeans were frayed at the bottom. His flannel was unbuttoned at the top, revealing tanned skin and a hint of muscle.

“Didn’t realize they let angels work behind the bar. Thought y’all belonged up in heaven.”

The guys at his table laughed, and I sighed, already over it. It was a joke, one he knew was corny as hell, but delivered with enough confidence that he somehow made it work.