Page 1 of Hard to Hold
Chapter One
Friday, July 14, 2017
Wolfe Caine
What was the saying? Hell in a hand basket?
Yep. That was exactly where this night was going.
And fast.
I had felt the prickling at the back of my neck as soon as I stepped into my favorite watering hole half an hour ago. That itchy feeling got worse when my cousin joined me a few minutes later.
Never failed that when the pair of us got together, the shit tended to hit the fan. What it was about us that made stupid cowboys want to throw down, I didn’t know, but it seemed I couldn’t spend a Friday night out without getting my knuckles scraped a little.
But I wasn’t bitching about it. Sometimes, after busting my ass all damn week, a little scuffle was just what my inner redneck needed.
“Y’all wanna do this?” Lynx growled, his intimidating glare causing the two smartasses to puff out their chests.
Yep. And that was my cousin for you. Lynx had never met a ranch hand he didn’t want to punch.
“Son of a bitch,” one of the old men sitting near the back grumbled. “Why the hell do you dumb fuckers wanna start shit all the goddamn time? You ain’t learned your lesson yet?”
That was the question of the hour.
I knew the old man wasn’t talking to my cousin and me. Shit. Just a few minutes ago, I had been shooting the shit with him. Minding my own damn business, at that.
“Hear that, fuckers?” Lynx growled.
“You talk a lotta shit, you know that?” Dumb Ass Number One goaded, his words aimed at Lynx.
With a resigned sigh, I set my beer down on the scarred table and moved to stand beside my cousin.
A couple of the patrons opted to move to the far side of the room.
I could admit we were an intimidating pair. Always had been. At six foot three, the two of us tended to draw attention whenever we walked into a room. Add to that the tattoos Lynx had decorating a large portion of his body and we could usually part a crowd right down the middle. Didn’t help that we took the bait every damn time.
“I’m gettin’ too damn old for this shit,” I muttered under my breath.
With the big three-oh looming in the very near future, I was starting to wonder if it was getting close to time to retire my weekly bar brawl action. And Lynx was no spring chicken at twenty-eight.
“You wanna do this? Let’s take this shit outside,” Lynx suggested. “I’ll lead the way.”
Of course he would.
“Anyone feel like we’re in a zoo?” Dumb Ass Number One questioned.
Funny guy.
The dumb ass even chuckled at his own failed attempt at a joke. No one else did.
I had heard plenty of that shit growing up. Our fathers—brothers with less than two years between them—thought that it would be amusing to make a bet that each of them could not convince their wives to name their firstborn son after some sort of wildlife. Their sister Iris had insisted they were out of their minds, but, of course, being as competitive as they were, it was on at that point. Thanks to that drunken wager, Lynx and I had gotten used to the teasing during our childhood. Granted, as we grew up, that hadn’t happened as much. However, there was still one dumb ass in every bunch.
“No new material?” I asked.
“Takes brains to come up with somethin’ new,” Lynx noted. “I think it’s safe to say they’re fresh outta smart.”
“You’re just as fucked up as your old man,” Dumb Ass Number Two grumbled, his bushy eyebrows darting down.
