Page 41 of Ride or Die

“Nah.” Brady snorts a laugh. “Those fuckin’ perverts are at Meow’s.”

I stop in my tracks, almost tumbling over my own goddamn boots.

Brady and Wyatt pause, looking back at me like I done lost my mind.

“Who’s at fuckin’ Meow’s?” I gruff, looking between the two of them.

Brady’s brow furrows as he counts names on his fingers like it matters. “Webber, Boss, Levi, and probably a couple of the other drifters, I don’t know.”

I grit my teeth as something unfamiliar tightens around my chest.

“You good, brother?” Wyatt asks, looking me up and down.

I nod once, shouldering my way between the two and unbuckling my chaps as I head for my truck with a newfound sense of urgency. “Let’s fuckin’ go,” I throw over my shoulder, my heart racing in a way I haven’t ever felt it race before.

Meow’s is a fuckin’ cesspit of the biggest degenerates the panhandle has to offer. Dark and dingy, like most strip clubs, I’m sure. Wall to wall of fuckin’ creeps, most of who wouldn’t be here if their wives or girlfriends had anything to do with it. It’s fuckin’ disgusting. And as I follow Brady and Wyatt through the maze of tables full of perverts and fuckin’ predators, my boots sticking to god knows what on the floor, I chomp hard on my nicotine gum as I scan the shithole with utter disdain, keeping my hat dipped low so no one can catch me searching. For her.

Webber and Austin and a few of the travelling cowboys are seated at a circular booth right up in front of the main stage, table covered with half-empty glasses of liquor, and beer bottles, and what looks like more money than any of us ranch hands make in a week.

“Here they are!” Webber shouts, standing and greeting us with handshakes.

Webber’s been with Rattlesnake longer than Austin’s been alive. He was Phil’s foreman, but now that he’s pushing seventy, and Austin took on the ranch after Phil’s passing, Webber’s Austin’s right-hand man until Boss pulls his head out his ass and hires a new head. He’s that old fella on a ranch who’ll be there ’til the day his weathered bones give up and he eventually dies. One of the real deal cowboys who gives his life to his rancher.

“Sorry for the loss, Cole,” Webber says solemnly, tipping his hat at me. And, Christ, anyone’d think someone died.

“It happens.” I tip my chin, slapping Webber on his shoulder before moving around and taking a seat on the far side of the table, not because I don’t want to party with the boys, but because it offers the best vantage point of the club.

As I take my seat, I find myself craning my neck to see over the heads of those seated around us, which is when I’m stopped by Austin’s eyes on me from across the table, his stare hard. He arches one brow, jaw set tight, the grip he has of his beer bottle white-knuckled, like at any moment he’s about to crush the glass in his fist. Fuck. I mean, Austin’s a permanently pissed off guy, but why do I feel like he knows something?

I swallow hard, pretending not to pick up on his vibe, instead averting my gaze and focusing on the two big-breasted women on stage, watching them dance like I give a shit, when in actual fact, I’d rather watch fuckin’ paint dry.

“Here we are gentlemen.” A sweet voice sounds over the loud, thundering rock music causing my ears to prick, and as if on instinct alone, I turn my head, doing a double take when I find Clara standing right there at our table, carrying a tray full of drinks.

Fuck. Me.

The tiny shorts that are pretty much panties. The tank top that shows off the swell of her tits, and the flash of her belly button. I mean, sure, I’ve already seen her in the sorry excuse for a uniform. But here, beneath the flashing colorful lights and the eyes of my colleagues and every other asshole in this joint, while fucking “Cherry Pie” by Warrant plays throughout, I’m forced to scrub a hand across my mouth to stop myself from saying something I know will only get my ass into trouble.

“Compliments of Bruce,” Clara says with an obviously forced cheerfulness, placing each drink onto the table. “For the birthday boy,” she adds, smiling at Webber and sliding a shot of something in front of him which is when her eyes glance myway causing her to stumble a touch, the remainder of the drinks left on her tray falling right off and onto the tabletop, drenching Austin in the process.

“Oh no… ohmigod,” Clara gasps, slapping a hand over her mouth before scrambling to mop up what she can.

And it’d almost be funny—itshouldbe funny because it’s literally just spilt fuckin’ beer—but then I see it as it happens, right in front of me, before I can do anything to try and stop it, and it’s so not fuckin’ funny.

“Fuck’s sake!” Austin shouts, his voice practically a roar as he jumps out from his seat so fast, brushing ice and glass off his damp jeans while the guys all laugh.

“No, please, I-I’m sorry!” Clara cries out, holding her hands up to protect herself while crouching down to cower away from him.

Everything seems to go quiet, still, the laughter around the table halting suddenly. Austin balks, gaping down at Clara before turning back to us with awhat the fucklook on his face.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t?—”

I jump up, shoving Austin out of the way.

“Clara?” I whisper, wrapping an arm around her. “It’s okay.”

She peers up at me through her hands, her eyes wide and full of fear and tears. Fuck, it just about cracks my heart in two.

“You’re okay, darlin’,” I assure her, helping her up. “I got you.”