She narrowed her eyes at me. “I do realize you’re not the uneducated country bumpkin you pretend to be, Ramsey.”
“I don’t pretend to be an uneducated country bumpkin,” I snapped.
She widened her eyes. “Oh?”
Rome was cackling uproariously. “Oh man, oh man, oh man. You two are too fuckin’ much.” He wiped tears from his eyes, and then elbowed Izzy. “Sweetheart, he’s not pretending to be an uneducated country bumpkin…he is one.”
“Fuck you, Rome,” I snarled.
“Hey, all three of us are,” Rome said, holding up his hands. “We grew up in Buttfuck, Oklahoma, and we barely graduated high school. That makes us uneducated country bumpkins.”
Izzy seemed embarrassed. “I just…I only meant that I know you’re not stupid. I know you can read,” she said, her voice quiet.
I grinned at her. “Aww, babe. I didn’t know you cared.”
She glared, then, and if looks could kill, I’d be dead. “Don’t push your luck, asshole.” She tossed her hair to the other shoulder with an annoyed huff. “And don’t call me babe.”
“I live to push my luck…babe.” I winked at her. “That’s how you know you’re alive.” I rose, then, and headed for the door without a backward glance. “I’ll see ya’ll in a few days.”
I paused at the bed of my truck to check that my backpack was still strapped down nice and tight. As I did so, I heard the door of the saloon creak open and slam closed, and I assumed it was Rome coming to give me more shit for leaving him and Rem to run the bar without me.
Without turning around I said, “I told you months ago, Rome—don’t expect my help around there much longer. I’m done, bro. I need air.”
“Are you really going to go hike in the wilderness alone for three days?” I heard her soft, musical voice.
Something about that voice, man; it got my cock hard just hearing it.
I turned slowly, eyeing Izzy as she stood on the sidewalk, purse on her shoulder. She was dressed to kill, as usual: skintight knee-length white skirt, a sleeveless green top that plunged daringly between her breasts, three-inch white heels, silver bangles on her wrists, and a string of pearls tight around her neck…and fuck me running, the look was killer.
I didn’t realize someone as young and fashion conscious as Izzy would wear something as old-fashioned as pearls, but it just worked for her somehow.
“Jesus, Izzy,” I murmured. “Why are you always dressed like that?”
She frowned, glancing down. “Like what?”
I indicated her with a finger sweeping from head to toe and back up. “Like that.” I bit my lip and shook my head. “Like a billion fuckin’ dollars. Like you’re about to go meet the fuckin’ president or some shit.”
She shrugged. “It’s just how I dress, Ramsey. I like to look nice, and I feel best when I’m dressed well. I’m not trying to impress anyone, and it’s certainly not to get your attention, or anyone else’s.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, remembering the comment I’d made that she was referring to. “Shit…Izzy, listen—that was a dumb thing for me to say. I was just trying to push your buttons.”
Her eyes narrowed, staring daggers at me. “Well, it worked.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t generally make a habit of apologizing to anyone about anything, but…I do apologize. You’re a classy dresser.”
“Classy?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
I shrugged. “Yeah. Classy. Sexy, but…sophisticated, I suppose. I dunno.”
“Not slutty?”
I sensed the trap, but plunged ahead with honesty anyway. “I think sometimes some of your outfits could be seen by some as slutty. Not by me, though.”
She huffed. “Nice.”
“Hey, you asked. You want me to lie to you? If you want someone who’ll blow smoke up your ass, go find someone else. I call shit like it is. Dress however you like—you said it yourself, you dress for you and not anyone else, so who cares what I or anyone else thinks?”
She waved a hand dismissively. “This is a stupid conversation. I don’t know why I asked.” But then she moved up to the side of my truck and leaned in to look at my backpack. “Wow—that’s a lot of gear.”
I gently nudged her away from the truck. “Watch yourself, Izz. This truck is dirty and that skirt is awfully white.” I patted the backpack. “Yeah, it’s a lot of gear, but then it takes a lot to survive in the wilderness.”
“What do you mean, survive in the wilderness?”
I shifted to lean back against my truck, so I was between her and the vehicle—leaving only a scant few inches between her and me. “Not sure what you’re not understanding, Izzy. Here’s how hiking works in my world: I pack everything I need in that backpack, and I go…away. I walk out into the countryside, where there are no restaurants, no grocery stores, no malls, no department stores, no Wi-Fi, no cell service, no hotels, no bathrooms…out there, there’s nothing but trees, lakes, rivers, animals, and me.”
She shuddered. “No bathrooms is where you lose me.” She eyed me. “How do you stay clean?”
I snickered. “A little-known secret: it’s called soap and water. You see, there’s these things out there called lakes and rivers and waterfalls. And you take off all your clothes and you get in the water, and you scrub off with this stuff called soap. And then you lay out in the sun all naked and happy until you’re dry, and then you get dressed, and bingo, you’re clean. It’s kinda like taking a shower, only better.”
She managed to narrow her eyes, glare at me, and roll her eyes at me all at the same time. “You’re such a fucking dick, Ramsey.”
I just laughed. “Well, shit, Izzy, how else do you think I get clean? You think I just spend three days stinking?”
She nodded. “Absolutely.”
“I do happen to care about personal hygiene, you know. I brush my teeth and wipe my ass and wash my hands and everything.”
She tilted her head back in a gesture of long-suffering annoyance. “Wow. You are the most sarcastic person I’ve ever met in my life. How did I not realize this until now?”
“Because you’ve been avoiding me for the past year?”
She steps closer to me, eyes sparking. “I’ve been avoiding you?”
“Yep.”
Her body language and facial expressions were screaming warning signs at me to stop this line of attack, but it was too much fun to piss her off. She was hot as fuck when she was pissy. Granted, she was hot as fuck all the time, but when angry she was just that little bit extra that turned me on like flipping a light switch.
“Newsflash, toolbag—you avoided me.”
I guffawed. “Toolbag?”
“Yeah—you’re not just a tool, you’re a whole bag full of them. In fact, you’re such a tool, I might just start calling you Ace, like Ace Hardware.”
“Fine by me, diva.”
“If that’s supposed to be an insult, you need to rethink your insults. I consider ‘diva’ a compliment.”
“You would.” I pointed at her. “You did avoid me, though. Like the plague.”
“You are the plague.”
“You didn’t seem to think so when I was eating your pussy. You screamed so loud they sent security to see who was being murdered.”
She flushed, and I was amused to see that she was even capable of blushing. “And that’s why I avoided you. You’re an immature, arrogant bastard.”
“Hey, just telling the truth. I heard security talking over the radio about someone screaming bloody murder.”
“Need I remind you that you couldn’t stand up after I was done with you?”
My eyes blazed, and I moved deeper into her personal space. “No, Izzy. You don’t need to remind me—I remember that very, very well.” I let a slow smile slide across my face. “In fact, I’d be down for a repeat.”
“Not happening.”
“No?” I tsked. “Too bad. I think I could make you come at least three times, each time just as hard.”<
br />
“You could not. That was a fluke.” She wasn’t backing away from me, letting me stay in her personal space, staring up at me with a defiant glare.
“Oh yeah? You think so? Hop in my truck and let’s find out.”
“No, thanks.” She jutted her chin at my truck. “You’re going hiking, remember?”
“Yeah, but I could take a few minutes to hike that skirt up around your waist and make you scream again.” I licked my lips. “Be a nice little snack before I leave.”
She blinked a few times, and then backed away. “I have another question.”
I was left slightly off-balance by the sudden shift in topic. “Ummm, okay.”
“Where do you shit?”
I couldn’t help a laugh. “Dig a hole, shit in it, and bury it. No mess.” I reached back and patted the backpack. “I even have toilet paper.”
“Sounds messy.”
“Not really. Squatting is actually a better pooping posture anyway.” I rolled my eyes at her. “You wouldn’t last two hours out there, would you?”
“I could, I just choose not to.”
“You choose not to because you know you wouldn’t make it a single mile.”
I saw the moment I’d fired up her ire. Her eyes blazed, snapped, sparked, her chin lifted, and her expression hardened. “You think I’m weak?”
“I think you’re a spoiled, rich, city girl who’s never spent a single night away from air conditioning and Wi-Fi.” I wasn’t faking the dismissive tone in my voice. “You’ve probably never done a day’s labor that involved the possibility of breaking a fucking nail.”
And I may have gone a little too far, judging by the raw fury in her eyes—her anger was so palpable and venomous, I reared back.
“You don’t know the first thing about me, Ramsey, so fuck…you.” She lifted her chin. “I could last three days out there with you.”
I snorted. “Yeah, okay. You—miss prim and proper and always in a miniskirt and pearls—you are going to go on a three-day hike into the Alaskan bush? You’re going to shit in holes, get eaten by mosquitoes, eat out of cans, and carry a fifty-pound backpack?”
She paled, but didn’t relent. “Just because I’ve never done it doesn’t mean I can’t.”
I eyed her steadily. “I know you’re not weak, Izzy. That’s not what I was saying. You’re clearly in shape, you work out, and you’re obviously a strong girl. But surviving in the wilderness is a whole different ball game, sweetheart. It’s not just about being physically able to carry the pack, or make it up the trails.”
“No? Then what is it about, almighty nature god?”
“It’s mental. It’s being away from the comforts you’re used to. This isn’t glamping in an RV with a TV and a microwave and a bed. It’s sleeping in a sleeping bag in a tent on the ground. It’s fucking hard, literally and metaphorically.”
“I’ll say it again—you know nothing about me, or what I’ve endured in my life.” She stabbed a finger in my chest. “I’m going with you.”
“The hell you are. The whole point of this trip is to get away from people—all people. You’ll just slow me down and annoy the shit out of me.”
“You don’t think I can keep up.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’m going. I’ll show you I can keep up.”
I let out a slow breath. “Izzy, honey—you have nothing to prove to me.”
“You think I’m weak. You think I’m spoiled.”
“Yes. Well, no, but yes. I think you’re a city chick who knows nothing about the wilderness or camping or hiking. Do you even own a pair of jeans or hiking boots? Do you have the first clue about what to pack or how much?”
Her chin lifted again. “No, but I’ll figure it out.”
I laughed. “Yeah, okay.”
“You are seriously such an—”
“Such an asshole. I know.” I sighed. “You’re not really serious about this, are you?”
“Serious as a heart attack.”
“You really want to come on this hike with me, just to…what? Prove something to me? Spare us both, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe.” She glared up at me. “Give me a few hours to get ready.”
“A few hours? Sweet cheeks, you have to buy everything—clothes, gear, and backpack. And you have no clue where to even start.”
“Sweet cheeks?” She hissed. “Asshole.” She jabbed a finger into my chest again. “Watch me.”
I glanced at my watch. “It’s eight o’clock right now—I’ll give you three hours. I’m leaving at eleven with or without you.” I leaned in through the open window of my pickup and snatched the crumpled piece of paper that had my packing checklist on it. “I’ll even help you out. This is my list. Obviously you don’t need everything on this list—like, you don’t need a pistol or flares or a tent or a survival knife or any of that shit. Just the backpack, lots of extra socks, durable clothes, and boots—don’t skimp on the boots or you’ll be miserable. And food—you’re carrying your own because I’ve got mine rationed for one person. Ask one of the people at the outfitter store—they’ll help you.”
“Why can’t you help me?”
I sighed. “Fuck. Fine.” I flung open the passenger door of my truck. “Jump in. I’ll show you what to get.”
She eyed me as she climbed in and buckled up. “You’re really going to let me come?”
I snorted. “I didn’t think I had an option. Plus, I think I know you well enough to know you’re stubborn enough to try it on your own, and if you did that, you’re liable to get yourself killed.” I grinned. “Plus, this oughta be entertaining, if nothing else.”
“Asshole,” she muttered.
“You ever get tired of saying that?”
“You ever get tired of acting like one?”
“Nope,” I said, popping my lips on the P sound.
“Figures.”
Our first stop was a secondhand clothing store. I parked and hopped out; Izzy was slower to emerge from the truck.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, staring at the sign like she’d never seen a secondhand store before.
I led the way in without answering, and she had to trot to keep up; I headed right for the women’s section, angling for the jeans. I indicated the rack of denim. “Pick a few pairs. Don’t look for style, look for fit—not too tight, not too baggy. Roomy enough to move around freely, long enough to hang over boots without dragging on the ground.”
She started sorting through the hangars looking for her size. “I don’t wear secondhand blue jeans. I manage a fashion boutique, Ramsey.”
“You gonna wear these after this?” I asked.
She made a face as if disgusted. “Hell no.”
“Then buy them secondhand. Save money. You really want to spend fifty or a hundred bucks or whatever on brand new jeans? Plus, these’ll be worn in—not as stiff or uncomfortable.”
She selected four pairs of jeans and headed to the changing room to try them on. A few minutes later, she came out with three pairs, leaving one pair in the changing room.
“Okay, now what?” she asked.
“Shirts. Cheap T-shirts you don’t mind ruining. Flannel shirts, too, or something like that. A thick hoodie or two.”
She perused the shirts section, taking half a dozen different T-shirts and, to her credit, she picked for fit rather than style, although I noticed even the shirts she chose were cool in a retro sort of way. She didn’t find any flannels or hoodies she liked, so she went to the men’s section and found a few of both that were small enough to fit her; although, she didn’t try either the flannels or the hoodies on, and I wondered if they were going to fit her across the chest. Not that I would mind if they didn’t.
She lifted her selections. “Next?”
I indicated the register. “Check out. The rest we get new from an outfitter.”
I stood back and let her get rung up, noticing she paid cash for everything. As we headed for the truck, I opened my mouth an
d put my foot in it.
“I’d have taken you for a credit card sort of chick,” I said.
She got into the truck, tossing her bags of clothes into the backseat. “Shows what you know about me. I don’t have a credit card.”
“At all?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I learned that lesson the hard way.”
I headed toward my favorite local outdoors outfitter. “Oh?”
She wrinkled her nose, sniffing the air in the cab. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
I tugged on the three pine-scented air fresheners hanging from my rearview mirror. “I don’t—the guy I bought this truck from was a smoker. I’d rather choke on pine tree scent than smell old cigarette smoke.” I glanced at her. “So. What was the lesson about credit cards?”
She sighed. “It’s embarrassing.”
“I once opened up a credit card, spent fifteen hundred dollars on booze, porn, strippers, and rifle ammo, and then closed the account and moved.” I chuckled.
Izzy spluttered. “You did not.”
“Sure did. Thought I’d gotten away with it, too.”
“Did you?”
“Hell no! Next time I registered an address, I got a bill for almost three grand.”
She snorted. “How do you spend fifteen hundred dollars on porn and strippers?”
I shrugged. “Honestly, the porn and strippers was only about three hundred bucks, and most of that was for a private lap dance. The rest was booze and ammo.”
She rolled her eyes. “Men and strippers. I swear. So stupid.”
I chuckled. “I agree, as a matter of fact. The lap dance was for a buddy.”
“You don’t like strippers?”
“Well, I don’t know any strippers, but I’m sure they’re lovely people. I just don’t get the point of strip bars. What’s the fun of a bunch of naked chicks shaking their tits and ass at me if I can’t touch ’em?”
Izzy laughed, throwing back her head—and goddammit, her laugh just had to be so fucking musical and beautiful. “Exactly! I went to a strip bar once, and I couldn’t see the point.”
“Male or female strip bar?” I asked.
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