She made a beeline to it and flipped through the hangers, searching out her size. “Come on, come on…” she muttered, losing hope. Then, bingo. She snatched the hanger from the bar and held the dress up to her body. “What do you think? Is red my color?”
His jaw rippled as he swallowed hard. “What do I think?” He looked over his shoulder at the cashier who was distracted by another customer. Then he grabbed the dress away from her and walked toward the curtained fitting rooms at the back of the store. “I think I can’t go on another minute without seeing you in it.” He flung the curtain open and ushered her in, pressing the dress into her hands as she passed.
Alone in the stall, Skye made eye contact with her reflection in the mirror. The sight had her holding her breath. She looked like she was fresh off a daring rollercoaster ride full of 360-degree loops and steep drops. Her hair was in disarray, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had an unmistakable sparkle to them. Tonight, with all its crazy twists and turns, was even better than a rollercoaster. Even better than midnight horseback rides through the dark countryside.
She peeled her work uniform off, feeling lighter and freer with each layer gone. She loved her job, but it didn’t breathe life into her, not like this did. Gentry had called it right when he’d referenced the two different Skyes—the one who was beyond ready to settle down and the one who could never be tamed. Once undressed, she stood in her panties and bra and regarded her reflection again. All her life, she’d thought of her two sides as in war with each other, a battle to the death, with her brain clearly on the side of the settling-down Skye, the make-her-family-proud Skye. The noble, faithful Skye who honored her heritage and church and her family’s legacy at Briscoe Ranch.
But this … running off with a virtual stranger to another state, helping a couple escape their wedding, breaking the rules, going too fast, too dangerously, too hard. It lit up her senses and set her free. But Skye knew there wasn’t room in her for both sides to flourish indefinitely. Because the part of her that made her feel the most alive was the same part that would destroy her, as it had tried to all those years ago with Mike the Mistake and the baby she’d lost, the devastation of shame and sin gnawing away at her heart.
“This is my Mardi Gras,” she whispered. “After tonight, I’m saying good-bye to this addiction,” she told her reflection. But until then, she was going to make the most of this one last thrill.
Thus resolved, she shimmied into the little red dress. It fit her every curve like a glove and showed off just enough cleavage to leave Gentry wanting more. Perfect.
“Ready?” she called over the curtain.
“Can’t wait.”
She pushed the curtain aside and emerged. Gentry gave a low whistle. “The only way you could look better than with that dress on is with that dress puddled around your ankles.”
Oh my. “Be careful what you wish for.”
With a glance over his shoulder to make sure nobody was paying them any mind, he stepped closer and tipped her chin up. “I know exactly what I’m wishing for.” He brushed a kiss across her lips. “And I’ll tell you all about it.” His hand swept from her chin to trace the outline of the dress’s strap. “First, I’m going to show you around this town I love, break a few rules with you…” His fingers grazed the dress’s scoop neckline, bumping lightly over the swell of each breast. “And I’m gonna keep you slow-burning until all you can think about is me and how badly you need me, and only me, to put out that fire inside you. And then you know what I’m going to do?”
“What?” she said with a shiver.
“I’m not gonna put that fire out. I’m just gonna keep feeding the flames and keep you going all night long, burning bright and hot and all for me. Think you can handle that?”
It wasn’t in her nature to sit back and let a man take complete control of the night. Heck, she rarely even trusted a man to drive her around on dates. But tonight, she’d never wanted anything more than to let him take the wheel and give her the time of her life.
Sniffing, he stepped away from her and scrubbed his face, clearly as affected by their little talk as she was. “Pick out some boots to go with that dress and let’s get on with it. It’s time for me to see you ride a mechanical bull,” he said in a gruff voice, moving toward the cash register.
A mechanical bull? With any other man on any other night, Skye would have cringed at the thought. She’d ridden a bull a few times, mostly in her early twenties, with one notable exception last year when she and the other Briscoe Ranch employees had the chance to ride the bull after hours at the brand-new Hitching Post Saloon at the resort. She’d nearly bitten her tongue off on that particular ride and had decided she was too old for those antics anymore. But she wouldn’t dream of turning Gentry down.
She made short work of selecting a pair of inky black boots with gold embroidery that felt great on her feet. They cost hundreds, but Gentry merely nodded his approval and reached for his wallet.
On her way out of the store, Skye gave one last look through the racks of clothes to the open dressing-room stall at her uniform, balled into a crumpled pile of beige on the floor, and smiled.
* * *
Mo the Bull was nowhere near as whiz-bang as Johnson. No smoke out of his nostrils or red glowing eyes. Just a hide with a handle on hydraulics. But Mo, with its fraying hide and greasy frame, fit the dive bar vibe of the Wild Beaver to a T. And Mo had the dubious distinction of being the first mechanical bull Gentry had ever ridden, in the bar where Neil Blevins had first caught his act all those many years ago.
While Skye waited her turn to ride Mo, Gentry sidled up to the wooden bar that stank of spilled grenadine and cheap whiskey and ordered Skye’s requested margarita and himself a beer. He didn’t even think twice about it. Having a beer in hand was all part of the costume he wore every time he was in public.
Skye was about halfway through her glass of liquid courage when her number came up to ride Mo. Gentry held her drink as she made her way across the mats and straddled the bull in one strong, fluid motion that made every hot-blooded male in the room perk up.
The dress straps slid over her shoulders, revealing a white bra beneath and inching the neckline down enough to reveal quite a lot of cleavage. Her hair fell over her shoulders in cascading waves, as fluid and dark as a river on a moonless night. Gentry had seen a lot of pretty women in his life, but Skye just kept upping the bar.
He was busy contemplating her legs when she looked over at him, all bravado and sexiness. The minute he locked gazes with her, she blew him a kiss.
Sweet Jesus. Gentry’s breath caught in his throat. His beer bottle slipped through his fingers a few inches before he remembered he was holding it.
He couldn’t wait to have his way with her—every which way he could dream up. He wanted to memorize every curve of her body and every sound she made. He wanted to leave his mark on her memory so she’d never forget how thoroughly ravished she’d been by Gentry Wells. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he told her he wanted to brand himself to her memory. He wanted her to hear his name or his song on the radio and get instantly wet, remembering what they’d done together.
After the wedding, he’d thought about taking her to a hotel room, but she spent most of her life at a hotel for work. Plus it wouldn’t tap in to how turned on she got by the idea of breaking the rules of the resort and consorting with a guest. He did not, under any circumstances, want to be her vanilla lover. She could resign herself to that kind of man once they’d parted ways.
A siren sounded, and, with a snort of artificial smoke, Mo the Bull started bucking.
Skye’s yelp of surprise rang in his ears, but she kept smiling, even as she was vaulted off of Mo after only two short seconds. She flew ass-over-tea-kettle onto the foam padding, laughing the whole time. And when she stood, adjusting her skirt down, a handful of men who’d been watching gave her a slow clap. With that tousled hair and her dress askew, the flushed cheeks, he could well imagine what she’d look
like in his bed.
She melted into his arms as soon as she crossed through the pen’s gate and leaned heavily against him as she swayed, catching her balance. “My brain’s scrambled.”
“You want to sit down?”
She cast him a seductive look and burrowed into his neck. “No, I think I want to stand right here with you.”
Not a problem. He backed them up into the shadows, out of the way of the bull-riding crowd, and stroked her back while they swayed in a kind of slow dance in time with the two-step the live band was playing. When the song ended, she turned her face up and smiled at him, the perfect invitation to kiss those sweet strawberry lips.
He notched his mouth with hers and let the shared warmth of their lips mingle. He kept it slow and sensual and full of promise, and he kept on kissing her until she moaned and parted her lips in a plea for more. But he wanted to keep her hungry for him, so he ended the kiss and nuzzled her nose. “Been a long while since I’ve done anything like this, Skye Martinez.”
“Helping a couple elope? Or inviting a random girl to spend the weekend in Nashville with you?”
He’d had plenty of weekend flings with plenty of random girls, some in Nashville, even. But this—with Skye—was different, though he wasn’t exactly sure why. He nearly bit out a joke about how he was an old hat at helping kids in love elope, but he didn’t feel much like joking at the moment. He wasn’t sure why that was, either. “More like I enjoyed someone’s company so much that I forget who I am, and all my cares just float away.”
She matched his smile. “In that case, me, neither.”
“Hey, that’s Gentry Wells!” someone shouted.
A handful of college-age kids had gathered around them, slack jawed, grinning like fools. “No way!” one of them said. “Are you really Gentry Wells?”
So much for forgetting who he was. Gentry left a loose arm around Skye as he turned to face the fans. “That’s me.”
In a true snowball effect, the band on stage stop playing. “What’s the fuss back there?” the lead singer asked.
“Here we go,” Gentry said under his breath to Skye.
“What?”
“Gentry Wells is in the house!” one of the college kids bellowed.
“Well, holy shit,” the singer said. “Mr. Well Hung himself is in the house tonight. Back home to the bar that started it all. Get the hell up here, man. Sing us some songs!”
“Why do people keep calling you that?” Skye said. “Have you leaked some secret sex tapes I don’t know about or something?”
It was too perfect of a set-up for Gentry to ignore. He winked at her as they made their way through the crowd, saying, “You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Let’s get him up here, everyone!” the singer said. Then he broke out in a chant of his name, which the rest of the bar-goers caught on to fast. “Gentry! Gentry! Gentry!”
It had been bound to happen eventually, especially in Nashville, in this bar where an autographed photo of him performing graced a wall. He might have refused, but his ego was just big enough to want to show off for Skye. She said she’d never much cared for country music, but he wanted to sing to her anyway. Maybe she’d learn to love his music.
That was a dumb thought to have about a woman he might never see again after they parted ways and she got back to her bullshit pursuit of some kind of boring Dulcet schlub to attend church picnics with as they raised two-point-five children. Frankly, he wanted to be as far from one of those guys in her mind as possible. Maybe he’d even start his set with “Built to Leave,” just to put her mind at ease that he had no designs on her beyond being her fantasy man.
“You mind if I leave you alone for a few minutes so I can sing you a song or two?”
Skye looked around, clearly dazzled by the crowd’s enthusiasm. “I don’t think this crowd will let you get away with not singing a song or two. I mean, listen to them. They’re chanting your name.”
That was a part of his job that never got old and never made him weary. He had the best fans in the world, hands down. “Cool, ain’t it? You didn’t know you were hanging out with such a big deal tonight, did you?”
She pinched his chin. “Guess you don’t need me to stroke your ego. You’re stroking it plenty on your own.”
That’s what he loved about her—she gave as good as she took. She’d never be one of those moony-eyed groupies that was only with him because of his money and famous name.
Gentry clutched his heart. “You wound me, woman.”
“You’d better get up there before the crowd picks you up and carries you to the stage.” She held her hand out. “I’ll hold your beer for you.”
“Thanks, but it’s part of my act.” Which was the understatement of the century. “You stay right here, okay? Don’t get lost in the crowd. I want to be able to see you while I’m singing.”
Leaving Skye at the edge of the stage, Gentry jogged up the stage stairs, his still-full beer bottle aloft, much to the glee of the crowd.
After shaking hands with every member of the band, he launched right into “Beer O’Clock,” singing along with just about everyone in the audience. He loved that they knew the words. Hell, he loved that Skye was there to see that a crowd of people knew the words to his song. Standing in the front row, she danced to the music and even sang along on the final chorus, truly the most stunning woman in the bar—and she was his.
For the night, he had to remind himself. Good thing he’d already planned to sing her “Built to Leave,” only not for Skye’s sake, but for his. He was the one who needed the reminder that she didn’t want him like that, and even if she did, he’d only break her heart. She was too lovely and full of life to be dragged down by a rambling man like him.
He pulled a stool from the side of the stage and sat. “Time to slow it down and get real with a song I helped write last year. Let’s go.”
I rebuilt that Chevy’s engine
If you have a leak, then I’m your man
And every cabinet and shelf in my mama’s house
Was built with these two hands.
But there’s a messed-up part inside of me
That’s been brokedown from the start
You see, when a man is built to leave, like me,
He’s destined to break your heart
And that’s something I can’t build back.
Naw, baby, it’s nothing I can build back.
Loneliness washed through him, as it did every time he sang this song. He couldn’t look at Skye, but he hoped she got the message loud and clear. He really was no good for her, not in any real sense.
It was hard to shake the mood off when the song ended, but he had a bar full of people watching him, waiting to see what he did next, including one beautiful vixen in the front row. It was time to shake off.
But he wanted to end the mini-set on a high note, get her primed again for the rest of the evening. He might be the leaving kind, but here was something else about him that he wanted her to know.
“Ladies and gentleman, you’re a great crowd and I thank the Whistling Dixies for letting me jam with them tonight. I’ve got one more song for y’all, and it’s a big one.” He hammed it up on those last two words, and the audience got the hint. Their cheers shook the building. “All I need now is a special lady to sing it to.” He walked to Skye and held out his hand, not so different from when he’d reached for her from inside the private jet. “Let me serenade you.”
After a tentative look around, she set her hand in his and let him pull her up on stage, where he sat her on the stool he’d used for “Built to Leave.”
“Skye, these are my fans. Fans, this is Skye. Give her a warm welcome, would you?” She looked a little uncomfortable, but smiled at the crowd and gave a charming little wave.
“Y’all know the words, so I want you to sing it with me now, folks.” With a signal to the band, they were off.
Girl, I hung around like a puppy dog
Hung up over you
Until you hung me out to dry
What’s a man to do?
By the chorus, Skye’s face had turned a becoming shade of pink. He gyrated in a kind of lap dance for her, much to the delight of the crowd. And Skye, who got in the spirit, started to move along with him. By the last verse, she was on her feet, dancing, and singing along with the rest of the bar, loud enough that he felt the vibrations of their collective voices all the way to his heart. Honestly? He felt like freakin’ Superman.
While the band ground out the closing coda of the melody, Gentry muffled the mic and whispered in Skye’s ear, “Are you ready to make our grand exit? I’m ready to be alone with you.”
Chapter Eight
When Gentry had told Skye he was ready to be alone with her, she’d expected their next stop to be a hotel, but Gentry surprised her again by taking her through a VIP entrance into a club that pulsed with techno dance music. Strobes flashed. Beautiful people preened and held martinis like accessories along with the wristlet purses dangling from their arms and their five-inch stiletto heels.
“I thought we were going to be alone,” she said.
“Working on it. You wait here.” He left her alone to talk to one of the hostesses standing at a podium near a glass staircase. When the hostess left to check on something, Skye looped her arm through Gentry’s. “I don’t think we’re up to dress code,” she said, looking down at her boots.
“Baby, you’d be up to code at any bar in the world in that itty-bitty dress. Besides, all these people, none of them are gonna see you for very long.”
Then the hostess was back. They followed her up the stairs and through a hallway of black walls rimmed in neon pink lights. The hostess opened a door and stepped aside. “Your VIP suite, Mr. Wells.”
Skye had never seen a club’s VIP suite before. Much like a private box at a football stadium or a box seat at an opera house, the room was walled on three sides along with a balcony that looked out over the dance floor.
One Wild Night Page 9
