Rugged and Restless

by Saylor Bliss

  The last time I had been to the bar, the music had consisted of a broken-down jukebox and good-natured arguments over which twenty-year-old songs to play.

  I continue to scan the parking lot without realizing I am looking for anything. Suddenly a jolt of pleasure races through me at the sight of the beat-up green pickup near the side entrance. A smile of anticipation tugs at the corners of my mouth as I opened the door to go inside.

  The color scheme is the same green, gold, and dark wood I remembered, but it had a richer feel. On walls that had once been Spartan, now hung photographs of the town, the plains, the mountains. The expansions had been well thought out, with good use of space. An annex had been added, with a pool table and a row of electronic arcade games. A stage occupied one end of the main barroom and a huge plasma screen TV dominated the wall behind the bar.

  Make that expanded a lot.

  My smile widens in approval when I note the ancient oak bar remains. I am momentarily warmed by some fine memories made at the far end of that scarred wood counter with the bar owner’s somewhat more experienced daughter. But when I spot dark hair and bluebell eyes on the woman tending that same bar, my blood zips from warm to hot.

  Her hair is piled into a riotous dark mass on top of her head, looking deliciously bedroom-tousled. I mentally calculated how quickly I could take it down and run my fingers through it.

  Whoa, where the heck did that come from? Slow down, man. Slow down. No races here.

  With the exception of glossy red lipstick coating what looked like very kissable lips, she wasn’t wearing heavy makeup, giving her a classy natural look. The picture of a small town barmaid is completed by large gold hoops dangling from exquisitely shaped earlobes.

  Then she glances up. Across thirty feet of crowded room, bluebell eyes met mine, holding me with a look that sets off an immediate conflagration in my blood. The indignation of the previous night has been replaced by sparks of interest. I acknowledge her with a slow nod, somehow managing to stay upright as I follow Grant. Her very presence is unsettling, in ways I wasn’t certain I’d ever understand.

  As Grant cuts a path to the bar, the band stops playing and the lead singer begins speaking to the patrons. “What do you think? Can we get our Friday night favorite up here?”

  An approving roar goes up from the crowd, loud enough to give a city rock concert venue a run for their money. The lone spotlight rolls over the crowd, which is chanting a name: “Christine! Christine! Christine!” Finally, the light settles on Bluebell, still standing behind the bar. She shakes her head and laughs good-naturedly, pointing to her watch and then back at the band.

  The chanting continues, growing to a raucous level, and finally with a smile, Bluebell surrenders and hands the cleaning rag she’d been holding to a pretty young girl with sleek blond hair. Something about her called for a second look. “Whoa! Is that little Sissy Brown?”

  Grant nods, an eager grin splitting his face. So, that’s how it rolled.

  I whistle appreciatively. “She sure grew up well.” The poke in the ribs confirms my suspicions and goes a long way toward reinstating my status as big brother. I turn my attention back to the bartender as she saunters across the room.

  The lead singer holds out his hand to give Christine a boost onto the stage just as the band shoots into a sultry opening with a heavy beat. Her foot, strapped into a gold sandal with an impossibly high heel, begins to tap and she closes her eyes, as though feeling out the rhythm. When she pops them open again and her hips swung into the beat, an explosion of lust swamps my system and my libido kicks itself into overdrive.

  Her voice is throaty and full. Sexy as fire. Interested in spite of myself, I unashamedly run my eyes over the whole package, in the same way as probably every other man in the place and maybe a few of the women.

  She wore a scrap of lavender silk, which slid over her body with the smallest of movements, taking a path his hands ached to travel. Faded blue jeans looked like they’d been painted on over nicely rounded hips and what details I couldn’t make out, my mind had no trouble filling in. An amber-colored gem in her bellybutton played peek-a-boo, whenever the lavender silk slipped upward. But when my gaze moved to her face, it was her eyes that held my fascination.

  She sang in graphic detail about the destruction of a cheating lover’s four-wheel drive, miming each action as she sang the words. Her hips rocking in time, she glides across the stage, openly flirting with everyone close enough to make eye contact. Every man there is probably considering the prospects of getting lucky that night, and about half of them will want to run out and check on their rides when she finishes singing.

  “Wow!” wheezes the overweight, balding gentleman seated next to me. One look at his excitement-reddened face had me recalling the steps for emergency treatment of a stroke from my memory. The guy was breathing so heavily he could barely speak. “Wouldn’t want to get caught cheating on that one.”

  I mumble something I hoped sounds halfway coherent and sip the beer Sissy sets in front of me. Bluebell moves into another high-energy number with a heavier, even sexier beat. I didn’t think cheating on her would be a problem. At least I couldn’t imagine myself ever wanting to cheat on her, if we were together.

  She leaves the stage and works the crowd, moving among them, touching arms and hands and faces, openly flirting with a few of the men as she sings about loving a good-time cowboy. The sexual energy in the room becomes even more tangible, yet somehow the atmosphere doesn’t flash over to raunchy.

  Her eyes lock with mine and I lose the ability to think. Unexpectedly, she has become predator, and I, very much the prey in her sights. Without taking her eyes from mine, she approaches with a sultry cat-like walk, the embodiment of temptation. Stopping mere inches away, her body heat assaults me like a five-alarm blaze.

  While she rocks in rhythm with the thumping music and sings about a devil in disguise, I force myself to remain completely still. Sending me a cheeky grin of appreciation, the sexy singer reaches up, plucks the hat off my head, and sets it on her own. My gaze is imprisoned by luscious red lips singing about being addicted to love. Breath backed up in my lungs when she walks two red-tipped fingers in tempo from my belly up to my throat. All sense of my surroundings become lost in the steamy regard of those bluebell-colored eyes.

  She runs the tip of her tongue along her upper lip in slow motion. Then with a wink, she whirls around and presents her back to me while she flirts outrageously with Grant. Feeling needy, with a distinct sense of unfinished business, I content myself with watching the rhythmic sway of her behind. She’s so close I jam my hands in my pockets to restrain myself from doing anything to earn a boot of my sorry tail out into the parking lot.

  I keep ravenous eyes glued to the sexy bartender-turned-singer when she gets back on stage, performing another number with the band’s lead singer. When they sing a slow duet about being alone and needing someone, my heart gives a tug. Before I can figure out exactly why the song is having such an effect on me, they move into another high-energy number. This time instead of working in the crowd, Bluebell plays off the band’s lead singer, but she gets the crowd involved with dancing and shining cell phones. She finishes amid a roar of good-natured hoots and cheers, a couple of men near the stage give her a hand down, and I find myself tempering unexpected jealousy.

  But then she is on her way in my direction again, bluebell eyes holding me captive once more. Just watching her walk is seducing. Her face is flushed, probably with the exertion of her performance, but I recognize the bold glint in her eyes as purely sensual. The hungry flame first ignited on the road in the mountains kicks itself up several levels, and at the moment, I can’t think of any reason to bank that particular fire.

  Chapter Seven

  Christine

  He entered the bar with Grant McGee moments before Ray Dan had called me on stage, and I had deliberately punched up what was typically already a very sexy performance. I approached him with more overt sensuality th
an I’d ever shown in my life, intentionally sharking him, daring him to want me. And his motor had been running for me. Of that, I was quite certain.

  Who knew, after years of having no real interest in dating, that one sexy performance directed at a stranger would jump-start my hibernating motor?

  Now he was sitting at the bar, my territory, and my body was reacting as though it was very happy to see him.

  Wearing a Western-style striped shirt in shades of blue and a pair of ass-grabbing tight jeans, he looked even tastier than he had in the black leather jacket at the wheel of his vintage Corvette.

  Having reclaimed my position behind the bar, I gave myself permission to check out the tantalizing newcomer. So, I’d been correct; the stranger on the road had been the mysterious, troublemaking prodigal son. At the moment, he wasn’t making trouble, unless I could count the way my heart pounded a little harder as I studied him. He sat comfortably, half-turned outward on the stool, one hand on a mug of beer. My eyes made the journey up and down his lean frame, openly assessing his sex appeal, which I suspected went hand-in-hand with his potential for trouble. When I got to his eyes, I was oddly pleased to notice he was observing me as I checked him out.

  Lazily, he returned the assessment, heavy-lidded eyes lingering on my chest, traveling to my waist, my hips, then moving back to brush my throat. His look singed my skin wherever it touched. When his gaze caressed my lips, I could almost feel the scorch of his kiss, and with that on my mind, I cast a leisurely provocative smile in his direction.

  He raised his mug in an apparent toast of appreciation. Next to me, Sissy trilled her tongue and poked me in the small of the back. “I was beginning to wonder if you even liked men. Get on over there, girl.”

  I stopped myself from racing to the end of the bar.

  Barely.

  Locking onto his eyes, I found myself trapped in them, as I concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, until I reached his end of the bar.

  “We meet again.”

  “You two have met?” Grant’s eyebrows skyrocketed.

  “Last evening.” I hardly spared Grant a glance. “When he almost ran me and Cloud over with his car.”

  “You were standing in the middle of the road.” Prodigal son Travis ignores the obvious baiting.

  “My horse and I were crossing the road,” I correct, laying elbows on the bar and leaning toward him.

  Chapter Eight

  Travis

  I suspect the fall of the lavender top, to reveal the extra cleavage, was no accident. But hey, I wasn’t complaining. My eyes followed the curve into the intriguing shadows at the center of her chest.

  “That explains a lot,” Grant muttered under his breath. “Christine, allow me to introduce my brother, Travis McGee. He’s mostly harmless —when he’s not driving.”

  If I hadn’t been watching her, I would have missed the nearly imperceptible widening of her eyes followed by the quick flick of her tongue to her lips. My jeans tightened, and I fought the urge to shift and accommodate the reason.

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s anything but harmless,” She drawled. “But I’m willing to take my chances.” With one elegant hand, she took my hat off her head and parked it back on mine, setting it in place with a little tap.

  I removed it again and set it between us on the bar. “Buy you a drink?”

  She shook her head with obvious regret. “I’m working, sorry.”

  “Yeah, but you get a break, right?” I was aware I sounded desperate but was long past caring. “I can talk to your boss. See if you can take your break with me.”

  Grant opened his mouth but whatever he was going to say, he swallows the words when she placed two exquisitely manicured fingers on his wrist. The handful of shiny gold bands dangling from her wrist tinkled with her movement.

  “You won’t get anywhere.” She looks directly at me. “The boss here’s kind of a ball-buster. But I’ll tell you what. Come by around eleven tomorrow and I’ll buy you lunch.”

  With what might have been a wink, she was off to attend to other customers.

  Well, it wasn’t exactly a red light, more of a yield sign. I amused myself by watching her casual flirtations with customers from one end of the bar to the other.

  She stopped long enough to park another frosted mug of draught in front of me. “On the house. Welcome home.” Her smile lights her eyes and I temporarily lose my ability to speak. Then she is off again.

  “Well, crap.” Grant looks like he’s swallowed a bug. “What’s Bull MacKay doing here? He almost never shows his face.” I glance over my shoulder following Grant’s gaze. The burly man just entering the bar was as solid as he had been when he was a high school senior playing quarterback during my sophomore year. His face was weathered and his hair thinning, but the expression in his eyes was as sullen as I remembered.

  “Must’ve heard the grapevine buzzing,” said Grant.

  I shrugged, unconcerned. “Bound to happen sometime. Relax. I won’t start anything if he doesn’t.”

  Deliberately, I looked away and took a casual pull of my beer.

  “I heard you had the bad sense to crawl back home.” The goading voice came from behind him. I turned around to meet the other man’s glaring black eyes.

  “Well, if it isn’t Robert “Bull” MacKay the younger.”

  “Rumor was you’d got killed,” Bull sneered.

  “Rumors are overrated.” With a bit of effort, I kept my voice even, punctuating the sentence with a swig of my beer.

  “Still kidnapping little boys?” demanded Bull.

  “Your old man still looking for kids to beat the shit out of?” I countered in a soft tone that was in direct contrast to the general annoyance I felt.

  So focused was I on my old adversary that Christine caught him by surprise, materializing at my elbow and inserting herself between Bull and I. She carried a tray holding a mug of beer and she lifted this in Bull’s direction. I didn’t want her there, didn’t want the ugliness to sully her.

  But I was unable to stop her when she simply presented me with her back and touched Bull on his arm. “Hey, Bull, good to see you tonight. How are your mom and pop?”

  A suggestion of intimacy between Christine and Bull registered, and I white-knuckled my mug of beer. But as much as I wanted to turn my back on the scene, I couldn’t.

  Bull shook off her hand and growled, “what are you doin’, Christine, associatin’ with this?”

  Her laughter was a little too loud, her voice artificially bright. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Bull. He’s just a customer.” Though he’d obviously had more than enough to drink, she lifted the tray with the mug of beer in his direction. “How about one on the house?”

  The big man wavered, slowly releasing the fist at his side, finally snatching the mug and taking a long pull. Malevolent eyes glared at me over the mug as he finished in one long gulp and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Next time you see me, you won’t have a woman to hide behind.”

  “The next time you see me, try walking in the other direction,” I responded. “I’m not looking for trouble, Bull.”

  “Then you should have stayed away.” After a final pointed glare, Bull swaggered off.

  I let my old adversary have the small victory, and concentrated instead on suppressing the adrenaline pulsing through my system. So much for thoughts of a mutually pleasant seduction. I knew my eyes had hardened but I glanced at Christine anyway, laying a hand on her forearm. “You seeing him?”

  She frowned, obviously not caring for the proprietary sound of the question, and jerked her arm from my touch shifting her body slightly away. “First of all, I don’t see married men,” she replies in a voice gone cold. “Second, if I was seeing him, I wouldn’t have spent the evening thinking about what it would be like to see you!”

  With a toss of her head that loosened a tendril of hair, she spun around. The set of her shoulders advertised her tension, and I wince
. How many ways could I screw up tonight?

  “Wait. Please.” I felt the words being torn from me by a force I didn’t recognize. I only knew I wanted no burnt bridges between me and the siren with the bluebell-colored eyes.

  She hesitated, then sent me a hard stare over her shoulder. The chill in her eyes was nothing compared to the icy fingers working their way along my nerves. I drew a steadying breath and blew it out slowly.

  “I’m sorry. I took my mood out on you. Look, the man’s dangerous. What’s between us is… volatile.” I grimaced. “You should stay out of it.” I picked up my beer with an unsteady hand, unwilling to admit that watching her defuse the situation with kindness had sparked a slow-burning fuse of my own with pure jealousy at the core.

  Chapter Nine

  Christine

  Slowly and deliberately, I set the empty tray on the bar, turn to face Travis, then step close enough to make my point, without shouting over the band.

  “Obviously, the two of you have some kind of history. But I don’t share that history. Bull and I have an understanding about how he’ll behave in here. I don’t care if you two go find a dark alley and pound the crap out of each other, but let me make one thing clear.” I jammed my right index finger into his chest. “It isn’t going to happen in my place. Ever.” Stabbing my finger harder to emphasize the last word, I used the motion to push myself away.

  Just as carefully, Travis set his mug of beer on the bar and folded his arms across his chest. “First, there aren’t any alleys, dark or otherwise, in Pine Haven. Second, what do you mean your place? What happened to Tom Valentine?”

  What was the matter with me? I never put myself on display like I just had.

  Never.

  Yet as I watched his green eyes flash with surprise, I realized I wanted those green eyes on me again. Wanted any internal combustion he felt to be for me.