But they are, and I can see those wheels turning in each of their minds. When I look at Erica, I don’t care because she’s holding true to her word and I’m holding to mine. And that’s what matters.
We’ve had fun all night—dancing, laughing, talking, and touching. And it’s just what I need. She’s what I need, like this and nothing more.
Katelyn hops up, and by some invisible signal, the other women do too. Erica leans down, close to my ear so only I hear her. “Bathroom break so they can interrogate me. No worries, I’ll talk shit about you so they know I’m only after your dick,” Erica promises and then winks as she struts off behind Katelyn, Shayanne, Sophie, and Allyson.
I can’t help but track her across the room as she goes. She stands out in Hank’s, her rocker look and spitfire attitude different from the mostly rural ranching types who frequent this bar. But fuck, if that isn’t what draws me to her. I realize that Mark’s right. She keeps me on my toes and I like it. Not that I’ll tell him that, and not that it has some greater, deeper meaning the way he suggested.
“Well?” Brutal asks when the girls turn the corner into the hallway and we can all focus on something besides their asses again.
“Well, what?” Playing dumb seems prudent.
He pops me on the back of my head, knocking me forward. I’m a big motherfucker, but next to my brother, I look like an average-sized Joe. And he sometimes forgets his strength, but sometimes, he sure as hell uses it on purpose.
“What the fuck, Brutal?”
He leans forward, elbows on the table and eyes narrowed. “Get on with it before they get back.”
Bunch of gossipy assholes.
“Nothing to tell. I like her, like fucking her. She likes me, likes fucking me. The end.” How many times am I going to have to say this? Guys don’t usually do this, do they? Five pairs of eyes are laser-locked on me. Three blue, two brown, all telling me I’m a dumbass, but I’m not. “I swear it. She’s as much about casual as I am. We’re good.”
One laughs, I’m not even sure who starts it, but then they’re all chuckling. At me. “Fuck y’all.”
I sit back, arms crossed over my chest, knees spread wide beneath the table, a menacing glare on my face. They laugh harder.
Thank fuck the girls come back, all atwitter. Each of us stands, letting them sit back down, but I hold out my hand to Erica. “Let’s dance.”
“Fuck yes, Cowboy.” She sounds as relieved as I am to get away from the table for a minute.
As we take to the dance floor, Morgan Wallen’s Chasing You pours out of the jukebox and over the swaying couples. We start to move, nothing fancy now, though I showed her how to two-step earlier and she can follow a lead for some simple turns and switches. But we need to talk, so I just sway her back and forth. “How bad was it in there? You running on me?”
A grin stretches her lips, but there’s a tinge of fear deep in her eyes. “You have a great family and they obviously love you . . . a lot. They were singing your praises, how you’re so good with animals which means you’ll be a great dad one day, how you look after everyone so you’ll be a good husband, how you’re smarter than you let on so don’t let the dumb redneck act fool me, and that once you’re in, you stay in, hell or high water.”
“Shit.”
It’s nice that they said those things, really, it is. But I can feel the foundation rumbling beneath Erica and me from their assumptions. She’s quiet for a second, our eyes locked. It hurts my neck a little to look down when she’s this close, and her fiery eyes make it hard to say this. I pull her in even closer, and she lets me, laying her cheek to my chest.
“You know how you said everyone thought you were gonna marry Reed?” I feel her nod. “My family wants me to get married. It’s sweet, and mostly because they’re all so happy that they want everyone to be in love, but it doesn’t have anything to do with what I want. Nothing’s changed from what we said.”
The tension dissolves and she melts in my arms. “You sure?”
“Hell, you don’t have to be so excited that I’m not dropping to a knee.” I sound harsh, but I’m fighting back a laugh and she knows it.
She smacks my chest. Feels like a butterfly landing on me—okay, not really, because she can pack a punch I’m sure, but she’s taking it easy on me. “We met a fucking week ago. I’ve already tried to kill you with a wrench, almost sucked your soul out of your dick, damn near killed you with marathon sex, done the meet-the-family deals for the most part, been on two dates, and texted like teenagers who got their first phones yesterday. I think we’re good.”