The guys were basically harmless, but his gut tightened anyway. He didn’t want Roxy getting mixed up with them. The old county sheriff’s department had turned a blind eye to their favorite pastime, but the Bluelick PD intended to find their source and cut it off. Nobody suspected Dobie or Kenny of masterminding anything, but if they were in the net when it closed, they’d get caught up, too. A girl looking to stay out of trouble ought to steer clear. If she couldn’t figure that out for herself, he’d have a word with her later. In the meantime, he picked up one of the pitchers and turned to intercept them.
“Dudes, this guy!” Kenny hugged him, sloshing some of the beer in the process.
“Our hero,” Dobie added and took the pitcher. “First, he rescued us from Elton’s zombie, then he gave us a ride into town when the Honda crapped out, and now beer. Where does it end? You’re the best, West. Hey, that rhymes.”
“The pitcher goes to Junior,” West told him and pointed to the tables they’d commandeered between the coin-operated Valley Cougar that had weathered more than a few spilled beers and broken cues, and the open area Rawley’s called a dance floor when someone fired up the juke.
“Right on,” Dobie said. “We got this. Uh-oh, Callie’s working tonight. She hates my guts. Roger, big man, take the lead?”
“If you tipped once in a while, she might like you better,” Roger suggested but moved in front of Dobie, who then turned a wide smile on Addy and Roxy. “You ladies joining us?”
“We’ll come by in a bit to congratulate Junior,” Addy replied. “Y’all tune the party up for us.”
“Will do,” Kenny assured her and followed Roger to the table. Dobie trailed along after them, carrying the other pitcher.
West nodded to Addy. “Have fun.” To Roxy, he said, “Stay out of trouble.”
…
Roxy wondered why she didn’t just burst into flames. West kept his distance, but his hot stare followed her all over the pub. It singed her skin as she stretched and angled around the pool table, doing her best to beat Kenny. She silently blamed West when she scratched on the eight ball.
Someone put Luke Bryan on the jukebox and Addy pulled her onto the dance floor with a handful of other country girls to shake it. The weight of West’s gaze tripped her feet. When the song changed and Jeb tried to sweep Addy into a slow dance, the redhead sidestepped and aimed him at Roxy. But even the feel of Jeb’s arms around her—and they were nice enough arms—didn’t block out the slow burn of Officer Donovan’s eyes moving over her.
Only one thing unnerved her worse than being on the receiving end of his formidable focus. Namely, when she wasn’t. Every so often, the leggy waitress with the Bettie Page bangs and a ruby-lipped smile brought another pitcher to his table or refilled West’s soda and used it as an excuse to hang all over him. Smiling. Flirting. Once she even ran her fingers through his hair. Whenever West switched his attention to the waitress and returned her open invitation of a smile, Roxy felt the meanest urge to tackle the poor unsuspecting slut.
An unholy combination of hormones and temper bubbled inside her by the time she took refuge in the ladies’ room. She dawdled at the sink, letting the cool water run over her hands. When she reached for a paper towel, she noticed a pack of cigarettes on top of the dispenser—Marlboro Lights with a red disposable lighter tucked into the cellophane sleeve. She hadn’t suffered a raging nicotine craving since just before she’d headed into Music City Pawn & Loan to recover Gibson, but now one hit hard, like a thirst in her blood. She wrestled with her willpower for a half second then grabbed the pack and tapped one out. The lighter felt as natural to her hand as her own fingers. Her thumb rolled over the sparkwheel and settled on the ignition button with practiced ease. The satisfying rasp heralded a strong, perfect flame. Had it spit and sputtered she probably would have tossed everything in the trash and walked away, but it didn’t. She touched that flickering fire to the tip of the cigarette and inhaled the familiar taste of tobacco and the sweet, almost euphoric kick of nicotine. Damn the man.
She faced her reflection in the mirror and pushed back the wave of disappointment at the girl with the cigarette in her hand.
The universe gave you a free pass tonight. Enjoy it. Get out there, live your life, and forget about West Donovan.
Good advice. She drew herself up to full height. He could keep his mouthwatering abs, and his broody stares, and his giggly cocktail waitress. And his precious rules. Deliberately, she shrugged the strap of her top off her shoulder. Before she could question whether she was asserting herself or living up to his nickname for her, she took another drag of her cigarette, pivoted, and pushed through the door—straight into West.
Sheezus. She staggered back. His arm came around her waist to catch her. Or capture her. Intent was a little hard to make out, but the ease by which he could do either sent a hairline fracture through her newly reinforced confidence. “What are you doing lurking outside the ladies’ room?” Not liking how flustered she sounded, she added a hair toss and then took a deep drag on her cigarette.
His eyes grew darker as his pupils expanded. “Waiting for you.” He plucked the cigarette from her fingers and crushed it under his heel.
“Hey!”
“You’re quitting, remember?”
“I’m trying to quit. As in, a work in progress.”
“Let me give you some incentive. The next time I see a
