“Be careful what you wish for.”
Sarah Whelan yanked the passenger door open just then, stalling his heart with a surge of adrenaline and scaring a little squeak out of Roxy. “Thank God you’re back! If we don’t get some entertainment going pronto, this reception is in big trouble.”
Roxy handed her the guitar case and scooted out of the truck. Before she shut the door, she muttered, “Careful has never been my calling card.”
…
Performing always gave Roxy a natural high. She had no need to join the toast Junior and Lou Ann offered up as a thanks for playing them an “amazing” version of “One Man Band” for their first dance. She kept the chorus going from the sidelines as the wedding party went shot-for-shot while belting out Hank Williams, Jr.’s “Family Tradition.” She declined the fireball Jeb Rawley poured to seal the deal on his agreement to pay her two hundred dollars a night to play at the pub on Wednesdays and Fridays. There seemed to be only one temptation she couldn’t turn away from.
West.
More specifically, watching Lou Ann’s three out-of-town bridesmaids—very blond, very busty, very available cousins from Beaver Dam—take turns slow-dancing him over the boards while she strummed away like the hired help. Junior, Tyler, Josh, Shaun, and the rest of the groomsmen plied him with drinks between bridesmaids, but West wasn’t putting up much of a fight on either front. The bridesmaid of the moment rested her impressive bosom against his chest and toyed with the hair at the back of his neck while they swayed together directly in front of her. Correction. He wasn’t putting up any fight.
By the time Kenny showed and relieved her of her entertainment duties, West had disappeared, and she’d lost track of the bridesmaids. Everyone else gave her a big round of applause. Better to just be thankful people liked her performance, enjoy the rest of the reception, and put West Donovan out of her mind. Baiting him had started as a warped attempt to get the upper hand, but the ego blow she sustained every time he rejected her turned the whole thing into an idiotic act of self-punishment.
She’d had enough punishment. She was due for some fun.
When a slightly inebriated Sarah Whelan planted a smacking kiss on her cheek, she laughed and shared a hug with the grateful woman. She exchanged fist-bumps with two awestruck little fairy princess flower girls named Hope and Faith and an enthusiastic handshake with their mother after Roxy agreed to give the girls guitar lessons at the two-for-one rate of twenty-five dollars an hour. When Ed Pinkerton invited her outside to have a smoke with the old guys, she got right on that. Dobie wanted to dance? Hell yeah, she danced. She kicked off her shoes and did the Electric Slide like a pro. Then she got Fancy with a cute firefighter named Cooper before Junior cut in and they whip/nae-nae’d the crap out of everyone. Someone yelled, “Jager shots!” and most of the room migrated to the bar. It seemed like the ideal exit for her. She wound her way to the table where she’d stowed Gib, her purse, and shoes. Placing a hand on the back of a chair for balance, she leaned forward and slid her foot into a sandal.
“Leaving already?” West’s voice flowed over her, a little thicker than normal. She craned her neck to find him behind her. Battened down Officer Donovan with his crisp uniform and cool stare always put a flutter in chest, but disheveled West with his hot gaze and loose collar threatened to melt her into a big, brainless puddle of hormones. Reminding herself she had the wanton fingers of three horny bridesmaids to thank for his sexily unkempt hair didn’t quite combat the allure of him leaning against the wall with his jacket hooked over his shoulder, his tie hanging, and his shirtsleeves rolled.
“My work here is done.” She slipped her other shoe on and then turned to face him.
He scanned the bar. “Looks like the party’s just getting started.”
“Have fun,” she said, wincing when the careless tone she’d aimed for sounded pissy. Like he needed her encouragement anyway. As far as she could see, he’d been having plenty of fun tonight. At least three bridesmaids’ worth.
“Better things to do with the rest of your night, Rox? Better people to do them with?”
“I wouldn’t say that, but speaking strictly for myself, no story that starts with Jager shots ever ends well.” With that piece of hard-earned Goodhart wisdom imparted, she turned to grab her purse and Gib before adding, “I’m out.”
“With whom?”
She didn’t see him push away from the wall, but when she swung around, he was right there. She nearly nailed him in the nuts with Gibson. He shifted so the case thudded off his thigh and let out a short grunt. She didn’t know if the impact of the case to his leg caused the sound or the knowledge that his night had come within millimeters of ending even worse than one of her Jager shot stories. “Watch out, West.”
He avoided the guitar and stepped closer. “With whom?”
“With myself.”
“You’re going to walk home?”
“It’s, like, a mile.”
His brows lowered. “Alone?”
“It’s barely nine, oh, and it’s Bluelick. Besides, if anybody tries anything”—she thumped his leg again with the guitar—“Gib and I will lay them out.”
“Ow. No doubt.” He wrestled the case from her. “I’ll go with you.” Then he turned and left her in the dust.
“Hey…” Exasperated, she trotted after him. “I don’t need anybody to walk me home.”
“You’re walking me home, Reckless. Saving me from one of those stories that starts with Jager shots and ends poorly.”
Chapter Ten
West would have offered to drive Roxy home. Would have, should have, wanted to, but he was in no condition to get behind the wheel. He could blame Shaun, Josh, Tyler, and the rest of those motherfuckers
