Pickup Man by Deirdre O'Dare
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Excerpt:
Jana Tucker paused on the sidewalk outside the Club El Paso. She needed a moment to gather her courage. Over the door, the garish neon sign flashed, dazzling her eyes. No time like the present. I'll never win that bet with Kim and Tracey if I don't try. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed the door inward and stepped into hazy cacophony.
Inside the club, a well-amped country and western band rocked the room while the smoke was so thick she could barely see two feet ahead. She paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim light, feeling as out of place as a sheepherder at a tea party.
Why did I ever let myself get talked into this? Damn old friends who know you can't resist a dare!
From what she'd heard, the bar was crowded every weekend, but tonight, with the big rodeo in town, the dimly lit room reminded her of the proverbial sardine can, packed to the brim. She hesitated, trying to get her bearings. The club had live music every Friday and Saturday night, but this time it was a name band, not just local talent like Alvie and the Muleskinners.
Down and Dirty performed for the capacity crowd of cowboys and cowgirls, buckle bunnies and locals. On the body-jammed dance floor, couples gyrated to the driving beat. From what she could see, every small table around the dance floor was occupied. With a final crescendo of twanging guitars and pounding drums, the band ended the set. The musicians stood to indicate it was break time. The dancers reacted at once. Time to grab another long neck, and maybe step outside for a breath of hot but fresh air.
As the crowd parted, a lane opened across the room to the end of the bar. A cowboy sat on the farthest stool, hunched over his drink. The stool beside him was empty as if his dark mood kept the revelers at arm's length. In an instant, Jana recognized Tyler Parton. Nobody else wore those retro-styled red and black shirts that had become his trademark–the ones with contrasting piping around the yokes and embroidered roses, fore and aft. Straight out of the forties. This one was black.
Gawd, he's one hot looking man. An ass to die for, too. Those tight Wranglers really showcase his buns.
Jana's lusty thoughts surprised her. Hardly typical of a prim high school librarian, her normal persona. Maybe it was the atmosphere. The musky odor of beer, hot bodies and rodeo dust would stir anyone's libido.
Better make this good, girl.
She pulled her shoulders back to tighten the glitter-splashed, cropped, black tee across her breasts and sauntered into the gap, swinging her hips.
Thank goodness for that exotic dance video. Now if I can only remember and repeat some of those moves.
She had to admit she'd learned a lot from the video. This walk was one of the best tricks–pure sex on two feet, shod in a brand new pair of scarlet boots. Her spandex jeans couldn't fit any closer if they were painted on. She looked good and she knew it. The old Jana lacked the brass to carry off this act, but maybe the new one could do it. She gave a little shiver.
Damn, I feel like everyone is looking at me and they all think I'm a hooker.
Dodging departing dancers and hurrying waitresses, she made a bee-line for Tyler. Fierce determination fueled her desire to win her bet and prove she wasn't the bashful and backward twenty-seven-year-old professional spinster Kim and Tracey accused her of being. Of the three old school friends, Kim and Tracey had both been married, but she hadn't. Privately she thought she might be the lucky one, especially after hearing the sad tales of their divorces, but that wasn't the point.
He's hung like a Brahma bull, too, from what those tight jeans showed today.
At that brazen memory, Jana felt the heat wash over her face. Thank goodness no one could see her blush in the dim light. But she'd noticed. She couldn't help it, just as half the female population of Riverbend had also. At today's rodeo, she could hardly take her gaze off him. Whether he won or not, he was one hot hunk of cowboy.
But today hadn't been one of his good days. Coming out of the chute his bareback bronc had stumbled. When the horse fell in a leggy awkward heap, Ty had barely scrambled clear. He'd get a re-ride tomorrow morning, but that wasn't much consolation. Then with one of the bull's infamous tricky moves, Big Trouble had unloaded him in the seventh second, hardly a heartbeat short of the whistle. Up until then, he'd had a good ride. Not that it mattered. No money, no points, in either event. He was clearly taking the run of rotten luck hard.
Finally reaching him, she slid onto the stool at his side. He ignored her.
"Lousy luck today." Her voice came out gritty and low, like she needed a drink.
"G'wan," he slurred. "Buckle bunnies don't hang around losers."
Somehow, she sensed he wasn't really all that drunk. "I'm not a buckle bunny and you're damn well no loser."
He turned then, raked her with a pair of pale gray eyes, every inch of her from the fire-hued Stetson with the rhinestone band to the toes of her scarlet boots. His gaze held a heated tactile intensity. God, what eyes. She went hot and cold under their steady gaze. People said he was part Apache. With that shoulder length black hair clubbed back by a rawhide thong, he looked the part.
"And just how would you know, little girl? I've never seen you in here before. How come you're here tonight, and why are you hitting on me?"
"I'm here 'cause I like to dance, to soak up the atmosphere. Anyway, one day doesn't make a loser," she retorted. "There's always tomorrow and the next rodeo."
He snorted. "Tell that to Tawny."
Who's Tawny? Then Jana recalled the petite blonde. The girl had been plastered to Ty's side at the last several rodeos she'd attended. Tonight, the blonde was conspicuous by her absence. Jana wanted to make a snippy comment about blondes not being known for their powers of reasoning, but she suspected that wouldn't go over well, especially seeing as how her hair was dark auburn.
Just then someone crammed some coins in the jukebox and Trace Adkins' latest began to play. She took a sip of her beer, fighting a grimace at the unfamiliar bitter flavor. The harried bartender had simply shoved a mug her way, not even asking. Was beer all they served in here? Given a chance, she would have opted for just about anything else cold and wet. She seldom drank alcohol, but when she did, her beverage of choice was a nice dry wine.
When Ty turned away as if to dismiss her, she felt a surge of panic. Oh no, I can't fail! I wouldn't have guts to try this again. Reaching out, she put a hand on his shoulder. Under her fingers, his flesh felt hot and hard as the tight muscle of a good Quarter horse.
"Come on, cowboy," she said in her lowest husky voice, the voice that was totally inappropriate for a high school librarian. "Let's dance. I didn't come in here to sit around and be someone's crying towel."
"You don't know one goddamn thing," he muttered, but he stood and followed her onto the dance floor, walking as steadily as if he were stone-sober. "One bad day–or a dozen…"
As she turned to face him, he looked at her again, really looked. As that fierce gaze slid over her body, she felt it as keenly as a touch. Her nipples hardened, thrusting against the clinging tee and her knees wobbled. She could see he didn't miss any of her reaction, which proved he wasn't nearly as drunk as he'd pretended to be at first. Bet he's nursed that one beer for quite awhile.
His angular lips quirked into a parody of a smile. "Okay, little girl, if you came to dance, I'll give it a try. In that outfit, you're looking sexier than Dolly Parton at her best with a little Shania Twain on the side. I hope you're not just for show 'cause I could sure use a dose of warm woman tonight."
In answer she snuggled close to Ty's big hard body as they stepped off to the music. Take his mind off the blonde, off anything except me. She'd bet he was just lonely and angry enough to let his guard down. In fact, she was counting on it.
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