Sterling Addams
The four tequila shots I just tossed back are making themselves known as I stand up off the camping chair I’ve been occupying for the last little while. A warmth spreads through my limbs, my head fuzzy and light, as I shove through the people crowding the campsite to get to the cooler for a bottle of water. I need to slow down; otherwise, I’ll pay the price for it in the morning when it’s time to pack up and hit the road to our next spot.
It’s my turn to drive, and there’s no way Cope’s letting me off the hook just because I’m a little hungover.
I’ve had a dang good few nights in Ryder, Wyoming, for their annual Rodeo Nights. The event is similar to Stampede Days, but on a much smaller scale. Won overall two out of the three nights I competed, and I’m riding that high tonight. I’m not the only one either. We all managed to score high this weekend, hence the campsite full of random-ass people I’ve never met before.
If I had to guess, I’d say Colt, andpossiblyCope, recruited a ton of buckle bunnies from the rodeo tonight, inviting them here with the promise of free liquor and sex with a cowboy.
Cold water bottle secured, I dip my head, rounding another group of drunk strangers as I make my way toward the camper. Tossing a quick glance behind me, I scan the area, finding Cope talking to Daisy and Jessie with a beer in his hand.
Good.That means he won’t be coming to the camper any time soon, hopefully.
Stepping into the camper, I snigger to myself as I pull out my phone, feeling the liquor flowing freely through my bloodstream. I cross the small space, kicking off my shoes and shoving my jeans down as soon as I reach the bed.
I plop down, but not before I whack the back of my skull on the top bunk—I mean, really, whose freaking idea was it to put a double set of bunk beds in this camper? For grown men? Idiotic, if you ask me. Finding the contact I’m looking for right at the top, I hit the FaceTime button, holding my phone at a seriously unflattering angle as it rings a few times.
Just as I’m starting to think he won’t answer, the line connects, and Shooter’s groggy face comes into view. His baby blue eyes are slightly bloodshot, probably from sleep, and there’re pillow imprints on his cheek. A goofy-looking smile grows on my face as I take him in, imagining how warm and cozy it would feel to snuggle up to him. How he would smell like sleep and clean bedding and Shooter, all at the same time. I can vividly imagine how his hands—roughened, yet gentle—would feel on my waist as I buried my face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in like I needed to, to survive. How the base of his neck and the expanse of his back would be slightly sweaty because he’s a hot sleeper. It’s why he always goes to bed in next to nothing, even when we’re on the road.
And after all of that, I think about how much I miss Shooter. How much I miss him being around. How much I miss us sleeping in the same camper, even when we weren’t sleeping in the same bed. I miss his arrogance. The cockiness. I miss his smartass, sarcastic comments. The way he looks at me.
AnnnnndI must be drunker than I thought because I sound like a freaking sap.
“Earth to Sterling,” Shooter says, voice rough and raspy.
“Huh?”
Shooter snorts. “You called me in the middle of the fucking night, and then just stared at me without saying anything. What’s up?”
“I’m drunk,” I blurt out, my cheeks warming. From the alcohol, or the fact that I’m drunk and he’s not, I’m not sure.
“I can tell.” He turns on his side, propping the phone against something—if I had to guess, I’d say the lamp on his nightstand—before resting his hands underneath his cheek on the pillow. This new position and the tiredness in his eyes make him appear much more boyish than he is. It’s endearing. And adorable. Two words that six months ago I’d never think to describe Shooter.
My brows knit. “What? How?”
“Your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are glazed over, for one.” He clears his throat, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “And for two, you’ve got this goofy-ass grin plastered on your face as you look at me. You never lookthisenamored when focusing on me.”
“That’s not true,” I huff.
“Oh, yes, it is.” Shooter laughs. “Take it you had a good night?”
“Yeah, it was good. Won tonight,” I beam. “Colt swarmed the campsite with buckle bunnies.”
He chuckles. “Sounds like him.”
“Daisy bet Cope that she could beat him in a game of flip cup. She did.”
“Of course, she did.” The sense of pride in his eyes warms my chest. I know—from both of them—that Shooter and Daisy had a heart-to-heart when she found out he was staying back. They needed that, and I’m happy they got to have it.
“What’d you do today?” I ask him, moving to lie down. I’ve got nothing to prop my phone with, so I just hold it.
He blows out a deep sigh. “Had therapy; that went okay. Went to the gym, did some training. Then hit up Lou’s for lunch with Whit.”
“Sounds like a good day.”
“Could use you telling me you miss me again,” he retorts, a smirk tilting his lips.
I roll my eyes, sighing loudly. “Not gonna happen.”
