“Love you. Call me when you get back to your spooky cabin.”
“I’ll text. Night.”
I slip the phone in my purse and look up at the sign on the barthat seems to have the most action. “Thisis it?” They really need a New York lesson on what to consider the “it” bar.
It’s a low-slung building with a small neon sign on the window with the bar name. There’s a larger wood-carved one over the storefront, which I like better.
I pull the wooden door handle in the shape of a big bone and step inside like I belong.
I’m hit with the thick air of fried food, beer, and stale smoke.
Strings of dim colored bulbs hang from the ceiling. There’s a soft glow over the bar, which stretches along one wall. A modern country song plays from a jukebox at the entrance.
I take an empty seat on the side of the bar, against the wall. From here, I can see everything, so this seems as good a spot as any to .?.?. people watch, I suppose.
I try to grab the bartender’s attention. He’s a middle- aged, brawny man with light hair. A smirk plays on his lips as he wipes glasses and chats with what I assume is a group of regulars.
The place is half full, which seems about right. Even in New York, this is average for a Tuesday night.
I hear a handful of conversations from where I sit. The one that piques my interest the most is an upcoming rodeo event a threesome of cowboys are discussing.
One catches me staring and lifts his chin. The other two follow his eyes.
“Hey, pretty lady,” the blond one greets me. He’s got an interesting silver and red bolo tie and judging by the way the others don’t engage—including the one who caught me staring—he’s the alpha in the small group.
And I decide .?.?. I don’t like him.
“Hello,” I offer non-committedly and turn back to the bartender.
“Where you come from?” the cowboy asks, shifting toward me.
“New York.”
He chuckles and scans me. “What brings you by?”
I turn a hard glare on him. “If you’re not here to take my order, please go away.”
The other two cowboys look up at the man like I’d just insulted a prime minister.
“Hey, Benny,” he calls. “Get Snow White here a drink on my tab.”
The bartender rolls his eyes, which tells me this cowboy has no authority here, which is a relief.
“I’m good, thanks. I can get my own,” I tell the cowboy, then turn back to the bartender. “I’ll have anything off your specials. Make it colorful and virgin, please.”
“Virgin, huh?” the cowboy beside me comments.
“The drink,” I clarify, getting irritated.
He scratches his beard. “Good to know.”
I tap my foot against the barstool, then shift to face him. “I heard you talking about rodeos. I’ve never been to one, so I was interested. It wasn’t an invitation to buy me a drink.”
He extends his hands as if to say he’s an open book. “What do you want to know?”
I glance at him but don’t answer.
He smirks, perking a brow. “It wasn’t an invitation to one, just offering to feed a curious mind. Call me Rodeo Ricky.”
