Every minute we drive out of Hidden Valley, my nerves settle a little more.
Fields of crops flank us, barbed wire fences holding livestock every few acres flying by as we drive.
The rumble of motorcycles grows louder until they’re passing in front of us, waving as they go. It’s hard not to recognize the guys, with their tie-dye leather jackets.
Ryder rolls up the windows and turns the music down.
We continue, neither of us saying anything as we settle into the safety of our own little bubble.
Another ten minutes pass, and we’re still behind the guys from the biker book club. They turn their signals on, slowing to pull up a driveway into the only standing structure for miles.
“Can we go there?” I ask, nodding toward the small, rundown bar with a lit-up sign that reads “The Rusty Spur”, except theyisn’t lit.
“Anywhere you want, darlin’.”
He follows behind the guys, parking in an available spot on the side of the bar beside a dumpster before turning off the engine and coming around my side to unbuckle me. He takes my hand, steeringme toward the doors.
Peanut shells litter the ground, and the smell of stale beer permeates the air as we make our way to the bar.
“I’ve always wondered how people with a peanut allergy navigate something like this. Obviously, they don’t go to places with peanuts all over the floor, but is there a good way to know about this sort of thing?” Ryder muses, his boots crunching on the shells.
“That’s a good question, and unfortunately, one I don’t know the answer to,” I tell him, chuckling lightly.
The bikers are all seated at the far end of the bar, chatting with the bartender. Her hair is all jagged, sharp lines of various shades of blonde, and she’s wearing a tight, cropped tank with denim shorts that show off her tattooed abdomen. It makes me think about the tattoo I’ve newly discovered on Ryder and how unnervingly sexy it is.
It’s reassuring to know that, as wild as the last few months have been, Ryder will remain a steady constant in my life. I’ll get to be up close and personal with the ink on his thighas often as I want.
I drag Ryder up to the bar, taking a seat beside Wyatt on a wooden stool, leaning over the bar to wave at them. “Hey, guys,” I say with a small wave.
“Evenin’, Miss Lola,” Levi says from the opposite end, his long gray beard hanging to what I’d imagine is where his nipples might’ve sat in the early two-thousands. Each of the men greet us, and the bartender returns to take our order a moment later.
“Howdy. I’m Raylin.” The bartender introduces herself, tipping her hat at me with a wink. “What can I get y’all to drink?”
“A rum and Coke for me, please.”
I look over to Ryder, and he smiles at her. I bask in the difference between the polite smiles he gives everyone else and the ones I receive. Each one contains multitudes, with a different level of hidden emotions, ranging from lust anddesire to admiration, contentment, and my favorite,endless devotion.
“Just a water for me, ma’am,” he tells her, unintentionally yanking me from my thoughts as I give him a look. “Don’t think you’ve gotta hold back on my account, darlin’. I’ll keep you safe,” he assures me when Raylin sets the drinks in front of us. I let the cool, sweet liquid burn as it runs down my throat, warmth settling in my chest.
I turn in my seat, looking around the small room to get my bearings. There’s a three-person band seated in the corner closest to the front doors, playing all the quintessential country songs I expect from a place like this.
Tall wooden tables are scattered around the room, but the center is clear of anything besides people and scuffed-up wood floorboards, presumably from years of line dancing. A few couples are dancing, and there’s a table near us with a bunch of rowdy guys talking shop.
The twangy opening notes of “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” fill the air, the crowd whooping as boots hit the center of the room, people flooding the dancefloor. Strings of fairy lights hang low across the rafters, casting a warm glow over the room.
I reach up, grabbing Ryder’s hat from his head and settling it on mine, grinning up at him. “Come on, cowboy. Impress me.”
I toss back the rest of my drink, taking his hand and dragging him out to dance.
Couples and groups are already in formation, their boots tapping in time with the music. Ryder slides a hand to the small of my back, guiding me into position as if we hadn’t spent the entirety of our adolescent years line dancing together.
The music picks up, the crowd moving as one, shuffling left then right, boots stomping in unison. I throw myself into the rhythm despite the way my joints scream at me to stop. I refuse to have another thing taken from me at the hands of something outof my control.
My hips sway, and laughter bubbles out of me with every step and spin.
Ryder matches me move for move, his pretty blue eyes twinkling under the lights and his grin widening each time our gazes meet.
“Unlike this bar, I see thatyou, Ryder Lockhart, are not as rusty as I’d thought,” I call over the music, my breathless excitement giving me away.
