That Night At Stables
Brock and Kennedy’s “Meet Cute”
(Companion short story to Cowboy, Take Me Away)
Kennedy
Thursday Happy Hour. In the small town of Hillcrest there really was nowhere else to go except Stables, the local bar and grill. Happy hour was four to six every weekday. Just good ol’ fashioned beer on tap and one dollar rail drinks. Just my style. And my budget.
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The themes nights weren’t bad, either. Karaoke, heavy on the country, on Tuesday nights; trivia, heavy on the 80s, on Wednesdays. And on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights there were live bands for dancing.
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I sat in my car a moment to freshen my lipstick and adjust my cleavage, then headed inside to meet Darcy, my co-worker and local best friend.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness as I entered the dark wood-paneled room. The first time I came here I admit I rolled my eyes at the décor which teetered between southern old timey saloons and cheesy Western movies. The walls were covered with faded paintings of horses, cattle, sunsets, and hay bales. A few worn saddles and bridles hung between. All covered in dust. All probably donated by actual local ranches.
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A small dining room area with red and white checked tablecloths boarded a large open area used from Thursday to Saturday for dancing and Sundays for bingo and Lions Club meetings. Now, glancing at the stage, I could see the band already setting up. They’d start playing after the supper crowd moved through.
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A large square bar sat in the middle of the room with bar stools on all sides, most of which would fill quickly in about an hour. I easily spotted Darcy’s long signature braid as she flirted with the bartender, Jeb.
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Jeb placed a Mich Ultra in front of me and a hard cider in front of Darcy before I even hoisted myself up onto the stool next to Darcy. I opened my mouth to ask for menus, but he asked, “Want the mozzarella sticks?” before I could form words.
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“Of course,” Darcy said. “Kens, you want anything else?”
“Nope. Sounds good to me.” When Jeb moved off to put the order in, and I had taken a glorious sip of the ice-cold beer, I said, “Do we come here too often?”
“Who cares? Besides, what else is there to do in this town?” she asked.
Like me, Darcy was a transplant from a more densely populated area. Me from near Baltimore; Darcy from Virginia. We both had advocacy on our minds when we took positions in the rural west of Maryland. Cow pastures, chicken farms, and mountain ranges were the highlights here. The motto—live and let live. Change was slow to come and not entirely welcome.
“Cow tipping?” I suggested in response to her question.
“Cowboy tipping?” Darcy added with a smirk.
“That’s the spirit. To our quest for great sex,” I said, holding up my frosted glass for a toast. She clinked her bottle against it.
“To great sex. May all our ups and downs be under the covers,” she said, laughing.
“Order up,” Jeb said, placing the plate in front of us. “You know, if you’re looking for great sex, these mozzarella sticks aren’t the only thing that’s hot and ready.”
I glanced up at him sharply with a stick halfway to my mouth. He winked. Maybe cowboy tipping wasn’t a bad idea after all.
“As far as pick-up lines go, Jeb, that wasn’t half bad,” I said, sinking my teeth into the fried cheesy goodness. Totally worth the calories.
“Just putting it out there,” he said as he walked away to help another patron.
I looked over at my friend. “Are you giggling? Do you need a bowl for your drool? What is wrong with you?”
“These mozzarella sticks are sooo good,” she said around a mouthful. Then waggled her eyes at Jeb.
I gave him a once over—tan skin, muscular arms, deep brown eyes. Definitely one of the cuter boys in this town. Too bad having a one-night stand with the bartender at the only decent bar in town was not the best idea. He was the difference between an ice-cold brew and a skunky one.
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Darcy and I settled into a conversation about her stupid long-distance boyfriend, Mitch, as the stools started to fill around us. We always tried to get there a little early—before the buzzed pick-up crew started in with "Let me buy you a drink, sweetheart" and "You girls look lonely, mind if I join you?"
Or my personal favorite, "Looks like you ladies are missing some meat at this party." Because starting with a reference to your penis is always a good idea, said no woman ever.
An hour after we arrived, every stool around the bar was full, and Darcy and I were on our third round. With only mozzarella sticks in my belly, I felt the lovely effects of the alcohol blurring the edges of my consciousness. Enough to make me aware that my voice was a little louder than necessary but also enough to not really care overly much. I was thinking about asking for the check when Darcy nudged my arm.
"Don't look now, but I think that cowboy at the end of the bar has been checking you out," she loud whispered. I turned in my seat to see who she was talking about, but she hit me on the arm. "I said don't look!"
"Of course I'm going to look!" I exclaimed.
"Well, don't make it obvious," she said.
"Which one?" I asked, trying to make it look like I was just scanning the crowd.
"Last seat on the left. Dark wash jeans, black baseball cap."
I gave her an incredulous look. She just described every other guy in here. Hillcrest pretty much had two types: ranchers and townies. Ranchers wore jeans, hats, and boots. Almost exclusively. They'd sometimes switch between a t-shirt or a button-down flannel depending on the occasion. Townies wore khakis and dress shirts to happy hour since they came from their office jobs in the neighboring city of Brookdale.
"I said the hat was black," Darcy said, flipping her dark braid over her shoulder in an attempt to appear nonchalant. "Oh, Jeb is talking to him now."
I swiveled around in my stool to peer down the bar. Jeb and a well-built cowboy around my age were doing the fist-grab lean-in thing guys do with friends. I didn't recognize the guy, but I was still relatively new to town, so that wasn't surprising.
And I knew I'd remember seeing this particular cowboy. My half-intoxicated lady bits squeezed their approval as his lean into the bar lifted his finely sculpted ass off his bar stool. A Hollywood handsome cowboy clad in well-worn jeans, cowboy boots, and a "wanna tame me?" smile. Couple that with the dark hair and blue eyes, and he was basically my kryptonite.
"Do you know who he is?" I asked Darcy, my voice huskier than usual.
"Nope. I don't think he's been in before when we've been here." Then, her chocolate eyes lit up.
Uh-oh, I know that look. I braced myself for her next sentence which was sure to be ridiculous.
"You should go home with him!"
"Are you out of your mind?" I exclaimed. "He's a stranger. I don't want to end up on Dateline."
"What?" she asked, feigning innocence. "Jeb knows him. He's cute. And I bet he's good in the sack. You should give him a test drive and let me know if it's worth breaking things off with Mitch."
"Ew! You'd want my sloppy seconds?"
"If it's good, why not?" she said, laughing again. I shook my head at her.
"Ooo, he has a friend with him," I said, pointing at the equally handsome cowboy sitting next to him. "Why don't you put your money where your mouth is and join me in one-night-stand land," I challenged.
"Kens, you know I have Mitch. I'm not going to cheat on him," she said, but her smile faltered a little. Trouble in paradise—as usual.
"Well, I'm not interested in a one-off right now, either. I have too much going on at work to worry about stroking some guy's ego," I said and downed the last of my beer.
"His ego isn't what I would stroke. But to each their own," she said and winked.
I rolled my eyes at her and squinched up my nose. She laughed. "Don't be such a prude. Oh, another thought: what if he's just passing through? That would be the perfect one-night stand!"
"Darcy, I just told you I'm not into one-night stands," I reminded her. My eyes kept drifting back to the stranger at the end of the bar though. He couldn't have been more my type if Santa's elves had hand-crafted him based on my exact criteria and placed him in this bar with a big ol' "For Kennedy" tag. Dark hair peeked out from beneath his backward baseball hat. His tan skin emphasized the blue of his eyes, which caught the light even at this distance. A hint of a beard ran along his jawline. His t-shirt fit snug around his arm muscles and chest. I bet he could carry me to bed with little to no effort...
Not that I was contemplating that. I wasn't. Not at all.
I. Wasn't. Looking. For a. One-night stand.
"Why not?" Darcy asked, giving voice to my inner monologue. I indulged in another slow scan of Mr. McMeltme. One might even say I was undressing him with my eyes. His clothes said cowboy—and you know what they say about cowboys and the way they ride horses. So, why not indeed?
Maybe there was more than one thing to do in this small town after all.
"You know what? Besides deeply instilled morals from many, many Sunday school sessions, there really isn't a good reason. I'm a liberated, modern woman," I said in my best uppity southern drawl, emphasizing the silent "h" in front of woman.
Darcy laughed. "Indeed. Hey, Jeb!" Jeb sauntered over. "Is that guy you were talking with a serial killer?"
"Who? Brock? Or Cash?" Jeb asked, glancing over his shoulder. I caught the cowboy's eye, and he lifted one side of his mouth into a knowing smirk. That look said, "I know you're checking me out. I know you like what you see." It was both infuriating and sexy as hell. I raised an eyebrow at him.
"The cute one with the backwards hat," Darcy clarified.
"That's Brock. And he's not a serial killer," Jeb confirmed. "Neither is his brother, Cash."
"They’re brothers?" Darcy squeaked and squeezed my arm. This scenario was quickly shifting from Dateline to Pornhub. At least in Darcy's mind.
"Married?" I asked, shaking her grip loose.
"Nope."
"Gay?" Most good ones were.
This got us a smirk from Jeb as well. "Not according to most of the girls from our high school."
"Then Kennedy wants to buy Brock a drink," Darcy said.
Jeb raised his eyebrows at me. Do or die moment. I glanced at Darcy's encouraging expectant face. My inner letch had the same expression.
It must have been the alcohol, but I heard myself say, "Yup. Make sure he knows it's from me."
Jeb chuckled. "Bold move," he said as he walked away to fill my order and deliver it to the cowboy.
Please baby Jesus—or Santa's elves—let the handsome stranger just be passing through. That way if this did turn into a one-night stand, I'd never have to see him again. Since Brock still stared at me, I gave him my own flirty smile in return, ran a finger around the top of my beer bottle, and slowly licked the beer from it.
Brock
In my periphery, I saw Jeb put another beer down in front of me, but I hardly noticed since my dick was laser-focused on an unfamiliar hot blonde sending “fuck me” vibes my way.
“From the blonde,” Jeb said.
“What?” I mumbled. She’d just put her finger in her mouth to suck off some beer and I was having trouble keeping my dick from exploding through my jeans. I’d been away—on the road looking for green-energy solutions—for several months. Without a woman.
My brother, Cash, snapped his fingers in front of my face. I reluctantly turned my attention back to him.
“That blonde you’ve been eye-fucking just sent you this drink,” he said with a laugh.
“Bold move. She’s a spitfire, Brock. Her name is Kennedy, and she’s new in town,” Jeb said. “And she won’t stay single long.”
“Not with breasts like that,” Cash said.
I grabbed the beer, turned up the smolder, and moved down the bar to her side. She followed me with her eyes the entire way. Despite her boldness, I saw a slight blush creep up her neck and around her ears as I approached. That’s right, princess. I’m more cowboy than you bargained for.
She swiveled in her stool and smiled up at me, a glint in her eyes. Her legs brushed against mine as I leaned on the bar beside her. She didn’t move them.
“Thanks for the beer,” I said by way of greeting.
“I thought you looked thirsty,” she said with a wink. My grin widened.
“You thought right.” But I wasn't thirsty for the beer. I held out my hand “I’m Brock.” She took my hand in her slender one and gave it a squeeze.
“Kennedy.” The she grimaced as her friend elbowed her in the side. She dropped my hand and gestured over her shoulder. “This is Darcy.”
I nodded my head at her.
“You lovely ladies must be new to town. I definitely would have remembered seeing you before,” I said, letting my eyes roam over Kennedy’s womanly curves up close. I'd noticed her as soon as I walked into Stables tonight.
Correction, I noticed a red high heel attached to a long bare leg first. Hard to miss since every other female wore cowboy boots. I followed that shapely leg up to mid-thigh and the hem of her tight skirt. Then along the lines of her bare shoulders in the tank top she wore that left little to the imagination. Her short blond hair was swept to the side. She looked sophisticated and sexy. And city.
“We could say the same about you, cowboy,” she said. As she let the stool sway a little back and forth, her legs rubbed against mine.
“Me? I’m a hometown boy. Hillcrest born and bred,” I explained, taking another long pull on my beer to cool off. I needed to seal this deal. With the way my body reacted to just this benign connection, I knew there would be fireworks in bed.
“Hiding somewhere other than Stables then?” she asked. I saw her tip her bottle back. Empty. I signaled for Jeb to bring another round. He smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
“My turn to buy you a round,” I said. I tipped back my drink as well and set it next to her empty.
Cash wandered over. “Hey ladies. I hope my brother isn’t giving you too hard a time.”
Darcy said, “Not yet. And especially not if he keeps bringing good looking cowboys like yourself over.”
I made introductions just as the band started to play a familiar line dance. I thanked my mother for teaching her boys how to dance—it absolutely upped our pick-up game. One glance at Cash, and I knew he was thinking the same thing.
I held my hand out to Kennedy again. Let’s see if this city girl could hold her own. “You know this one?”
She placed her hand in mine and uncrossed her legs to stand. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
She followed me onto the dance floor where we fell in line with the smattering of other couples. I saw Cash and Darcy saunter up beside us.
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I may have stood a little closer than necessary to Kennedy so our bodies brushed together. Based on the flirty smirks she kept throwing my way, I didn’t think she minded one bit.
As the next song started, a slow song, I twirled her into my arms and pressed my thigh between hers. Her bare skin on her back felt heated against my fingers as I slowly splayed my hand across her shoulder blades. When she didn’t protest, I let that hand wander south to the small of her back. She leaned into me and matched her movements to mine.
Damn, we fit together so well. With her heels on, she was practically looking me in the eyes. As the song picked up a faster backbeat, I tested the line between gentlemanly and overt sexuality by grinding against her a little. She squeezed her thighs around mine in response, amusement glinting in her eyes.
Kennedy
I knew when he sauntered over after I bought him that beer, oozing sex and confidence, pure cowboy right down to the boots, that tis was going to be a fun night. And he didn’t disappoint. He was used to flirting and probably used to conquering. And man-oh-man, the man could dance. If his hips moved this well on the dance floor…
I took a deep breath to calm my libido. I didn’t need an immediate reputation of being the slutty girl at Stables. It was getting increasingly hard not to climb his body right here in the middle of the dance floor, though.
When the song ended, I pulled back a little and said, “I need a drink. You?”
“I could use one,” he said. His voice was huskier than before. Not just me who needed to cool down before we ended up naked in the middle of Stables.
“Do a shot with me,” I said. I usually tried to stay away from hard liquor—thanks to chronic alcoholism running in my family—but tonight was a special night. And one shot wouldn’t hurt.
“What did you have in mind?” he asked with a smile.
“Your choice, but my treat.”
“Tequila it is, then,” he said. “Jeb. Top shelf tequila shots.”
I swatted his arm. “Top shelf?”
“It isn’t every day someone else is buying the rounds.” I swatted him again. He caught my hand in his and brushed his lips over my knuckles. I felt it all the way to my naughty bits.
“I’ll get the next one,” he said, his mouth still on my skin, his expressive blue eyes never leaving mine. I swallowed. Hard.
Jeb broke my trance by setting down the shots, limes, and salt in front of us. I glanced over my shoulder for Darcy, but she was still tangled in Cash’s arms on the dance floor.
“Ready?” Brock said, lifting his shot glass.
Looking back into his eyes, I placed the webbing between my index finger and thumb in my mouth—wetting it to hold the salt—and slowly pulled it out again. His mouth opened slightly, so I raised my eyebrow and smirked. Since he wasn’t moving, I took his hand and brought it to my mouth. In a move that surprised even me—the beer was starting to go to my head—I sucked the same spot on his hand into my mouth and ran my tongue around his skin. He blew out a long breath and caressed my chin with his fingers.
I released him and sprinkled salt where I’d tasted. I lifted my shot, we clinked glasses and tossed back the liquid. I winced as the heat slid down my throat. Before I could lick the salt from my hand, he brought it to his own lips and offered his to me. As his tongue slid around the tendon, lazy waves of heat cascaded over my body. It felt more intimate than kissing.
Sadly, he released me and handed me a lime wedge. His mouth was so sensual I wanted desperately to taste his bottom lip. Just a nibble.
Oh, who was I kidding. I wanted to detach my jaw and swallow him whole. Not a good look in the middle of a crowded bar, however.
Instead, I grabbed his hand with both of mine and gently tugged. “Dance with me again.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice,” he said, following me to the dance floor once again. The band was playing a popular pop song with a decent beat. I set the pace this time; he followed expertly. The tequila definitely intensified the electricity already buzzing between us. I couldn’t remember any other time I’d felt this sort of insta-attraction to a guy. Maybe cowboys were my type.
Brock turned me around to my back was to his rock-hard chest and blew a hot breath on my neck. He let his lips linger there while he held me closer. Oh yes. Cowboys were definitely my type. The anticipation was killing me. I could feel his desire. Literally, since it was poking me in the back as we danced.
I laid my head back on his shoulder knowing full well this gave him the perfect view down my shirt. The only good thing my mother ever did for me was pass down the genes for ample breasts. Some days I cursed the things; today they were working in my favor.
Brock’s breathing hitched as I let them jiggle a little more than necessary. I smiled and shut my eyes. He slid a hand around to my stomach, pressing my ass against his bulge and making me almost whimper.
Between the alcohol, the dancing, and the palpable cloud of desire, my head was getting light and swimmy. I didn’t mind one bit. For some reason, I felt safe in Brock’s arms. I ran a hand over his bicep—the ropey muscles and tendons. He was so strong. I could absolutely let go and know he’d be there to catch me.
I moved my other hand to grip the back of his neck; his hair felt soft and thick as I threaded my fingers into it.
“Kennedy,” he whispered on my neck, his lips brushing my skin as he spoke. I had no doubt that mouth could do magic things to me. And I wanted to find out. Reputation be damned.
“Cowboy, take me away,” I whispered.
Read the rest of Brock and Kennedy’s story in
Book 1 in the McAllister Brothers series