Page 87 of The Check Down
“Maybe we should stay in. I’ll text Tuck and Cam.” Griffin’s eyes are dark with desire, his voice thick, as I descend the stairs.
“You will not.” I spin when I get to the bottom. “How’s my honky-tonk fit?”
He catalogs every detail: my new black leather boots, my flirty black dress with the ruffle at the hem, and the rolled-up sleeves of the fitted tan-and-black plaid button-down I’ve knotted at my waist. My hair is half pulled up into a messy knot, with the rest in loose waves down my back.
He takes my hand and twirls me, then he pulls me in for a kiss. “You’re perfect.”
“Let me check out my handsome date.” I smooth my hand down the navy-and-hunter plaid flannel he’s wearing unbuttoned over a navy Henley. His sleeves are rolled up, too, and the forearms on display are doing things to my pulse. Peeking out from below his jeans is a pair of worn brown boots.
“Do I pass inspection?”
“With flying colors.” I slip my arms beneath his plaid shirt and lean into him, savoring his body heat and manly scent. “And now that I know Racy Lacey owns a pair of cowboy boots, my life is complete.”
His sigh is heavy. “I haven’t worn the damn things in years. My feet rebelled the second I slipped them on. But that won’t stop me from dancing with my girl.”
Across the room, Donna clears her throat and waves her phone. She doesn’t let us leave until she’s snapped at least a dozen photos, like we’re a couple of teenagers headed to a school dance. It’s adorable.
On the drive into town, a fizzy sensation coats my stomach. This day will go down in history as one of the all-time best. Not only did Griff introduce me as his girlfriend to folks around town, but then I caught him sneakingtwoboot boxes into the truck and, when I chided him, he said, “Get used to being spoiled, professor.” After boot shopping, we returned to the farm and spent a couple of hours outdoors. While Fred showed me the animals, he kindly answered all my ridiculous questions about farm life, all the while teasing me about being a city girl. More than once, Griff looked dumbstruck at how chatty his father was with me.
After the farm tour, Mrs. Lacey pulled out the baby Griffin scrapbooks, and we sat side by side on the couch, cooing and laughing at every one of his awkward stages. Griff kicked back in the recliner and pretended to be annoyed, but I caught his secret, pleased smiles as he scrolled on his phone.
We arrive at the Hoot ’N’ Holler a little after eight, finding the parking lot mostly full. I get a finger wiggle as we navigate the crowd surrounding the bar, so I take his hand and follow as he leads me to where Tucker and Cam have secured a six-top table.
Our table is one of many surrounding three sides of a wooden dance floor. The fourth side features a small stage, where a band is warming up. One step up from our level, rows of wooden booths overlook the dance floor. The bar takes up the whole left side of the building. The place is wall-to-wall rustic honky-tonk decor: neon signs, corrugated metal, rough wooden beams. Scattered throughout are framed black-and-white posters of several musiclegends: Johnny Cash, Elvis, Dolly, and Tina Turner, to name a few. One wall is covered with old license plates from several states. And above the bar, a huge neon sign that saysHolleration Nationglows.
The legs of my wooden chair scuff across the concrete floor when Griffin grabs one to pull me closer. He leans in so I can hear him over the crowd and the band that’s warming up on stage. “You good to stay here while I grab drinks?”
As I nod, Trixie bounds up on the arm of a stoic Shaw.
“Look what I rustled up at the bar, folks.” She sinks into a chair and pulls him down into the one beside it. Eyes twinkling, she hollers, “Saved this one’s life, I tell ya. He had no less than five vixens eyeing him up, claws drawn, ready to pounce. Not all heroes wear capes.” She flounces her wavy shoulder-length copper locks and gives her cousin a wink.
Cam knocks his beer against the one in Shaw’s hand. “Yeehaw here might draw a bigger crowd than this one.” He points the neck of the bottle at Griffin. “They’ll come out in droves for such a rare sight.”
As Shaw rolls his eyes and takes a pull of his beer, I study him. Like his younger brothers, the man is devastatingly handsome, though his looks are more rugged, gruff. In his chambray button-down and beat-up Lacey Farms ball cap pulled low over mysterious blue eyes, it’s no wonder the ladies flock to him. As I consider him, the name that’s etched next to his on the Heart Path comes to mind. I know better than to ask, so I stick with a topic I hope is a little safer.
“Yeehaw?”
Trixie smirks. “Yeehaw Shaw.”
“Trix,” Shaw warns.
His cousin perks up, wiggling in her chair. “This stud was something of a legend on the youth rodeo circuit when he was inhigh school. Earned himself several gold buckles and a nickname, to boot. Pun intended.” She laughs at her own joke.
“All in favor of resurrecting Shaw’s nickname?” Cam raises his beer and grins.
The eldest Lacey brother doesn’t even acknowledge Cam, Trixie, and Tucker as they raise their hands. Instead, he homes in on Griffin, who’s standing behind me, passing along some unspoken message. His voice holds the grit of sandpaper when he says, “Veto.”
“Lacey family rules,” the three vetoed nickname supporters recite dejectedly.
Griffin palms the crown of Tucker’s backward ball cap. “Help me carry the drinks.”
The two get as far as the booths before they’re both swarmed with locals who pat their backs and ask for pictures.
When I spin back to the table, Trixie is grinning. “Ugh, can’t take themanywhere.”
A young waitress wearing denim cutoffs and a tight black tank withIf You Ain’t Hootin’, You Ain’t Hollerin’printed in white across the chest steps up with a tray full of beers. “These are from Dottie,” she explains as she offloads the bottles. Once her tray is empty, she tucks a lock of her long, blond hair behind an ear and fixes a flirty smile on the oldest Lacey. “Hey, Shaw.”
“Hey.” That single word is low and gruff, but it brings a pink tinge to the girl’s cheeks.