Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(2)

He nods, interrupting me. “It’s close to my apartment is why I picked it.” A pause. “It’s hard meeting girls online.”

At that remark, at the hint that maybe he’s not the jackass he appears to be, I relax a little. Maybe he was just babbling about watching baby alligators die.

I infuse my voice with interest and ask the number one question Mama always asks me about my dates. “Are you employed?”

He fingers his gold belt buckle and chuckles. “Not a desk job like most. I’m the reigning Ride ’Em Till You Die champion for the past three years. I made a million dollars last year in the circuit. You into rodeo guys?”

“I love horses,” I push out, floundering to find a commonality between us. “I grew up outside Nashville, a small town called Daisy—”

“Whips, saddles, spurs, bridles—I’ve got it all at home if that’s your kink,” he interjects with a sly tone as he goes from nice to sleazy in a blink, the insinuation of it making me squirm as I shift around on my stool. A dark chuckle comes from him. “You look uptight, but I bet your waters run deep, honey.”

Uptight. He gets a gold star for that. My ex-fiancé, Preston, would agree.

He continues, tugging me away from the dark path those thoughts want to lead me down. “And I know what you’re thinking—I’m short. Most girls do at first, but just you wait, ’cause what’s in my pants is a God-given gift. Ain’t had one complaint since I started. Been riding fillies for a long time, and they always come back for more of what I got.” His lids lower as he gives his crotch an endearing, loving look, as if his small head is sentient and listening.

There you go.

My first instinct was right. Death sentence. Must escape.

After turning away from him and looking at the mirror across the bar, I watch as red creeps up my face. My hair is chaos, the blonde strands once in a sleek chignon now dangling next to my temple, the finer hairs sticking to my damp forehead. My pink lipstick has faded, and there are smudges of mascara under my eyes from the heat.

I push my black glasses up on my nose and swipe at a bead of sweat on my forehead. Why am I even wearing a stupid blazer in the middle of the hottest summer on record? My fingers toy with the top button, loosening it a little.

Rodeo sees me unbuttoning my jacket, and his eyes light up. He takes a step closer, and now his checkered shirt is brushing against my breasts, and I see his nose hairs. His smell wafts around me: spicy, male, kind of leathery—horsey.

I lean farther away, arching until I bump into the person next to me. Without glancing back, I mumble an apology and straighten myself on the stool.

Rodeo indicates my empty tumbler, his tone low and husky. “You want another drink? That whiskey you sucked down is long gone.”

Using my foot, I press on the lower part of the bar and scoot my stool away from him. I check my phone and put on a frown. “Actually, it’s getting late, and I need to leave—”

“Hey, bartender! My little filly here needs a drink,” he calls out and waves his hat around at the busy server behind the bar.

The petite bartender comes over to us. Her name tag says SELENA, and I’m envious of the confident sway of her hips in skinny jeans, the deep-red lipstick on her lips. Her dark hair is sheared close to her scalp in a pixie cut, her eyes defined with dark eyeliner. We’re like night and day, me in my faded makeup, mud-brown pencil skirt, and low-heeled pumps.

Selena focuses her eyes on me, dismissing Rodeo. “You sure you want another drink?” The dry tone says, Girl, why are you with him?

A long exhalation comes from my chest. All I need to do is get rid of him and just enjoy the burn of a good bourbon.

I give her a quick nod, keeping my eye on Rodeo.

“Same as before? Woodford on the rocks?”

“Please,” I say.

Selena turns around to reach up to the top shelf while Rodeo lets out a whistle under his breath, watching her voluptuous figure.

She turns back around, pours the drink, and slides it over to me, her face composed and blank. She has to have heard Rodeo, but you’d never know it. She’s cool. I want to be cool. Maybe then I might find the right kind of guy.

“Thank you,” I say and take a sip as Rodeo watches me with a smoldering look, then reaches out and toys with my necklace. “So this is obviously working between us. You’re hot. I’m hot. The electricity is sparking. I’m already picturing you riding me. Ever hear of reverse cowgirl?”

I pry his hands off my pearls and push at him as anger rises like a tidal wave, overriding my earlier politeness. When he’s at a safe-enough distance, I take a sip of my drink and slam it down on the bar. After digging around in my computer bag, I grab my wallet, pull out several twenties, and toss them down.

“You’re leaving already, honey?” There’s a plaintive whine to his voice.

I turn to face him, teeth gritting. “Yes, and I know what reverse cowgirl is.” I have to answer his question; it’s a thing. If you ask, I crave to respond with the truth. “And there is zero spark. My protons are not attracted to your electrons.”

“Protons? What—”

“Plus, it’s incredibly rude of you to suggest sexual acts when you’ve just met me—”

“Hot damn, you’ve got a temper. Gotta admit angry sex is my favorite. How’s about me and you getting out of here—”