Rode Hard, Put Up Wet (Rough Riders #2)(67)

So what was wrong with him?


Loneliness?


Invisibility?


Hell if he could pinpoint it.


Somehow Carter managed to keep his sour mood hidden from the rowdy bunch. He smiled and listened to the conversations. He was part of the crowd, but set apart. No one seemed to notice his detachment. Not even Macie.


Especially not since she’d gotten so chummy with his little sister and Amy Jo Foster.


Lord, the three of them yapped like a pack of poodles.


It just served to remind him about the gap between him and Macie. Not necessarily their ages, but…


But what? But nothing. You’re looking for excuses because you’re pissed off she’s not sitting by your side like a well-trained poodle. You’re pissed off she’s paying more attention to your family than to you.


Like that should be a big f*ckin’ surprise in his life. He’d always been the McKay in the background. How many times had he heard: Who’s that one again? What’s his name?


I don’t remember him. He’s so quiet.


Carter wasn’t a rancher or a rodeo star or a special ops soldier or the county stud or the baby girl. Eight years away at school hadn’t helped him stand out in the McKay family and ensured his spot at the bottom of the McKay pecking order.


It wasn’t as if he burned to be the center of attention tonight or any other night. But between Colby regaling the greenhorns with his rodeo exploits, Gemma chatting up a storm with Channing, Cash scowling at him, Macie ignoring him, he felt the urge to get really really drunk.


Damn, he wished his buddy Jack was here. Jack wouldn’t put up with this shit attitude. Jack’s motto was: “Be a man. Find some *, get f*cked up, pick some fights and pass out.” Jack swore the only way to get out of a funk was to suffer through a debilitating day-long hangover. “Feelin’ like shit makes you appreciate the shit you’ve got,” was Jack’s other mantra.


Man. He’d welcome an ass kicking from Jack. Feeling sorry for himself was an indication he’d spent too much time alone. Might make him a *, but he realized he missed his pal. It’d been a couple of months since they’d talked, longer since they’d hung out. After spending damn near three years together in graduate school, they’d parted ways after graduation. Work had taken them in different directions.


Work. That’s what he should be doing anyway. Maybe he was just feeling guilty for leaving stuff undone. It’d be best all around if he slipped away and returned to work.


Not that anyone believed being an artist was work. His family hinted that Carter the


“arteest” sat around staring into space, waiting for inspiration to strike him. Then he’d paint furiously, finish the piece and wait for another visit from the muse.


Right-o.


He wished that damn elusive muse would hurry up; he was sweating this deadline big time. It didn’t help his time management issues that he’d taken two fairly substantial commissions, on the sly, strictly for the money. Yeah, he’d justified it by telling himself it was still art, his art, and he had a truck payment to make. Hopefully the next time the muse visited she’d bring him a bucketful of cash. That’d inspire the hell out of him.


Macie giggled. Carter’s head snapped up and his gut clenched from the potency of her smile. When had he seen her so happy? Was his tendency to brood wearing off on her? Or had she been drawn to him because she had that same dark intensity and she understood it? Neither of them could be accused of a happy-go-lucky personality. Except when they were together.


When was the last time he’d witnessed that side of her?


She’d acted pretty damn playful that night in the car when she’d whipped out her vibrator.


Not helping, thinking about what you want but can’t have right now.


Carter eased out of the lawn chair and snagged a beer from the cooler. He kept his back to the fire and stared off into the darkness. Bits of conversations floated to him.


Gemma said, “I did not.”


“You used to flirt with him shamelessly, Gem. I saw you.”


“With Trevor? Lord, Cash, you need glasses.”


Keely piped in, “Trevor Glanzer is a total hottie. I flirt with him every chance I get.


I’d do him in a heartbeat.”


Choking sounds came from where Channing sat.


Amy Jo said, “Keely! Omigod I can’t believe you said that.”


“Well, it’s true. I think every woman here would take a crack at him, am I right, ladies?”


Silence.


“Fine. You’re all lying to yourselves.”


“Keely, I’m havin’ Dad tie you up in the chicken coop when we get home,” Colby said dryly.


“He tried once, said it was for my own good to save me from myself. Didn’t work.


He shouldn’t have made sure I know my way around ropes if he’d intended to use them on me.”


“I’d save you,” one of the greenhorns said. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with speakin’ your mind.”


“Oh, Marky-mark, you are sweeter than ten pounds of sugar,” Keely cooed. “You remember you said that to me when I look you up in a few years, when you’re a world-famous bull rider, fendin’ off all them hot buckle bunnies. You probably won’t have the time of day for a little ol’ country cowgirl like me.”