1. Cassidy

If there's one thing men have, it's the fucking audacity. Bringing the girl he cheated on me with to my hometown rodeo is next level. My beer bottle slams into the sticky picnic table with such intensity, it's astounding it doesn't break. Although, if it broke, I'd have something to cut my ex-boyfriend's arrogant face with. And that scenario doesn't sound half bad.

"I'm getting another," I yell at one of my best friends, Shelby, over the Brooks Dunn cover band. "I'm gonna get stabby if I have to watch them make out for another second."

"I could go for another." Shelby nods and swallows the last of her beer with a gulp. "Quit watching them; your wallowing days are supposed to be over, girl. Screw him. Fight fire with fire—get yourself a man for the night."

"Minor problem, Shelb. I'm not interested in a single guy here."

Normally, I don't date. Not because I'm a goody two-shoes, although a lot of people in town seem to believe I am. I simply have a strict set of rules. Just like ninety-nine percent of the 2,000 residents, I've lived in Wells Canyon since I was a baby. All I want is someone who hasn't known me since I was in diapers, doesn't spend every Friday night at my dad's bar, and hasn't slept with either of my best friends. My bar for men is so damn low it may as well be in hell, yet none of the single men at this barn dance check all three boxes.

Failing to see the giant red flags he was waving, I agreed to the fateful first date with Derek over a year ago, simply because he checked the boxes. Then everything went to shit. My best friends see that as a sign I should give it up and date a local. Vehemently disagree.

"Well, we're here to get you out of your funk, and letting him under your skin all night won't help. Forget about him."

"Yeah, easier said than done. There's only, like, a hundred people here and he's tall. Sort of makes it impossible to forget about him."

In the two weeks since breaking up with Derek, I've had my ups and downs. The past five days have definitely been rock bottom. I've been wearing the same pajamas the entire time—not just at night. All day. Eating cereal out of a mixing bowl and drinking room-temperature sangria. Quite often at the same time. I essentially morphed into a college frat boy stuck in a depression spiral because he wasn't allowed to spend spring break in Florida. I may have even gone down a little Girls Gone Wild YouTube rabbit hole. If all that isn't the lowest of the low, I don't know what is.

Desperate for a reckless night out—something to get back to feeling myself—this rodeo couldn't have come soon enough. Then my motherfucking ex-boyfriend had to turn up and kill my vibe.

Approaching the bar, I lose all of Shelby's attention the moment she spots her crush of the month, Denver Wells, one of the ranchers at Wells Ranch, the local cattle empire. He's cute enough, with short, brown hair, dimples, and a lean, muscular body. Plus, he's a saddle bronc rider, which seems to impress most girls around here. And Denny's actually a pretty nice guy but, again, I have rules for a reason.

In typical fashion, Shelby orders two bottles of beer and vanishes into the crowd without a word. All I can see from my mediocre 5'6" height is the peak of her rhinestone cowboy hat bobbing amongst the throng of people in front of the stage as she works her way toward Denny's picnic table at the far right. Shelby's been boy crazy for as long as I've known her and, even though I don't fully understand it, I love that for her.

I grab my drinks and step aside to take in the rodeo beer gardens, breathing in the cool spring air. A square patch of cement, corralled off with livestock panels and neon orange snow fencing, keeping the chaos controlled as if we're an unruly herd of cattle. One way in and out, past the singular cop in town and his team of volunteer bouncers. It smells more like horse crap than I typically enjoy, but I'll take that over what this group of dirty cowboys, drunks, and perfume-drenched women would smell like if we weren't out in the open air.

Scanning the crowd, I don't see anyone I'm interested in hanging out with. I suppose Denver and his ranch hands aren't the worst group to socialize with for the night. At least they don't make lewd comments or try to touch my ass when I serve them at the bar, and a few are pretty easy on the eyes. All in all, they're a chill enough group of guys, so I follow the footsteps of my slutty best friend.

Weaving between a group of drunken line dancers, I'm only stopped by five people wanting to chat. Impressive considering I can name almost every single person here. Although, I feel the pitiful stare of every set of eyes, the whispers of gossip about my relationship crumbling. Another blatant reminder of why I don't date locally.

Finally, I reach my destination, coming across Shelby straddling Denny on the end of a picnic table—tongues already down each other's throats.

Jesus, she really wasn't wasting any time.

Again, love that for her, but I can't imagine making out with a guy in a place like this. News travels faster than head lice in Wells Canyon, and the rumours are just as irritating. Everyone from my dad to my kindergarten teacher to my hairdresser would know about it within minutes. A lesson I learned the hard way, after I made out with Steven Gregoire outside the corner store in the tenth grade, and was forced into a disturbing sex talk from my dad the moment I walked through the front door. Never made that mistake again, which is likely why most people around here think I'm a goody two-shoes prude.

My pair of amber bottles clunk against the rickety wood table when I sit across from Red, one of the Wells Ranch cowboys and, arguably, my least favourite of the bunch. If I had a dollar for every time I had to kick him out of the bar for fighting, I'd at least be able to pay for my drinks tonight. And if I had another dollar for every time he's annoyed me since elementary school, I could retire and move to the Caribbean.

"You know, you don't need to bring me beer when you aren't working, Cass. But thank you, I'm touched." Red makes a move like he's going to grab one of my drinks, and I reflexively slap his muscular, heavily tattooed forearm.

"Do it, and I'll cut you."

He laughs and adjusts the faded Stetson covering his shaggy, auburn hair. His nickname isn't exactly the most creative I've ever heard—it was even more on the nose when he was a little kid, with hair so red he looked like he belonged in the Weasley family. Now it has more brown to it, but the occasional time I've seen him with facial hair, it's very apparent that he's a true redhead through and through.

"So impolite when you're off the clock," he says with a smirk.

"Yeah, well, you aren't going to tip me here, are ya? No need to feign niceness."

For a long while we sit in silence, awkwardly pretending our best friends aren't making out a foot away and watching the crappy Brooks Dunn cover band run through "Play Something Country" for the fourth time this evening. You'd think we were at a real concert with the way all the drunk girls bounce in front of the stage. It's guaranteed that one of them flashes their tits at the band before the night's through. If Shelby wasn't suctioned to Denver, I would bet money on her being the one to do it.

"Isn't that your boyfriend?" Red's head gestures toward where Derek and Alyssa must be. I don't dare follow his gaze, my stomach cramping with a warning not to peek unless I want to feel downright murderous again. Suffering from a sudden case of restless leg syndrome, I bounce my knee and keep my focus trained on Red, his tongue tucked into his cheek as he narrows his eyes at them.

"Ex," I correct him. "We broke up a couple of weeks ago."

"Want me to punch him?"

"No, Red. I don't." I'd love to say yes—I'd love the thrill of watching Derek get a tiny piece of what he deserves—but it's not worth whatever will happen after the initial hit.

"Want to get even? Make him jealous? We can make out right next to them."

"Honestly, fuck off. I'm just trying to listen to music and drink in peace, okay? Why don't you go ask a girl to dance or get in a fistfight or do literally anything other than bug me."

"Well, I don't dance. The sole person I'm thinking about fighting is your ex, which you already shot down. And I was sitting here first."

Plopping my elbow onto the table, I sink my head into my hand to block him from view—effectively blocking Derek as well. Two annoying birds, one stone. A moment later, the table shifts as Red finally takes the hint and leaves.

Not nearly enough time has passed when his presence returns. At least this time, he comes bearing gifts, sliding a shot of tequila and another beer over to me. And I'm not one to turn down free drinks, even if I'm impartial to the guy buying them for me.

Hoisting up his own shot glass with a wink, he says, "Cheers to you not dating that fuckin' nerd anymore."

Jesus Christ. But also… hear, hear!

I throw back the shot, chasing it with multiple chugs of beer. Painfully aware of Red's stare, which is burning my insides with more sting than the tequila. He sets his empty bottle on the table and lazily spins it with a wrist flick. Over and over and over.

Thud, clink, rattle, rattle, thud, clink, rattle.

Until the sound of glass on the rough wood surface may as well be an accompaniment for the band, which I'm watching with intent. Desperate to look anywhere other than at the cowboy sitting across from me or at the ex-boyfriend somewhere in the crowd. Hoping if I pretend hard enough to like the shitty cover music, I can get lost in the atmosphere and potentially salvage the night.

"Hey, Cass." Red's grating voice pierces the air just when I've nearly forgotten about him sitting across from me.

I roll my neck with an irritated exhale. "What now, Red?"

"Look at that. Looks like I landed on you in Spin The Bottle. Better kiss me and make your ex jealous—he keeps looking over here."

"You're an idiot," I say with a scoff.

"Not a fan? Oh, right. From what I remember, Seven Minutes In Heaven is more your game, isn't it?"

This goddamn town. Suggest a group of us play it one fucking time at a birthday party in the eighth grade, and it's still brought up nearly two decades later.

"Are you thirteen?" I consider ditching the overpriced beer and heading home to throw my pajamas back on. This entire night is a waste of time. I hate knowing I put effort into looking pretty so I could sit at a picnic table with Chase "Red" Thompson—a boy I've disliked since middle school. Stuck watching my ex-boyfriend make out with the beautiful, raven-haired woman he was sleeping with for at least half of our year-long relationship.

"Is that what you're into? Because that's fucked up, Cass." He snorts a laugh, straightening his hat. "Might need to report you."

"I meant because those are both children's games, you idiot." I gulp my beer. And gulp. And gulp.

"I'm just sayin', everybody but us seems to be making out. And it would piss him off. But if a simple kiss is too childish for you, there are lots of adult things we could do." He raises a daring eyebrow.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Leaning over the table, I smack the cowboy hat from his head. He lets out a hearty chuckle, bending to swipe it from the ground and shaking out his thick hair. The commotion's enough to break apart Shelby and Denny who, until this point, may as well have had their lips superglued together.

"Hey, Shelb. I'm gonna walk home," I say now that I finally have a sliver of her attention. Swinging a leg over the bench and standing up, the alcohol washes through my bloodstream. The world's a little hazy, lights around the stage are blown out rather than crisp, and my legs feel like they're enveloped in thick mud. Chugging back my beer in an effort to leave faster might not have been my best move.

"No, don't!" She protests, pushing away from Denny to catch my elbow. "You're supposed to be finding a guy to help you get over Derek tonight."

"And I told you there are zero prospects here."

Shelby looks from me to Red, then meets my eyes with a shrug. "I mean… not zero prospects."

"Fuck all of this. Definitely, fuck that. I'm going home. Night, guys."

"Night, Cass. Love you," Denny calls after me.

Shelby's playful squeal rings out as he presumably grabs her, pulling her back in for another consuming kiss.

I stagger through the crowd of drunk people, aiming to keep myself on two feet while I come to grips with exactly how intoxicated I am. That's the problem with throwing them back while you're comfortably seated. As soon as you stand, the Earth tilts on its axis, and you find yourself struggling to remain upright.

Unfortunately for me, small town rodeos are too much like a family reunion to allow for a quick escape. I'm pulled in every direction by people I know. From Jerry, the middle-aged bar regular who always begs me to line dance with him, to my old high school principal. Debbie from the post office corners me to ask if I can catsit while she goes to Vegas—and who am I to say no when she shows me the little visor hat she had made for the tabby? Everybody and their damn dog are here, inconveniently blocking the lone route out of this hellhole.

After barely escaping the clutches of a group of girls I graduated with, I'm nearly home free. I'd run if I thought my coordination was good enough. As I'm plodding past the row of porta potties and keeping my eye on the exit gate straight ahead, an unpleasant voice sends shivers down my spine.

"Cass… hey."

My shoulders fall, and I shut my eyes—but only for half a second because it instantly makes the world feel like it's spinning out of control.

"Hey, Derek." I turn to face him. Thankfully, he's without his mistress.

"How are you doing?" He assesses my body with a raised brow. All the words he's leaving unsaid play on repeat in my mind. Sure, I've put on five pounds since we broke up, but the struggle to zip my denim mini skirt was enough of a blow to my ego for one day. I don't need him to make me feel even worse, and I know it's taking everything he has to refrain from commenting on my appearance. It drives him batty that I'm mostly okay with being in a size twelve body. I'll certainly be even more content with my size now that I won't hear his negative comments all the time.

"Fine. Great, in fact. I'm doing fan-fucking-tastic," I say sarcastically. "Having fun tonight?"

What I mean is, why the hell are you at a rodeo in my town weeks after making me feel like the biggest idiot on the planet?

"Yeah. Alyssa had never been to a rodeo, so—"

Thanks to years waitressing in my dad's bar, my customer service voice is flawless and not affected at all by my alcohol consumption. "That's… super. Great. So glad that, uh, you brought her here. I'm going to go, so… super nice seeing you."

"Hope you aren't going home early because I'm here."

"No. Not at all. I'm not going home. I was coming over to use the bathroom." I don't know why I'm lying, or why it continues to spew out of me. "I'm actually here with somebody, too. We're having a super fun time."

Why do I keep saying super? Maybe the alcohol is affecting my speech after all.

"Oh? I saw you talking to Red. Don't tell me you're with that guy? Jesus, Cass. Slumming it with the local cowboys? Sheesh... Even for you, that's fucked up."

Even for me?

My brain and mouth are no longer working together, and words tumble out before I get the chance to think about them. "You know what? It's not nearly as fucked up as bringing the girl you cheated with to this rodeo."

"Cass, I'm just saying—"

"Don't say another word to me because the cowboy I'm ‘slumming with' would love an excuse to kick the shit out of you. Have a super night."

Instead of continuing on my journey home, I shoulder-check Derek and march back over to the picnic table, ignoring the alarm bells and red alerts firing in my brain. I know the idea forming in my drunk mind is a terrible one. I also know that after a year of putting up with that asshole, I don't care. I need to do something to expel the rage pulsing in my veins.

He wronged me in a way that made me feel like a fool. I went months before realizing he had a new girlfriend and I'd been relegated to side-chick. But I didn't scream, cry, throw his shit on the lawn, slash his car tires, or do any of the things my favourite country songs say he deserves. No, I broke up with him civilly, handing over all his belongings with a tight-lipped smile while she watched from the passenger seat of his car.

I don't want to be the bigger, more mature, emotionally intelligent person anymore. Not tonight. I deserve to make a terrible decision or two for once in my goddamn life.

Shelby and Denny are nowhere to be seen—though I can make an educated guess about where they've gone. But Red's still sitting at the picnic table, downing beer and watching the crappy band play. Honestly, from where I stand, he's not bad looking. If I didn't know anything about his personality, I might find him attractive. Fuckable, even. With tousled red-brown hair under his cowboy hat, tattoos covering both arms, bulky muscles earned from hard farm work, faded denim stretched across powerful thighs, and playful, cobalt-blue eyes. It's just too bad about the rest of him.

My hands slam down on the table, making him jump. I'm not sure at all what my game plan is, only that it's fueled by alcohol and hatred. And Red is exactly the kind of guy to go along with it. "Offer still stand to piss off my ex?"

"Why? See something you like, Cass?" His eyebrows raise with a cocky grin lighting his stupid face.

"I might've, but then you spoke. Now I'm filled with regrets. Where's Colt or… literally anybody single, attractive, and less annoying than you?" This was a dumb plan. Just because Derek dislikes Red and thinks I'm "slumming it" by hanging out with the cowboys from Wells Ranch, doesn't mean I should hook up with one to get back at him. What am I even proving by doing that? Admittedly, my logic is lacking. "Y'know… never mind."

"Don't know where Colt is. But I'm free to help and know a good way you can shut my mouth up."

Massaging my temples, I scan the beer garden. As if being personally mocked by God, the singular pole light illuminating the dark dance floor shines directly on Derek and Alyssa. Grabbing the bottle from Red's hand, I take a long pull. It goes down like water, and I no longer give a single fuck whether my plan makes sense.

"Lose the chew." I point to the bulge sitting in his bottom lip. "I refuse to kiss anybody with chewing tobacco in their mouth."

Before I can finish getting the words out, he's swiping his finger under his lip and flicking the dark brown tobacco onto the ground. "Anything else?"

"Two rules: you don't say anything stupid and we never speak of this again. Deal?"

He throws back the last of his beer and stands. "Deal, sweetheart"

I sigh. "Three rules. Don't call me sweetheart."