“The bartender called you,” Delon said.
“He remembered the last time you strolled in here and started guzzling tequila.” Gil raised his eyebrows. “At least this time you just knocked somebody down, instead of knocking them up.”
Delon flipped Gil the bird. Even that small motion hurt. Everything hurt. His knee. His hand, where it had smashed into Jackass’s face. The ear that’d been boxed. His entire skull, as the buzz wore off and his brain cells began to scream in protest. Even his gut ached, knotted in disgrace and self-loathing.
Sulking. Drinking. Fighting. On his son’s birthday. Father of the Year, right there.
He propped his elbow on the table and cupped a hand over his eyes to block the dim light that filtered through the open door. Gil and the bartender had hauled him back to the empty banquet room, dumped him in one chair and propped his bum leg up on two others, then packed it in ice bags. That ache, at least, was beginning to lose its teeth, as the cold knocked the edge off. People in the crowd had declared they’d heard his knee pop. That couldn’t be good. God. He’d have to show it to Tori and tell her what he’d done. As if he didn’t feel quite stupid enough already.
A shadow fell across the door, the bartender carrying in a plate and a mug. He set them in front of Delon. “Prime rib sandwich and coffee. Ought to soak up some of the booze.”
At the smell of roasted meat, Delon’s stomach did a complicated shuck and jive. While he breathed through the nausea, the bartender disappeared, leaving them in the semidarkness. They sat in silence for several minutes, Gil lounging in a chair opposite him sipping coffee while Delon tore off a small chunk of the sandwich and forced himself to chew and swallow. The second bite went down a little easier. The third he followed with a swig of coffee. Out in the bar the rumble of voices grew steadily louder as the weekend crowd began to gather. Someone cranked the volume on the jukebox. Saturday night, revving up. All Delon wanted was to pass out—for a week. Or two.
He glanced at his brother and caught the tail end of a smirk. “Glad you’re having fun,” Delon muttered.
“Nah. I was just thinking…this is the first time I’ve ever been the one pickin’ up the pieces, instead of being the wreck.”
“Nice change?”
“I can’t decide.” Gil cocked his head, giving it serious thought. “Damn sure less painful, but not near as interesting.”
“You always did figure the thrill was worth the spill.”
“Better than dying of boredom.”
“Yeah?” Delon took another sip of the bitter black coffee. “Getting a lot of thrills these days?”
Gil gave an insolent tip of his coffee cup. “Looks to me like we’re sittin’ at the same table, little bro. No woman, no rodeos, and a kid we see every other week. How’s that safe and sensible route working for you?”
Not worth a shit. Normally he’d rather roll naked in barbed wire than confide in his brother, but in the half light Gil’s features were blurred, making him seem almost approachable. That combined with the alcohol sloshing around in Delon’s system loosened his tongue. “Right now? Not one damn thing is working.”
“I noticed.” Gil set his mug on the table and shaped the curve of the handle with his thumb. “Nobody ever warns you how it’s gonna suck when your kid falls in love with his mama’s new man.”
Delon’s heart stumbled. That wasn’t…he hadn’t…
“You’re supposed to be happy,” Gil went on, his face stripped down to nothing but edges and shadows. “Don’t you want what’s best for your son? A stable home, his mother married to a decent man who’s crazy about him? But what you really want to say is fuck that. I’m his dad. My kid doesn’t need some other son of a bitch in his life. No matter how many times you tell yourself you shouldn’t feel that way…”
Delon sat paralyzed. Exposed. As if Gil had plucked the words out of his soul and dumped them on the table, rotten and stinking. He couldn’t deny it because Gil knew. He knew.
“What did you do?” Delon asked.
“Punched a few things. Wrote a lot of lousy songs about evil-hearted women.” Gil hesitated, then added, “Took a lot of pills. I don’t recommend that route. It’s a bitch to quit when you finally pull your head out of your ass.”
Delon stared at him. “You were—”
“I am,” Gil said flatly. “An opiate addict. Turns out, if you fuck yourself up bad enough, you can talk all kinds of doctors into giving you pain meds.”
Geezus. Geezus. How had he not known? “I’m sorry. I should have…”
“Nothing you could’ve done, D. I wouldn’t let you.”
He blew out a long, defeated breath. “I don’t know how to make anything better.”
“You could start by not making it worse,” Gil said, with a pointed look toward Delon’s knee. He leaned back, took a sip of his coffee, then shrugged. “Acting jealous because your kid is happy just makes you the asshole. For me, it was better to let ’em think Krista broke my heart. But that doesn’t work in your case.”
“Why not?”
Gil shot him a look of patent disbelief. “Violet? Come on. We’ve gone to their family reunions. Tell me you didn’t wake up and feel like you accidentally slept with your cousin.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Delon muttered.
“It sure as hell wasn’t good, or you would’ve done it again. What made you think the two of you could ever be a couple?” Then Gil slouched onto an elbow and sneered. “What am I saying? You’re the kid who believed in the tooth fairy until you were damn near in high school.”
Delon hunched lower in his chair, face hot. “You kept hiding money under my pillow.”
“I was waiting to see how long you’d keep falling for it.”
Bullshit. Delon knew the real truth—Gil had looked out for him because that’s what big brothers did. In return, Delon followed wherever Gil led. Gil wanted to ride bucking horses? Then Delon would too. They’d take on the rodeo world together, Gil with a splash and Delon cruising along quietly in his wake. The Sanchez boys would be to bareback riding what the Etbauer brothers had been to saddle bronc riding. Until Gil wrecked it all. Words balled up in Delon’s throat, a solid mass that threatened to choke him. All the things he’d wanted to say for all these years. Now he had the chance and it was too little, too late.
“I tried to talk to you, help you, after your accident.” It came out more like an accusation than an apology, prickly with anger and sorrow and guilt.
“I didn’t want help. I wanted to wallow.” Gil shifted in his chair and rubbed his thigh, the corner of his mouth quirking. “It’s the Sanchez way.”
The laugh caught Delon by surprise—a dry, rusty sound that scratched on the way out. “You, me, Dad. What the fuck is wrong with us?”
Gil nodded toward the open door. “Ask her. She’s the therapist.”
The bottom dropped out of Delon’s already hollow stomach.
“Sorry. I can only tell you what the fuck is wrong with your knee,” Tori said. “Your head is someone else’s department.”
Since it was too late to crawl under the table, Delon shot a filthy glare at his brother across it.
Gil responded with a careless shrug. “I figured she owed you a house call.”
“Not really,” Tori said. “I already paid my bill and I have to say, your night and weekend rates are highway robbery.”
She flipped on the light. Delon winced, cupping his hand over his eyes again. Oh yeah. The buzz was definitely fading. He spread his fingers a crack to watch Tori shuck her brown canvas work coat. She’d yanked her hair through the hole at the back of her baseball cap and her Cactus Ropes sweatshirt had a hole in the front pocket. Her jeans were streaked with dust and a single cotton roping glove was tucked in the right front pocket, as if she’d come straight from the arena.
Delon’s mind felt like it was folding in half, trying to reconcile this casually profane creature with the vision in diamonds and silk from the night before, until he glanced down at her feet. She wore the same scuffed boots. The sight of them steadied him, like a familiar landmark in a strange city.
“Well, let’s see it.” She unwrapped the bar towel that held the melting bags of ice in place and dumped the soggy mess on the table in front of Gil. “Take care of those, would you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He tossed in a mocking salute, but didn’t move.
She ignored him, a pucker of concentration between her brows as she probed Delon’s knee. He sucked in a breath when her fingers hit an especially tender spot near his kneecap.
“Is that the worst?” she asked.
“So far.”
Her mouth pushed into a frown as she continued her inspection. “It’d be better if you weren’t wearing jeans.”
“Isn’t it always?” Gil drawled.
Tori smirked. “Generally, yes.”
Gil raised sardonic eyebrows at Delon over Tori’s bent head. She intercepted the look and reflected it right back at him. “Got something you want to say?”
“You surprised me. I was expecting a Patterson, not a roper.”
“Thank you,” she said, and went back to poking at Delon’s knee.
Delon stared at the button on the top of her cap, thunderstruck. That was it. The difference he’d been trying to put his finger on. The hair, the makeup, the clothes—those were just superficial. The change in Tori was fundamental, all the way to her core, and Gil had nailed it in one. Tori had become what Violet’s dad would call a hand. Not a wannabe with her Cowgirl Barbie boots and matching Barbie horse. She was a true roper. An athlete, her body tuned for competition. And a damned fine body it was.
She gripped his thigh and his calf and bent his knee slightly. “Relax.”
“Say that when you’re not about to hurt me.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and made a concerted effort to let the muscles go loose. Tori steadied his thigh and pulled up on his calf, testing the ligament. The joint held tight. She repositioned the leg, massaged his thigh and calf with her fingers, then tried again. Still no slack that Delon could feel.
She slid her hand down to his ankle. “I’m going to try bending it. Tell me when to stop.”
Delon nodded, eyes still shut, teeth gritted as she eased his heel toward his butt. The pain wasn’t as bad as he’d expected, but something felt weird. Sort of loose. Then the same old pressure began to build, the steel band clamping around his knee. “Stop.”
She did, but instead of straightening his leg, she said, “Look.”
At first he didn’t see what she meant. Then he blinked, stared, and blinked again. His heel was at least six inches closer to his butt than it had been since the surgery. “What’s wrong with it?”
“More like what’s right. You just cost Pepper a few grand in fees.” Tori released his leg and straightened, hands on hips. “It appears you’ve done a banner job of busting up the scar tissue all by yourself. Too bad you were awake to feel it.”
“He didn’t tear anything else?” Gil asked.
“Not that I can tell.”
Without comment, Gil heaved to his feet, scooped up the towels and ice packs, and left.
Tori’s gaze measured his uneven, hitching gait. “Hip?”
“Yeah. Motorcycle accident. Crushed the left side of his pelvis.” He hesitated, then added, “It happened the night Krista broke it off with him.”
Tori stiffened. “Well, I’ll just go now—”
“You’re not like her.” He grabbed the sleeve of her sweatshirt so she couldn’t walk away. “Even Gil said so, when he called you a roper.”
Her chin dropped and she was silent for the space of a few breaths. Then she looked up and smiled, a rare, unguarded thing. “Thank you.”
He let her go and settled his hand on his knee, his head spinning from more than the aftereffects of the tequila. “So that’s it? I get drunk and fall on my ass and it’s all better?”
“No. But at least now we have a fighting chance.”
Tori shoved her hands into the pocket of her sweatshirt, lean and strong and determined. Delon pictured her in that blue dress, her arms and shoulders all sleek, bare muscle. What would she feel like against him now, with so much of her younger, softer self stripped away…
His body pulsed with a different kind of ache, even through the booze and the pain. He suddenly wished Gil would disappear so he could ask her to stay awhile. For what? He sure as hell didn’t need another drink and he was in no shape to stroll out to the dining room for dinner.
He rubbed a hand roughly over his knee, the stab of pain a reminder of why she was here. Professional interest only. “Sorry to drag you out on a Saturday night. Looks like you were busy.”
“Shawnee came out to rope this afternoon. I was just putting my horse away when Gil called.”
Delon shook his head, confused. “You still hate Violet, but you and Shawnee are friends now?”
“No. We just practice together. It’s the team roping version of a booty call—in, out, no strings.”
Like Delon, in other words. Shame twisted his stomach into a queasy knot.
Tori hesitated, then added, “And Shawnee only picked on me. Violet messed with us.”
She gave the word an emphasis that made it important. Made him important, if only in the past tense.
We should have done this sooner, she’d said.
Was is just the booze, or did this mean more than dancing? Things like talking, being honest, asking for what they really wanted? But just like with his brother, anything he could say now was much too little and far too late, so he settled for, “Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome.”
She studied him for a few beats, as if she wanted to ask the obvious questions, then said, “Come in first thing Monday morning. And ice the crap out of your knee until then. It’s gonna be sore.”
She didn’t say good night, just turned and walked away. Delon let his head fall back and closed his eyes, floundering in a slough of desire, misery, and guarded optimism. Instead of totally wrecked, his knee was better. But how much? Enough?
At least now we’ve got a fighting chance, she’d said. But she hadn’t said that the odds were in their favor.
Footsteps approached and then paused, too quick and light to be Gil. “Delon?”
His eyes popped open. Tori stood in the door.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Miscommunication?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your brother. He’s gone.” She glanced over her shoulder and then back again, her expression part baffled, part suspicious. “He took your keys and told the bartender I was driving you home.”