Controlled Burn

Montana Wade pulled her travel-dusty car into a parking space at the end of the lot, turned off the ignition, and leaned back. The neon sign blinking Pete's flashed its kaleidoscope of colors through her windshield. The name was the same, but she wondered if Pete Bartoly still owned it. He'd be pretty damn old by now. Stretching away to the right, like a long concrete arm, was the row of rooms comprising The Highway Motel. Montana remembered them as a place where you could get drunk, hook up, and only have to stumble a few hundred yards to the nearest bed. Not that she'd ever been a patron, at least of the motel. She and her friends had spent many wild nights at Pete's, though, especially the last one when they were all going their separate ways. She hadn't meant to stop here. Her parents' ranch was less than an hour away, and she should have pushed on through the night and been done with it. But all the invisible baggage she'd dragged with her on the drive from California had exhausted her, and she needed something to give her the courage to unload. Ten years of her life down the drain. Fourteen, counting college. Could she have been any more stupid? She couldn't get rid of the feeling she was coming home with her tail between her legs. A little liquid courage would be a big help before she was forced to tell her parents what a fool she'd been. Not to mention she had no idea what she was going to do with her life beginning tomorrow. And if she drank too much courage, well, The Highway Motel offered a place to sleep it off. Yeah,that's what she should do. Spend the night and drive to the ranch in the morning, when she was fresh and her brain was working. And she'd found the inner resources to answer all the questions. Sighing, she climbed out of her car, walked to the door of the bar, and pulled it open. The interior was as dim as it had always been, the only light coming from more neon behind the bar and small lamps on the walls. Montana supposed it was originally intended to create an intimate atmosphere, but Pete's was a hundred miles away from anything even close high class. It did, however, create an ambience where the light was so muted anyone could look good and, after a couple of drinks, the stranger next to you began to resemble the star of your dreams. Half of the tables were filled, some with couples, others with groups. The jukebox was blissfully silent at the moment, so only the buzz of conversation filled the room. Montana spotted an empty stool at the bar, choosing it rather than one of the small tables. She wasn't there to get comfortable, just to wash away ten years of bad memories and fall into bed. Alone. She didn't recognize the bartender, a man with graying hair and bulging muscles. She only knew he wasn't Pete and, frankly, she didn't care. He tossed his bar towel onto his shoulder as he moved to stand in front of her. "Name your poison." "Jack Black. On the rocks." If she was going to do some serious drinking, Jack Daniel's Black Label was her liquid of choice. A couple of those and she ought to be ready to conk out for the night. He lifted an eyebrow then nodded and took down a bottle to fill her order. "You must be of a mind to do some serious drinking." Montana blinked. The voice, deep and raspy, came from the man sitting next to her. "Excuse me?" Turning her head barely enough to catch a sideways glimpse, a pulse she'd thought in deep freeze thundered through her body. The owner of the voice had a face defined by a rugged jaw and piercing black eyes. Hair equally as dark hung barely to the collar of a dark tee shirt stretched across broad shoulders and accented muscular arms. His smoky essence teased at her nostrils. When he lifted the beer bottle to take a drink, she noticed how long and graceful his fingers were, fingers capable of playing play a woman's body like a guitar. Really, Montana? You can think about that now? One corner of his mouth kicked up in a tired grin. "Most of the women I know only drink something from a bottle with a cork in it." Montana knew exactly what he meant. Women in the California culture thought wine was the only acceptable drink. How she had missed her bourbon these past ten years. "You obviously don't hang out with too many Texas women," she told him. "Or else, the wrong ones." He said it as a joke, but she had a feeling, tonight at least, he wasn't feeling very humorous. When the bartender placed her glass in front of her, she lifted it and took a healthy sip. The rich blend slid down her throat like a fiery caress, waking up all her senses. Wait! This was supposed to soften everything, ease her tension, prepare her body to crash for the night. Instead, it made her hyperaware of the man next to her who she was sure had to be emitting pheromones at an alarming rate. It had been so long since she'd felt real s****l attraction, she thought her body had forgotten how. But here she was, sitting next to a man she'd met seconds ago, and all it took was his gravelly voice, f**k-me eyes, and masculine nearness to wake up her body. A sudden ache danced through her breasts, her n*****s tingled, and, between her thighs, the pulse in her cunt throbbed with the insistence of a jungle drum. And, ohmigod! Were her panties wet after a few words and less than sixty seconds? Girl, you are in bad shape.