It was in the acidic belly of the dive bar that Ella sat staring into space. At the smoke-yellowed wall, actually. She wondered how many cigarettes had lived their short lives in this place. On the wall, a less-yellow outline marked the previous residence of the jukebox. Now, it was on the north wall, away from any meager sunlight that might’ve filtered through the window. Though that would've been a miracle itself since that window held a buzzing neon Coors begging customers to "Turn it loose!" Ella was pretty sure that sign was from the previous century.
Time was marked by the consummation of vices.
There was a small, lifted stage, if six inches counts as lifted, but no band was playing tonight. A lone mic stand haunted the empty stage like a grave marker. The floor where, presumably at some point, people danced was full of the opposite. Men stood smoking and catcalling pretty women sitting at the bar, and less pretty women stood on the floor trying to catch the attention of those men by sheer proximity. Most of the men were nothing special. Ella was a red-blooded woman, though, and she counted two or three she wouldn't decline a dance with. If anyone ever danced, of course.
This place was technically depressing - she knew that. But the novelty of being here at all was... fun. And she was proud of herself, if she was honest. Being alone in a west Texas dive bar was bravery manifest. Especially since this place seemed to be the most popular in town. She figured as much; there weren't many places to beat the heat around here. Ella swilled her icy beer, grateful for it in this late August evening. She felt the sweat pooling in the band of her bra and hoped no one could see the beads on her chest.
And though it was loud, it was hazy, and people were jostling each other, she noticed when the paint-flecked, poster-covered front door opened and a cowboy came in.
Tall, even after removing his hat and holding it against his chest, and a little older than Ella's thirty years, this man was a sight. Even in the poor lighting, she could make out his perfectly angled nose, his kind eyes. She'd never had a man give her the immediate butterflies - was this love at first sight? She actually laughed under her breath at her own reaction to this random stranger.
His face was lined, his eyes had creases from where he was squinting into the gloom, and he had a smirk about him. Ineffably handsome, he drew the attention of every woman in that room, but he didn't seem to be looking for it. He returned a woman's greeting, but his manner was both blunt and polite.
Ella understood instantly that this man was here to disappear. To be present but not part of something. Here to not be here. It's why she was there, too.
Sticking out like a cowlick, the man swaggered - (she'd never seen a man deserve the word swagger, but this one came by it honestly) - toward the bar and leaned down onto it. He smiled at the pretty, plump bartender who beamed back at him. She seemed happier to serve him than she had any of the other yahoos that were consistently failing to charm any of the bar's female population.
The bartender slid him the beer he asked for, he set down cash, then thanked her as he straightened, looking for a place to hole up.
What he found was Ella's eye. She blushed and smiled an apologetic smile. He held his beer up to her across the room in a silent "Cheers." She returned it.
Time passed. Ella was on beer three, maybe beer four, when one brave soul resurrected the microphone from its grave. Drunkenly tottering on the tiny stage, the man was one of the few that Ella had found attractive enough. She no longer considered him such.
Try as she might, considering his "Leave me alone, thank you kindly," aura, Ella could not get the cowboy off her mind. He was seated at another small table in the corner to her left, and he was reading, for fuck's sake. What cowboy reads at a dive bar? A question that demanded an answer. He wasn't totally absorbed in his book, however, because when the drunk karaoke started, he set his book down, his finger saving his page, and watched with amusement.
Since he was on the opposite side of the stage from her, his gaze slid past the karaoke singers and landed once more on Ella. He had come here because he found it easier to relax when the world was spinning around him. Maybe the cacophony scratched some ADHD he didn't know he had. Either way, that girl was still burning holes in him, and he found that he didn't mind the distraction now.
He met her gaze, cocking an eyebrow. A small smile turned her lips, and he mouthed, "What song you singin'?" The hand not saving his page motioned toward the stage.
She pursed her lips, pretending to think deeply, then mouthed back, "Livin' on a Prayer."
The cowboy frowned and waved his hand dismissively. "You can do better than that."
Feeling daring and encouraged by the attention of this handsome stranger, she mouthed one more time, "You pick."
Ella watched, tension knotting her stomach, as the cowboy stood, his eyes locked with her, and he weaved across the now-in-use dancefloor.
"Mind if I sit?" His voice was low, but so deep that she could hear it through the high-pitched hollering going on behind him.
"Please do. You have a problem with Bon Jovi?"
He laughed, short and low, and Ella decided she wanted to hear that sound as many times as he'd give it.
The cowboy arranged his face into a simile of seriousness. "Myself and Mr. Bon Jovi have some personal problems."
Ella feigned sympathy, her hand cupping her chin. "Aw, he steal a girlfriend from you?"
"Ah, naw, he wouldn't be able to do that," the cowboy smirked mischievously at her. He was already attractive, but Ella was still surprised at the force of his charm. "It's more like I think his music is terrible."
Ella laughed, "That sounds more like a professional problem to me." Changing the subject, just in case he was serious about singing, she asked, "What book did you bring?"
"Aw, you would ask me that, wouldn't you? Well," he chuckled, "it's a little cliche." He tipped his hand, and the white-covered book was so thick that the tiny bar table wobbled a little at the new weight. In a lavender-colored lasso on the front, the book's title was written in a classic western font: Lonesome Dove.
Ella laughed again, looking from the title to the cowboy. He was staring at her intently, smiling with a self-consciousness that was too endearing to mock.
"Y'ever read it?" He asked.
She shook her head. "It's on my list, but... I've got a long list. Is this a re-read for you?"
He thinned his lips in admittance. "I read it every few years. My mama gave me this copy when I was sixteen, and I read it when -" he dodged his own train of thought, "Well, when I feel like I need to."
Ella let his honesty have its weight, then as softly as she could inside the rowdy bar, she asked, "I'm afraid I don't know your name? I'm Ella."
The cowboy livened. "Well damn, if I'm not a rude bastard. I was too busy getting to the good part that I forgot to introduce myself. Name's Glen," he touched the tip of his hat to her. Then in a playful voice, "Are we savin' last names for the second date?"
"Maybe I just don't want to give my whole identity out to some handsome stranger in a dive bar," she returned, punctuating her sentence with the finishing of her beer.
"Handsome?" He whistled. Ella thought she caught him glance at her lips as she licked the wetness from them, but he didn't comment. "Alright, how about this handsome stranger gets us both another round. Maybe then we won't quite be strangers no more," Glen threw her a quick wink. Between the confidence, the winking, and his intimate smirks, he seemed to have only a few tricks - but damn if they weren't effective.
While Glen strode through the hazy, loud room, Ella's stare followed him like a coyote. His light brown hair stuck out beneath his hat just enough to see its color, and there was a smattering of gray at his temples. The way his Wranglers fit snug to his ass, as though they were tailored to him, certainly fed her hungry eyes.
And she wasn't the only one.
A well-dressed woman closer to Glen's age was seated next to where he now stood, and Ella saw the woman engage him in conversation. She couldn't hear a damn thing through the loud Kenny Chesney now pumping through the shitty old AV system and slurring out from the singing patrons, but she could see the woman reach out and gently slide her hand down Glen's forearm where it propped him up on the bar.
Intensely surprised by a bolt of jealousy, Ella blinked. She did not know this guy beyond a short flirtation. He owed her nothing. But, even more surprising, Glen smiled patiently at his neighbor and tipped his head in Ella's direction. While he did not look at Ella, the woman turned and met Ella's eyes, raising her own eyebrows in approval as if to say, Good catch, girl. Ella gave a small smile, eyes wide. I know, right.
When he returned, he handed the bottle to her before sliding deftly into his chair. She went to take a pull, but he tsked, then in his sarcastic drawl, Glen admonished her, "Where I come from, we don't drink with friends without -" he angled his own bottle, indicating a toast.
Ella gasped in feigned apology, "And I didn't even pay for this one. I'm so rude."
"Bad luck, otherwise," Glen stated. "First time I ever had a legal drink, Loretta Lynn was sittin' two seats down. Sure as shit I gave her a cheers. And one time, we - me and a buddy of mine - was having some fun at this quarry we have. Bout a half-hour south a'here. Anyway, he didn't return my cheers." His face turned somber, "He jumped off the ledge into that quarry water. We never found him." Glen shook his head and took a drink, looking off into space dramatically.
Something about his manner tipped her off: he was bullshitting.
Ella arranged her face into a mask of sympathy and cried, "Holy shit, Glen, that's a horrible thing to witness." She reached out and brushed her fingers atop his forearm - a repeat offense the man seemed to receive. "I'm so sorry." Ella was glad she took the chance; his arm was warm, tanned, and muscular - used to being used under the Texas sun. She was willing to bet he actually worked as a cowboy.
Glen watched her, attraction growing by the moment. She wasn't a good actress. She had read him like a book; Ella was fucking with him for his tall tale. He took her hand in his, sliding his rough palm against her much softer one. He looked down at their fingers lacing and replied, "Yeah, darlin', it was just terrible. The kinda thing you need to drink just to forget." His voice dropped, lilting and goading, "How 'bout you? You got any terrible little things you're runnin' from?"
Ella might've been a few beers deep, but the intent in Glen's gaze, his boyish jubilence, and mature confidence were all just as detrimental to her judgment; she went with the first story she could think of. A classic tale.
"Old boyfriend. You know how it is," she ticked up a shoulder coyly. "Says he loves you, but his version of love leaves bruises. Worse, it leaves you questioning if there's a version of love that doesn't include bruises." She smiled and hid her face behind her beer, pretending to scratch her cheek. "That maybe that white knight is a myth." Ella worried she might not be convincing, but her wit just wouldn't work through the chemical depressant in her body - the truth was the only story she could tell. But trauma dumping on a stranger at a bar was a new level of pathetic, she thought.
And he saw right through her, just as she'd seen through him. Glen had heard this story before - his own sister had a similar past; he knew this wasn't a tall tale. He had stretched the truth for his story, but she didn't quite manage it. The fire in his eyes went from playful to an honest intensity she'd never seen before in a man. But her body language made her regret obvious, so, for her sake, he kept up their game.
Lightly, he answered, "Ah, you came across one a'those kinds of men. Here we call 'em 'Pig Food.'" Glen tilted his head toward her, "Now as for your white knight, I apologize. My horse is a little slower than I'd like." He made a slight wink and took a swig of his beer.
Ella blushed, "That's too bad. I'd love to meet him someday. What's his name? Snowball. Sugar? Something real masculine, I bet."
Glen threw his head back, laughing as though it was the funniest joke he'd heard all day instead of a lame attempt to regain some humor. "To be honest with ya, Ella, I truly did meet Loretta Lynn in a bar not too far from here," he tapped his beer bottle on the table, "and I really do have a Quarter Horse. Technically -" he pointed at her with the neck of his beer, "technically, he's gray. But he looks white enough. And I named him after a character in my second favorite book." Glen squinted at her, encouraging her to guess. But his eyes crinkled in the corners along his tanned face like sunbeams trailing from his golden-brown eyes into the depths of his hairline.
She was really losing this battle, but something deep in her mind flickered to the surface and she guessed hopefully, "I can't be so lucky as to have met a fellow Lord of the Rings fan, can I?"
He plunked his beer down on the table, wobbling it again. "You are so lucky. See - this's why we always cheers."
"Shadowfax is supposed to be the fastest of all horses. Yours was so slow that I'm already damaged goods. Maybe somewhere in my life I forgot to toast with someone," she widened her eyes, feigning alarm.
Glen was thoughtful for a breath, then his eyes raked over Ella, dragging slowly along her neckline. Unashamedly, he met her eyes and drawled, "There ain't nothing damaged about you, darlin'." She knew the want glinting in his gaze was mirrored in her own. Ella would give anything for him to have his hands on her, but she feared that was asking too much of a "first date."
Swallowing through the tension, she cleared her throat and asked, "You really here just to read?"
"Well, I was," he hinted. "Why're you here?"
"I just came here to relax. Or maybe I was hoping I'd meet a man who'd have me do something reckless."
This time she was the one to make her interest clear. Just as she had when he sat across the room, Ella lingered too long on the man's full lips, the indent at the base of his throat framed by his collar, and the little patch of chest hair visible above his last pearl-snap button. "No," she said quietly, "I was thinking of something else."
"Aww, you know we can't be doin' that," he said, though the look on his face said the opposite. "You gotta be what, twenty-five? I think that's just too young, sweetheart." His crooked smirk was making her thighs ache.
"Thirty, actually." Her protestation was a knee-jerk reaction though she understood he hadn't been serious. Ella was pretty sure he either didn't care how old she was or knew she was older than his supposed guess.
He shook his head in mock horror, "Thirty? When I was thirty, George Bush was just givin' up his presidency. Aw, damn... you know what? That's also the year I ended up gettin' bit by a ostrich."
Completely thrown, Ella nearly choked on her drink, sputtering, "You what?"
"Neighbor owned a petting zoo. He didn't believe much in fences, and I didn't believe in letting an ostrich loose on the town."
"So you lassoed a big ass bird? To save your town? That's a true story, but not the quarry one?" Ella couldn't help but crack an incredulous smile. "Who are you? You can't be a real person."
"A damned hero, that's who," he pointed his beer at her again, fighting a smile. "I guess I'll white knight for anybody and everybody."
Ella bit at the inside of her lip, "And here I was hoping that was just for me."
Glen cursed himself; in truth he hadn't flirted with anyone for a long while. The attention he received he usually lost just as quickly due to some communication failure - just as he feared he was doing now.
Which is why he was a little too honest.
"Sweetheart, if you asked me to, I'd probably hunt down that ex-boyfriend a'yours," he chuckled darkly.
Ella's throat swelled closed as she struggled to keep the emotion off her face. She didn't truly know this man, but she believed him. Too many relationships had withered and died and in none of them had she ever found someone willing to defend her. Shit, her last one had nearly killed her himself.
Struck silent momentarily, Ella was unable to clear her voice of her feelings before Glen misread her silence and he excused himself to the restroom. She watched, worrying at her lip, as he disappeared down the darkened hall.
He wasn't coming back. She was certain of it. They'd made a few too many admissions, and now it was too much for two people who'd come here to escape. She was certain except... there on the table still sat his book.
She grabbed it and strode toward the hallway herself.
The narrow passage led into the even-dingier backroom of the squat building. Blue paint on the walls flaked and peeled, and directly ahead, a neon red EXIT sign hung above a square, metal door with a push-bar. Upon turning the corner, however, she found herself in a small room. A pool table with frayed green lining sat in the center, taking up most of the walkable space. On the far end of the room were two doors: one with a man, one with a woman. The pool table was damaged on one edge, and Ella assumed the bar owner had no space for this monstrosity except back here. Above it hung two dim lamps with red shades, casting everything in an eerie glow.
Ella suddenly felt awkward. Was she going to stand here and wait for him to leave the bathroom? That felt like a creepy thing to do. She weighed her options for a few seconds, then decided to leave the book on the pool table and go.
From behind her, the unmistakable squeak of a metal door swinging open caused her to spin around. Glen stepped back inside, and his eyebrows raised when he saw her in the neon red haze.
"Y'alright?" He asked earnestly, taking her startled expression into account. The sound system and drunken singing were far more muffled here, and Ella could've gotten high on the true timbre of his voice. "What's goin' on?"
"I- I just didn't want you to forget your book."
"Forget it? I was comin' back," he explained. "I'm sorry. I felt like I was comin' on too strong and-" he stopped when she started shaking her head. "No?"
"No," she promised. She was very suddenly aware of his proximity in this dark, tucked-away room.
Glen came toward her, but she couldn't see his eyes underneath his hat. "If that's true, why're you returnin' my book like a Letterman jacket?"
Ella gave him a tight laugh. Her body was blaring with the danger of being alone in a strange bar with a strange man who seemed to want the same thing she did. He reached her. His boots framed her own. Glen was so close, she had to look up just to make eye contact.
"I think I was hoping you'd still help me do something reckless."
"Yes, ma'am. I can do that," he was staring down at her as if he was trying to tell her everything he wouldn't be able to say aloud. Like it was his very first time, he cupped her cheek with one hand, his thumb tracing down her chin. He gently brought his lips to hers, kissing her carefully at first, ensuring this was what she wanted. And when she breathed a small moan into his mouth, he abandoned all restraint.
Glen grabbed her thighs, his calloused hands catching on her linen skirt, hoisting her up and backwards onto the disused pool table. Her arms came around his neck, and she accidentally tipped his hat to the floor in her fervor.
"S-" she tried to apologize but he was there. He kissed her deeply, making her forget all about anything that wasn't him, him, him. He knocked her knees apart with his thigh and pressed closer to her, making her gasp with the contact.
She took his aggression as permission, pulling his shirt from where it had been neatly tucked into his jeans. Ella shamelessly felt him up - running her hands up and down his muscled stomach; she dug her fingers into his jeans, tracing the v-shape of his lower body as it disappeared below his belt. Her left hand lingered there while Ella's right hand traced his butt in those jeans.
Glen had only two beers, but he was dizzy. He chuckled as her hand curved around his ass, but her other hand's silent fingers were so close to where he needed them. In the back of his mind, he worried about getting caught, but so few people came back this way as there was a nicer bathroom up front. Even he had only come this way to get fresh air. Ella kissed his collar bone, then her fingers got busy, and he figured the gamble was worth it.
Glen let her fumble at his belt for a few seconds, finding sick pleasure in watching her, before he leaned back and unbuckled it for her. Glen returned to her mouth, and she slowly slid her hand from his stomach downward. He paused, his lips hovering over hers, his eyes closed, waiting for her. She stopped, scarcely an inch away, smiling up at him teasingly, and his eyes flew open, dark and shining. Glen grabbed her hand and wrapped it around himself.
His jaw tightened with her grip, and he exhaled roughly. He hiked up her skirt, his palms skimming her thighs, and when his fingers found no other material in his way, he muttered, "Just here to relax, my ass."
"As if you came here just to read, " she retorted.
He lifted her again, pushing her back to the wall. Her legs locked around his waist, and he pulled himself totally free of his jeans.
"I did," he insisted. "You fucked that up." Glen haphazardly arranged her skirt to cover their indecency in case someone did happen upon them. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he leaned into her. He dropped his perspiring forehead onto Ella's shoulder as he fit himself in her. Glen forced a moan from Ella that he was quick to cover with his hand. He brought his eyes level with hers, her mouth still covered, as he dragged himself back out. He almost ended it all there when her eyes fluttered closed in relief.
"Naw, you better look at me. You stared at me all night, you can't do it now?" He teased, his breath becoming ragged.
Glen got his demand, but that only made it more difficult to concentrate.
She grabbed his hip, tugging him back, pushing him deeper while her other hand dug in his light chest hair. Two or three pearl-snaps had come undone in their tussle and she was glad of it. His soft cotton collar flapped against his sweaty chest in rhythm with their thrusts, acting as a metronome to their quick, desperate breaths.
The stifling air had only thickened between the two lovers, making sweat ripple down their backs. If Ella had been pressed on the matter, she'd rather die than admit that his sweat only made him more attractive. He smelled of earth and rain - something honest and pure.
Glen started to falter, and Ella gripped his bicep, holding herself as close to him as she could. The image of them popped into her mind like an out-of-body experience: this wide-shouldered, strong cowboy in his fitted jeans now loose around his waist burying himself and his worries into her white linen skirt; her arms clutching at him as though he was an oak in a flood. It sent her over the cliff, and she cried out sharply - heedless of their predicament.
Glen made one guttural, proud laugh, and shoved her harder into the wall, following her right over. His hips stilled, and he panted, "Damn, woman. I'm too old for this," he laughed breathlessly. He withdrew, and she quickly arranged herself, brought back to the present.
Ella made a furtive glance down the hallway, hoping she hadn't been heard. To her intense relief, the bar continued on as though she and Glen hadn't existed at all. She turned back to look at him, and she blushed depite of all they'd just done.
Glen stood there, trusting her to warn him, taking his time buttoning his shirt. His jeans were still loose around his hips, his belt hanging like a tired snake. Glen had tucked himself away, but his dishevelment was almost as indecent - she couldn't look away. His close-cropped hair still managed to be tousled as though a tornado had come through while they were distracted. He swooped down and grabbed his hat.
"Are you, uh, forgetting something there?" She stared at his visible briefs.
"I'm gettin' to it. Why, you don't like the view?" He smirked.
"No, I very much like it. But I don't want to be arrested and put on a list."
"Fair enough," he mumbled, and she was treated to Glen standing there with his cowboy hat on, boots standing wide, as he fixed his jeans and buckled his belt.
His easy, intimate behavior was excruciating. Unable to help herself, Ella asked, "Is your truck outside?"
Glen smiled, stepping toward her. Her took her waist between his hands and tugged her to him. He leaned down, his lips brushing hers before he replied, "Yes, ma'am."
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