Wes wasn’t near drunk enough. He was just a little greased around the edges, buzzed enough to slide into bad decisions without noticing the incline. It was his sweet spot, really. Steady on his feet, sloppy in his morals, and already scanning the room for a mistake he could stick his dick in and fuck until it limped.

The Spitshine was the perfect hunting ground. It was the kind of bar where the floor stuck to your boots and the air was 90% backwash and 10% desperation. The whole place was decorated with broken trophies and stripper poles no one had cleaned since ’06, like the ghosts of bad choices past were just part of the ambiance. Wes fit right in. He wore his arrogance like cologne and smiled like he hoped someone would swing on him. The place was packed, boots stomping, neon bleeding off wet walls- It was gonna be a good night.

Wes could feel it.

His buddy Colt had clocked a blonde in a booth near the bar the second they walked in. Big hair. Bigger tits. She was the high-end type, the kind that only looked twice if your name was followed by a championship title and a string of zeroes. Exactly Colt’s type: hot, shallow, and easy enough to forget in the morning, so when he leaned in and said, “Just keep the friend busy,” Wes rolled his neck and cracked his knuckles.

The friend... Wes grimaced. They weren’t necessarily ugly. They just looked like a lot of work. Standoffish. Sharp. That kind of pissed-off pretty that came with conditions and didn’t like rodeo boys with mean smiles and silver tongues. They looked like effort and Wes usually preferred his playmates dumb and easy. He fought bulls for a living, he didn’t like to do it recreationally too.

Colt clapped his shoulder. “I’ll owe you,” Colt laughed, eyes locked on his prize. “Yeah. You really will.” Wes grinned around the lip of his beer bottle. He didn’t do charity. But he did do chaos. Throwing himself on a grenade so his friend could get it in was just the kind of mean-spirited martyrdom he could get behind.

The rodeo menace cut through the crowd like something feral and vicious, all muscle and intent. The silver glint of his belt buckle caught the light just long enough to draw the eye before it landed somewhere worse. That smirk, maybe. Or the way his shirt hung open, showcasing a stomach cut hard enough to make smart people stupid.

The hair didn’t help. Long, wild, and dyed a rich magenta that caught the bar’s flickering neon like a flame. It spilled down his back in curls that should’ve looked ridiculous, but didn’t. Not with that face. Not with those cheekbones, that sharp jaw, and a mouth that looked like it was built for lying.

He was beautiful and he knew it.

The grenade didn’t even see him coming. He dropped into the seat beside them uninvited, legs wide, body radiating heat and smoke and that cocky scent of leather, arena dirt cologne, and lingering adrenaline. Didn’t look their way at first. Just let the silence stretch like a threat, one arm thrown across the back of the booth like he’d paid for the real estate.

“Well damn,” he murmured, finally turning toward them, gaze lazy and cruel. “You always sit around lookin’ like a warning label? You’re allowed to, ya know, smile like it don’t hurt to be here.” He watched them flinch. Barely. But it was enough. Enough to crack his grin open wider.

“Don’t worry. I ain’t hittin’ on you, sweetheart,” he said, voice all rust and heat. “I’ve got better taste than that. This is just a public service. You looked like you needed someone to ruin your night properly and I’m willin’ to take one for the team.”

He let his eyes drag slowly across them, judging and unkind.

“Don’t worry. I’m qualified.”