Chapter 10

Samantha Nichols lived on a ranch several miles out of town. Even if Sam hadn’t asked Dana out, it made sense for Sam to pick Dana up, if they were staying in town, rather than the other way around. Dana waited patiently.

The doorbell rang fifteen minutes late. Dana bounded up to get it before the Brat Patrol could. It was Sam, in a fitted cowboy shirt, tight jeans, and boots. Dana’s heart thudded—they were clothes begging to be peeled off.

“Whoa,” Sam said, looking Dana up and down and up again. “Nice.” Dana smiled—Tina had made a good suggestion of what to wear.

Dana’s parents came to the door, and she made hasty introductions as she grabbed her jacket. Then before they could embarrass her, Dana took her date’s arm and walked out to Sam’s truck. It was a shiny extended-cab pickup.

“Did I know you drove a truck?”

“It’s my Dad’s,” Sam said. “I borrowed it. What happened to you?” Sam was looking at her face. Tina had done her best to hide the scratches under makeup plus two strands of hair loose over her cheeks.

“Backyard bramble,” Dana said shortly. “So where are you taking me?”

“First, dinner at the diner with some of the gang. And then,” Sam’s smile nearly glittered, “how do you feel about line dancing?”

Dana blinked. “I can learn.”

“Good,” Sam said with a nod. “It’s country-and-western night at the Rustler—and I want to have a good time.”

The Rustler was a bar on the south side of town. “I don’t know about you,” Dana said, “but I don’t have an ID that says I’m 21.”

“That’s okay—my uncle owns it. He won’t throw us out. And you don’t have to buy drinks yourself, if you’re worried about being carded.”

Dana was dubious. “Who all is going?”

Sam shrugged. “Whoever wants.”

“What’s the alternatives?”

“Ah, come on,” Sam pouted. “It’ll be a blast. And it’s not like it’s illegal or anything.”

True—it was only illegal to serve alcohol to someone underage. Everyone knew that.

Sam continued, “You said you’d show me a good time.”

So if Dana didn’t go, there went her chances of seeing the rest of the cheerleaders. Dana didn’t liked being blackmailed. On the other hand, it wasn’t like it would be dangerous—as long as they were with other kids, Dana figured she’d be okay. As long as her parents didn’t find out. “Sounds fun, actually.”

“Perfect.” Sam pulled into the Route 77 Diner. “We are going to have the best time you’ve had in this town. And don’t you,” Sam pointed a long finger at Dana, “forget it.”

Dana got the message. Though she thought they could have a pretty good time, just the two of them in the cab of that big-ass truck. But there was dinner to be eaten. She followed Sam inside.

“The gang” turned out to be Heather and Zoe and their two dates—both boys. Patrick, she already knew—he was a guard on the basketball team; he was often seen with Zoe, but she slept around too much to call them steady. Daniel—he pronounced it Dan’l—was a running back. Patrick and Dana pulled a table over to extend a booth.

Dinner was a little rowdy—jocks and cheerleaders on a Saturday night, with friends dropping by every so often. Dana would have preferred sitting on a bench with Sam, as she had with Heather, than across a table from her. But then again, this way she could watch Sam. Not to mention play footsie.

They talked about sports, and school, and sports—especially the NCAA tournament. Dana tried to hide that, while she knew a lot about the women’s teams, she knew nothing of the men. When Patrick called her on this, Dana admitted if it wasn’t WNBA or women’s soccer, she didn’t follow it.

“Then what,” Dan’l asked, “do you talk about on dates?” He got a laugh from the guys.

“Who says we do much talking?”

The others laughed harder. Point to her. Sam looked smug.

Which, for some reason, struck Dana as not Sam’s most attractive expression.

When they left for the Rustler, Dana watched Sam drive. Why was it, she wondered, so many stone foxes were bitchy? Surely they knew it made them less attractive. Not that, right now, Sam wasn’t looking good enough for anyone.

Sam glanced at Dana. “What?”

Dana said the first thing that came to mind. “So why are cheerleaders bi, anyway?”

Sam made a no duh! look. “They just are. Just like in all those pornos.”

Dana wondered just how much porn a high school student could see, but Sam pulled into the Rustler’s mostly full parking strip.

Only Patrick and Zoe had followed them. Patrick turned out to have a fake ID. Zoe and Dana, Sam identified to her uncle as being with her.

“Now you girls have a good time, you hear?” Uncle Jake said with a good-old-boy drawl. He was a big, husky guy gone portly. He could probably still bounce pretty effectively, though. “Just stay out of trouble.”

The girls thanked him and went inside. His wink made Dana uncomfortable. She decided to avoid him, if she could.

The bar was dark, noisy, and smoky—or at least, more smoke than Dana was used to. She ordered a Coke. Sam ordered diet. But Dana wasn’t there for the drinks—she was there to dance with Sam. The music was moving—her body needed to as well. Her rushing blood needed to dance, to flow with a rhythm alike and unlike playing.

Sam took Dana out on the floor and taught her the moves. Line dancing was odd. Two-stepping was easier—similar to the moves for zydeco, but not as fast. It was also more fun than in a line—dancing with a partner, just her, paying attention to only her body, the way their bodies moved together.

When Sam wanted a break, Dana was still having fun. So she also danced with Zoe, and with Patrick, and with another football player who’d joined them. Sam danced with both boys, and later with a man. Once, Dana saw her with a beer bottle in hand. Dana frowned, but said nothing—she was dancing with Zoe again. The curvy firecracker was fun to dance with.

Zoe wasn’t as tall as Sam, which made dancing with her not as easy. Neither was she as short as Nikki. Dana blocked that thought and concentrated on leading so they moved together.

When Dana came off the dance floor for a breather, she sat down and sipped her drink. It tasted odd. It took her a couple swallows to realize her coke had been replaced with rum-and-coke. She put the drink down and collected Sam for a dance. Another line dance, it turned out. Still, it was dancing, even if Sam giggled every time she flubbed.

Sam left the floor before the end of a dance. When it was done, Dana didn’t find Sam with the others—Zoe said she’d had gone to the restroom. There were two bottles of beer with lipstick on the table, Sam’s shade. Dana frowned. But then two football players started arm wrestling, and Dana, as the strongest girl there, had to help referee.

After the best of three rounds, Sam hadn’t come back. She hoped Sam wasn’t feeling badly. Dana checked the cowgirls’ room, but didn’t see her boots in any stall. She circulated through the bar—not ordering a drink, not on the floor, not getting fresh air out front, not back with the gang. Dana shook her head, half convinced that Sam was making the same circuit, looking for Dana and missing her. She bit her lip, then started another round, and—there, a familiar blonde head in the corner.

Sam, at a stand-up table to one side, laughing between two men. Shit. Sam tossed back her head—downing a shot.

Shit didn’t cover it. This was definitely a Fuck.

As Dana wove through the crowd, she tried to figure out how to get Sam out of there. Nothing good came to mind. It was hard to think in the noise and heat and smoke and the buzz of anger. Aside from not starting a confrontation, that is. Which was a guideline, not a plan. Both guys were nearly her size—not good.

Dana dodged around a laughing man as he slapped his thigh, then stood beside Sam. “Hey there, girl.” She put her arm around Sam’s waist.

“Hey!” Sam clumsily wrapped her arm over Dana’s taller shoulder. “Jus the girl I wanna see.” Her speech was slurred. How much had she drunk? “Meet John and Joe.”

Dana didn’t catch which was which, the guy with the mustache or the one with the rodeo belt buckle.

“Howdy there, big girl,” Belt Buckle said.

Dana flashed a brief smile and nodded. “Listen,” she said to Sam, keeping her arm around her, “the others are heading out.”

“Aw, don’t be going already.” That was Mustache. He had shifted while Dana had focused on Sam and Belt Buckle. There was a table behind her, a wall the other way—the only way out was past him. It was enough room for just her on court, but not while supporting Sam. Adrenaline kicked; Dana was suddenly aware of everyone’s exact positions, all the ways each could move.

“Yeah, we’ve only just been introduced,” Belt Buckle said.

“I know it’s a shame,” Dana said with a forced smile, “but we have to be going.”

“No, we don’t,” Sam protested. She leaned heavily on Dana.

“Just when we were gettin’ to know each other?” Mustache said.

“Leaving now wouldn’t be friendly.” Belt Buckle’s voice was pleasant on the surface, but there was a touch of iron underneath. Forget finesse—Dana had get Sam away now.

“Sorry about that, gentlemen, but her date’s leaving.”

Belt Buckle laughed. “Well, I don’t see no date coming to get her, do you Johnny?”

“Nope.”

“Actually, you do.” A mistake—she knew as soon as she said it. But it’d be more of a mistake to back down. She swallowed, shifted her weight to turn Sam.

The men stiffened, glanced at each other. “Wee-ell, Johnny,” said Belt Buckle, “sounds like these girls need to learn what a good man is like.”

Johnny hitched up his belt.

“Hey!” Sam said, standing upright. “You can’t talk about cheerleaders like that.”

Oh perfect.

Time to get out any way she could. “That’s right,” Dana said, voice raised so people nearby could hear, “she’s jail bait.”

“Hey, don tell them,” Sam protested, also loud enough for their neighbors.

“So if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen,” Dana stressed the last word.

Enough men and women were watching that Johnny let them by. Not without the still-protesting Sam brushing against him—or him pushing. The girls stumbled, but Dana kept Sam from falling.

“Here now,” a man’s voice said, “none of that here.”

Dana walked Sam on.

“You better not come back here, lez-bo!” Joe called out.

“Why the—!” Sam twisted around, turning back. Dana caught her about the waist and dragged her backwards, by main force of rage. “I’m bi!“ Sam insisted.

Sam was still struggling as they passed their friends. “We’re going,” Dana informed them. “Now.”

“We are not,” Sam said.

Zoe grabbed Sam and Dana’s jackets and followed them outside with Patrick.

“What happened?” Patrick asked.

“Just a little spot of trouble,” Dana said through her teeth. She glanced back to make sure Joe and Johnny weren’t following.

“No there wasn’t,” Sam insisted. “We were about to have shome fun.”

Dana let go of Sam—because if she didn’t, she would have thrown her. Sam staggered, but remained upright. Dana was, she realized, royally pissed—pissed at Sam for getting drunk, pissed at the men, pissed because she’d been made to feel afraid. Pissed at herself for getting into this.