True Divide Read Online Free PDF Page B

kind of Crowell royalty, he’d be toothless by now. All that swagger plus all that beer belly means more than a few people would like a swing. Myself included.”
    She’s right on all points. Dusty comes from Scobey money, in reference to the fertile soil of north central Montana, which means they’re land-rich. His people own thirty thousand acres in Stratton County alone, plus a few scattered parcels here and there in the rest of the state. Between cattle grazing and wheat farming, when he inherits—which he will—Dusty can then easily add “millionaire” to his list of attributes. Until then he’s riding the wave of the near mafia control his family also happens to have over the sherriff’s office. And, somehow, his beer belly only adds to the weight of his entire cocksure persona. Add in the badge, and his ego operates in its own solar system.
    I watch him lumber off his bar stool and amble toward the bathroom. Once he’s clear of the room, I slip out of the booth, intent on acquiring the drink Sandi promised before he makes it back. I flop my hand out, palm up.
    â€œYou promised to buy, but I’m going up there to get our drinks. If I send you, Garrett will load up on the alcohol on the off chance he can finally turn all your innocent-married-woman flirting into something not so innocent, and I don’t want a hangover.”
    Sandi slaps a twenty in my hand, and when Garrett sees me approaching the bar, his face falls a bit. Thank God I’m not looking to ply any girl game on a man tonight, because that look would have killed my confidence. I order up the seven and seven Sandi requested and a skinny cocktail for myself—the one Garrett knows how to make so well. Because he’s entrepreneurial enough to know that if country star Miranda Lambert starts giving interviews talking about her own unique recipe for a rum-laden concoction involving Crystal Light, every woman in the county will want one.
    â€œLacey, Lacey, Lacey. A Randa-rita? Smart. Just don’t let the rum convince you to spend the rest of the night gobbling up a bag of those frosted animal crackers you like so much.”
    Feeling Dusty’s warm breath on my neck and his body pushed against the back of mine, I resist the urge to elbow him in the gut, because it is thick enough to protect him from any defensive move on my part. Furthermore, he is the last person alive who should comment on anyone’s eating habits. This is a man who spends nearly every Sunday on the couch, single-handedly polishing off two frozen pizzas, a dozen hot wings, and a slab of cheesecake while hollering at the NASCAR race on television. I spent three long years listening to him complain that everything good about racing died with number three and how green-white checkers means wreckers, all in between his telling me to grab him another Busch Light.
    â€œThank you for your concern, Dusty. But I’m guessing your weekend wasn’t exactly full of baby carrots and hummus dip. Did you go with the extra-hot buffalo or the super-spicy BBQ wings? Or both?”
    I can practically feel the atmosphere cooling around us. His hand shoots out to slip across one of my hips, low enough I could also claim he’s grabbing my ass. When his lips touch my ear, I instantly reevaluate my decision not to elbow him.
    â€œMaybe you should worry about how you’re filling out these hips, Lace. If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up busting a zipper.”
    Of course. Dusty would go straight for the part of me that worries about every curve being an inch away from chubby. It’s fantastic how being with someone for long enough exposes your every vulnerability. How we let people in, whisper the things that make us fragile, hoping they might remember how tender those things are, and never use them against us. How we ask them to say we’re beautiful because we need them to. How much we want them to look at us when