He's No Prince Charming (9 page)

“You said you wanted me to make you pretty,” Dakota responded, and plucked another hair from Sierra’s eyebrow.

“At this rate, I’m not gonna have any eyebrows left!”

“Hold still!” Dakota grabbed her chin, tilted it up, and examined her work. “You’re supposed to be the tough one, remember? Ever had a bikini wax?”

Sierra narrowed her eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”

Dakota laughed. “Okay, fine. Hey, much improved! Turn around and look into the mirror. Sexy, huh?”

Sierra’s perfectly arched eyebrows rose when she gazed at her reflection. “Wow,” she said, and blinked in amazement.

“I know.” Dakota felt a sense of accomplishment and smiled. “Are we still going to Dewey’s Pub tonight?”

Sierra frowned at Dakota in the mirror. “It can be a little on the rough side. You think you’re ready for this?”

“I’ve got wing-tipped cowboy boots, sugar-glazed Wranglers, a racerback white tank, and a very cool concho belt.” She tapped her thumb to her chest. “I’m rip-roarin’ and ready to go.”

Sierra rolled her eyes.

“Overkill?”

Sierra nodded.

“Okay, I’ll tone it down a notch.”

“Seriously, Dakota, you can’t be so perky at Dew ey’s. You’ll get our butts kicked. Just play it cool, okay?”

Dakota nodded eagerly, but then made an effort to appear subdued. “Right. Play it cool. I can do that.”

“There are some sketchy characters who hang out there, so be careful who you flirt with.”

“Gotcha.”

“Just follow my lead, okay?”

“Okay,” Dakota agreed, and then clapped her hands lightly. “This is going to give me some material to start songwriting,” she announced in an excited, high-pitched voice.

Sierra shot her a look.

“Right.” She put her hands out, palms facing the floor. “Play it cool.”

“Okay, that gesture you just did? If I do that to you tonight, you know to back it down.” Sierra demonstrated.

Dakota nodded seriously and then brightened. “Can we have a special handshake too?”

Sierra gave Dakota a deadpan stare and pointed to her own face. “Hurry up and make me pretty. I need me some hot wings and cold beer.”

Dakota turned to her wide array of cosmetics purchased for Sierra. She rubbed her palms together and said, “I feel like Carmindy.”

“Who?”

Dakota picked up an eyeliner pencil and said, “The makeup artist on
What Not to Wear
. You should watch. Okay, tilt your head up. And don’t look in the mirror. I want you to be dazzled by your reveal.”

“Whatever that means, but okay.”

Dakota played up Sierra’s green eyes with smoky eye shadow, chocolate eyeliner, and a generous coat of mascara. She used a sheer mineral foundation, since Sierra’s skin was amazing, and added just a touch of dusky pink blush to the apples of her cheeks. “Wow,” Dakota commented, but held Sierra’s chin firmly when she attempted to turn around for a peek in the mirror. “Not yet. I have to do your lips and then tame that hair.”

“You know I’ll never be able to do this on my own,” Sierra complained.

“Yes, you will,” Dakota promised. “You just need some practice,” she reassured her as she dabbed on rose-tinted lip gloss. “Now, I’m going to sweep your hair back in a looser ponytail, a little sloppy, but in a sexy way. This look will tame the curls, but we’ll let some hair escape to give it more of a feminine appeal. Sound good?”

Sierra nodded, then nibbled on the inside of her cheek as if she were nervous. She looked so hopeful, but with a vulnerable edge, that Dakota wanted to lean in and hug her, but she didn’t. Sierra needed to slide her way into this friendship, and the last thing Dakota wanted to do was frighten her away with too much touchy-feely affection.

“All right, turn around.” Dakota’s heart thumped in anticipation as she stepped back and watched Sierra’s reaction.

“Oh.” She breathed, swallowed hard and then blinked as if holding back tears.

“Don’t you dare make your mascara run,” Dakota said, but her own voice was husky.

“I’m not gonna cry,” Sierra protested, but her badass tone was busted when she gingerly put her fingertips to her cheeks and gazed at her reflection with a sense of wonder. She blinked up at Dakota and whispered, “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“No, Sierra.” Dakota shook her head. “You’re not just pretty, you are gorgeous.”

“Oh, shut up! I was bein’ serious!”

“So was I,” Dakota shot back, but then sniffed hard. “Course this all happened because I’m a makeup artist genius. It’s got nothing to do with your bone structure, thick mane of glossy hair, or pouty mouth.” Dakota put her hands on Sierra’s shoulders and said, “Or the inner beauty that radiates from within.”

“You are so full of it,” Sierra said, but her bottom lip trembled.

“Grady is going to melt into a puddle at your feet.”

“Good, and I’m gonna give him the cold shoulder and flirt with every cowboy in the place.”

“Two little redneck girls out on the town.” Dakota squeezed Sierra’s shoulders.

“Listen,” Sierra advised, and then spun around on the toilet seat. “None of this sugar-and-spice stuff, you hear me?” She reached up and tapped her on the chest. “I wanna see some gunpowder and lead!” Sierra angled her head. “Give it a don’t-mess-with-me attitude. You know, a pointed stare. An arch of one eyebrow. None of that perky, pop-princess crap.”

“Gotcha.” Dakota nodded, but then changed the direction of her head. “I’ll never pull it off. I might as well call my manager now and tell him to forget this nonsense.”

Sierra stood up and put her hands on her hips. “The hell you say! Dakota, you might look like a little powder puff, but there’s a hidden strength that you don’t let anybody see. It took some balls to get up there onstage and do the stuff you did. Am I right?”

“I guess.”

Sierra shoved Dakota hard. “The answer is: damned straight! Now, cowgirl up!”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s the chick version of
cowboy up
. In bull riding terms, it means ‘get ready, have the courage to climb on, and give it your all.’ ”

“All righty, then,” Dakota said, and tapped her knuckles to Sierra’s. “Cowgirl up!”

Sierra nodded. “Listen, I’ll drive my truck, but if we get to drinkin’ too much, we’ll have to get us a ride home.”

Several minutes later, they were out the door. As they were walking down the driveway to Sierra’s truck, Trace happened to be walking toward his cabin. He stopped in his tracks when he saw them, and Dakota wasn’t sure if he was more surprised at her attire or Sierra’s makeover, but his eyes widened before he could stop himself. When he waved but didn’t comment or ask where they were going, she felt a stab of disappointment and turned away. But just when she was reaching for the passenger’s door handle, she heard the crunch of gravel behind her.

“Where you ladies off to?” Trace asked while trying to keep his voice casual. In truth, he was stunned by Sierra’s sudden transformation from grunge to gorgeous and Dakota’s sexy cowgirl attire.

“Dewey’s Pub for a bite to eat,” Dakota answered, and turned around, giving him an up-close view of her in a little white tank top and hip-hugging Wranglers.

“Dewey’s?” Trace finally asked when he found his voice, but couldn’t help but frown.

“Yes, why?” Dakota asked with a defiant lift of one eyebrow.

Trace leaned around her so he could look inside the truck where Sierra sat in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel as if anxious to leave. “You’re taking Dakota to Dewey’s?”

“You got a problem with that?” Sierra asked with her usual bluntness, even though her appearance was nothing but feminine. It was then that it occurred to Trace that both women were going to be out of their element. While Dewey’s drew a mixed crowd and wasn’t exactly dangerous, the later the night wore on, the more likely there would be a bar fight or young cowboys hitting on the girls. He didn’t relish either Sierra or Dakota in that atmosphere, and so he had to ask even though he really didn’t want to, “So, you plannin’ on bein’ out late?”

Dakota shrugged. “We might.”

“Trace, if we get to drinkin’, we won’t drive.”

“Oh.” He liked this scenario less and less. “Well, just how will you get home, then?”

“I’m sure we can get a cab or something,” Dakota assured him as she climbed up in the truck, giving him a mouthwatering view of her butt.

“They’re hard to come by in Tall Rock,” Trace warned them.

Sierra sighed. “Trace, I will know half the people in Dewey’s. We’ll work it out.”

“Yeah, and they will all be drinkin’. Not a very good plan,” he grumbled. “Call me and I’ll come and get you,” Trace offered, even though he didn’t want to. But if anything happened . . .

Dakota looked out the open window at him in surprise. “You don’t have to do that, Trace.”

“I realize that,” he answered a bit sharply. “But I offered, so take me up on it, okay?”

“We can take care of ourselves, you know,” Dakota shot back.

Sierra leaned forward so Trace could see her. “Trace, I’m a regular there, playin’ pool with the boys. We’ll be fine.”

Yeah, but not looking like that
, he thought, but nodded and stepped back from the truck. “Call me, okay? Don’t take any chances. And don’t let anyone mess with you.”

“Trace, nobody messes with me,” Sierra reminded him with a low chuckle and a thumb poked at her chest. “Just a little girl’s night out is all we’re havin’. See ya around.” She wiggled her fingers and drove away with gravel crunching and a cloud of dust left behind.

Trace stood there for a minute with his hands jammed in his pockets and watched the truck fade into the distance. For some reason, his gut warned him they were going to get into some sort of trouble, and his gut rarely lied. It didn’t help matters that Sierra was looking anything like one of the boys, and Dakota was totally out of her element in a honky-tonk bar. With an oath, he sent a rock flying with the toe of his boot.

“It’s not your problem, Coleman,” he growled, but it hit him hard that he cared about both of them. Lifting his gaze to the deep blue sky, he inhaled a deep breath and then made his decision.

He was heading into town.

“Squash the perkiness,” Sierra reminded her, but then laughed. Her smile faded, however, when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the rearview mirror. She gulped and then looked over at Dakota. “I can’t go in there lookin’ like this.”

“You mean looking amazing?” Dakota angled her head at Sierra in confusion.

She shook her head and put a trembling hand to her chest. “This isn’t me.”

Dakota thought about saying something kind or profound but then shook her head and slapped the cracked leather seat so hard that it hurt. But she refrained from yelping in pain, because she was supposed to be a badass. “Bullshit!”

“Say what?” Sierra raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows in surprise.

“You heard me.” Dakota twisted on the bench seat to face Sierra. “We need to break out of our routine and go after . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged.

“What?”

“I’m not quite sure, but I think we’ll know when we find it.” Dakota put her fists forward for a knuckle tap. “Come on. Cowgirl up.”

Sierra looked down at Dakota’s fists and then nodded firmly and tapped knuckles. “Cowgirl up! Okay, now let’s go before I lose my nerve.”

They slid from their seats in the truck and approached the door. Music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses filtered out to entice them, but it was the aroma of bar food that drew them in. “Something smells good.”

“Bar food. Everything is deep-fried. Even the pickles.”

“Pickles?”

“And deep-fried mac and cheese.”

“Holy cow.” Dakota put a hand to her stomach and hoped it was up for the challenge.

“Come on—I’m starvin’. Let’s quit standing here like a couple of dorks.” Sierra put her hand on the door, and Dakota grabbed her arm.

“Just so you know, people are going to stare,” Dakota said.

Sierra’s eyes widened. “I forgot that you are freakin’ famous.”

“Sort of. By now people narrow their eyes and wonder how they know my face, and then usually snap their fingers and ask if I was on
American Idol
.” Dakota sighed. “But they do stare, just to give you fair warning.”

“You’ll be fine,” Sierra said and squeezed Dakota’s hand. “Let’s go!”

Dakota entered Dewey’s and stopped to look around. She had been in lounges and to cocktail parties, but a neighborhood honky-tonk remained virgin territory until now. “This is so cool!” Dakota squeaked in Sierra’s ear.

“I told you to stop with the perkiness, Princess!” Sierra grabbed her hand and yanked her forward.

“Okay,” Dakota said in a forced lower tone, and followed Sierra, but looked around with unabashed interest. At the moment, Rascal Flatts blasted from a jukebox, but the stage at the far end of the room appeared set up for live music. It had been years since she had performed, and looking at the microphone gave her a nervous flutter in her stomach, so she quickly glanced away. In the right corner, a couple of weathered cowboys were shooting darts, and to her left an old-school pinball machine dinged and blinked. “I want to play that,” she told Sierra, and pointed.

“Later. I need food and a tall beer. And for God’s sake, stop pointing!” Sierra said as she led Dakota past tall stools occupied by people of various shapes and sizes, making Dakota think of Toby Keith’s “I Love This Bar.” She tried to soak it all in, and couldn’t wait to people-watch, in hopes of gaining inspiration for songwriting. She suddenly realized how much she missed the creative side of music and felt the itch to sit down with her guitar.

“Over here.” Sierra suggested a table set up for dining in the bigger room beyond the main bar. The pool hall could be seen through a big archway, and Dakota angled her head to see inside, but Sierra leaned forward with her hands on the maroon vinyl tablecloth. “Stop gawking. You’ll bring attention to us,” Sierra said, and looked left and right.

“Sierra, people know you here,” Dakota said, and patted her hand. “Relax and have fun. So you’re wearing some makeup.” She shrugged. “So what?”

While drumming her fingertips on the table, Sierra nodded. “I know. I’ll be okay after a couple of beers.” She glanced around again as if waiting for someone to recognize her, and said, “Hey, let’s do a shot.”

Dakota raised her eyebrows. “What?” She shook her head hard and wagged a finger at Sierra. “Oh no. I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself. But I’m going to.”

“Sierra,” Dakota began in a tone of warning, but stopped herself. For a long time she had been living on the outside looking in, and tonight she decided she was long past due in cutting loose and having a wild time. What was the harm of one little old shot anyway? Maybe like a Buttery Nipple or something. But after listening to Sierra place her order, Dakota proudly proclaimed, “I’ll have the same thing. A shot of Maker ’s Mark, followed closely by a Bud Light in a bottle, and an order of hot wings, but with the exception that I want extra celery and blue cheese, and skip the fries. Oh, and put an order of deep-fried pickles on my tab for us to share.” She said this primly, as if she were in a four-star restaurant, and then unfolded her paper napkin onto her lap.

For a minute, Sierra blinked across the table at Dakota, as if pondering whether this was a good idea or could lead to disaster, but then she grinned. “I think we just set the mood for the night.”

“And what might that be?” Dakota inclined her head politely just as their shots and beer arrived.

“Only one word comes to mind.”

“Yes?”

“Ca-raaa-zy!” Sierra proclaimed. When she raised her shot glass, Dakota followed suit.

They clinked together, and Dakota watched Sierra so she did the deed in the correct fashion, and prayed to God that she didn’t sputter it all over the table. As Dakota brought the glass to her lips, she told herself that if she could eat sushi, she could surely toss back a shot of good Kentucky bourbon. She inhaled sharply, sending the pungent aroma straight to her head just as she opened her lips and flung the entire contents into her mouth and swallowed. For a second it wasn’t too bad—just strong—and she actually liked the flavor. She started to smile. But then it suddenly felt as if there were a trail of fire in her throat that just might explode in her stomach.

Dakota gasped and blindly reached for water, but there was none so she grabbed her longneck and took deep, soothing gulps of the ice-cold liquid until brain freeze forced her to stop guzzling. She set the bottle down with a thud and looked across the table while blinking away the water in her eyes. “Snap!” Dakota managed, while holding one hand to her forehead and the other to her stomach. “That was intense! Whew!”

Sierra grinned and looked none the worse for wear. “You’d better slow down there, Princess.”

“Don’t worry. I will,” she said, and reached for her beer after her brain thawed out. She took a leisurely sip and then smiled when the wings arrived. “These smell heavenly.”

“They are spicy hot, so be warned.”

Dakota waved a dismissive hand. “I love spicy food,” she said, but after taking a bite of a tiny drumstick, her lips felt tingly and she reached for her beer again.

“Too spicy for ya?” Sierra teased, and Dakota watched with a sense of wonder while Sierra ate a wing and leisurely licked her fingers.

“Not at all,” Dakota replied, and determinedly took another rather dainty bite. Her eyes watered and her lips burned, but she bravely consumed the entire drumstick before soothing her palate with celery and a generous dollop of cool and creamy blue cheese. The bourbon and beer made her feel warm and relaxed enough to get up the nerve to try a deep-fried pickle. She reached over and picked up a golden brown spear from the basket and looked at it with interest.

“Dip it in the ranch dressing,” Sierra advised.

“Okay.” She dunked it in the little bowl and then took a tiny bite. “Hmm, interesting,” she commented, and took a bigger bite. “Good, actually. I like it!”

Sierra laughed, and snagged a pickle and took a healthy bite before wagging it at Dakota. “I wonder who thought of these anyway. Genius!”

Dakota laughed back and dunked hers in the dressing, but when she glanced up, she suddenly realized that they were slowly becoming the center of attention. She nudged Sierra beneath the table to alert her to what was happening and gave her discreet hand signals to look around. Sierra’s eyes widened, and she self-consciously reached up to touch her hair as if she had forgotten about her altered appearance.

Dakota noticed that a group of young guys who could see them from the main bar were elbowing each other and obviously talking about them. She leaned forward as if her goal were to snag one of Sierra’s French fries and whispered, “Do you know those guys staring at us?”

Sierra nodded. Following Dakota’s lead, she leaned forward and grabbed a celery stick, but said in a low voice, “I play pool with them sometimes.” She looked at the celery stick as if she really didn’t want it, but then took a crunchy bite.

“Well, don’t look, but one of them is heading our way.”

Of course she looked, and whipped her head back around.

Dakota leaned forward and took another fry. “I told you not to look!”

Sierra reached for another celery stick. “I don’t mind very well.”

Dakota leaned over and dipped her fry in Sierra’s ketchup. “Ya think? Just play it cool.”

“How?”

“Small talk.”

“I don’t
do
small talk!” she protested between clenched teeth.

“Wing it!” Dakota considered holding up a hot wing as a prop, but that might have been overkill so she refrained.

“Dear God!”

“It’s not that hard,” Dakota assured her, and sat back up straight, but not before stealing another forbidden fry. She had been schooled to watch her weight since her pop-princess days, and the salty, crunchy fries made her want to moan. “Here he comes,” she mouthed before taking a swig of her beer.

A moment later, the bravest of the pool-shooting bunch twisted a chair around and plopped down, straddling it. “How y’all doin’?”

“We’re doin’ all right,” Sierra responded in a calm voice, but Dakota noticed that she nervously toyed with her napkin.

“Wait. Sierra Miller?” He tilted the bill of his Car hartt ball cap up and turned it slightly cockeyed.

“Danny Dixon, you’ve known me since sixth grade,” Sierra chided with a shake of her head, but Dakota noticed pink color bloom on her cheeks.

“Hi, Danny,” Dakota interjected, to get his attention off Sierra so she could compose herself. She stuck her hand out. “I’m Dakota Dunn.”

“Nice to meet ya,” he said, and then narrowed his eyes the way most people did while trying to place her. “You from around here?”

Dakota smiled. “I grew up in Tall Rock, but I’ve been away for a few years.”

“Oh,” he said while scratching his chin, but continued to look at her in question. “Thought I recognized you.” He tilted up his longneck with two fingers and took a swig.

“Would you like some wings or deep-fried pickles?” Dakota offered. “I’m afraid our eyes were bigger than our stomachs.” She noticed that Danny’s buddies were watching with interest, even though they pretended to be taking in a baseball game on a nearby television suspended from the wall.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he accepted with a grin that Dakota thought was charming. There was no pretense—just good-ole-boy earnestness that Dakota had forgotten existed. After he polished off the wing, he licked his thumb. Dakota was struck by the fact that the spicy hot sauce didn’t even faze him in the least either, making her feel rather wimpy. “Hope you ladies will save me and my buddies a dance or two later when the music starts.”

He looked at Sierra, who appeared stuck for words, so Dakota jumped in. “Sure we will. Might cost you a beer,” she added, and was proud of herself for sounding saucy.

“It’d be well worth it,” Danny flirted back. Then he winked at Sierra and added, “You sure are lookin’ bangin’ tonight. Catch you ladies later.” He scooted his chair back and paused to give Sierra a wink before heading back to the main bar, where he got a few elbows to the ribs and shoves to his shoulders.

“He was cute,” Dakota commented as she picked up another pickle. “And he sure did like you.”

Sierra waved her off. “Oh, he was put up to it by his buddies. Just messin’ with me.”

“You are so wrong, Sierra,” she said, and then widened her eyes when two more shots came their way. “Did you order this?”

“From the boys at the bar,” the waitress answered, then nodded toward Danny and his partners in crime, where they were perched on high stools. They lifted their beer bottles in salute and waited in anticipation.

Dakota looked at the amber-colored bourbon while dearly wishing for a Buttery Nipple, and then glanced over at Sierra, who grinned and lifted her glass. Knowing she was throwing caution to the wind—or more like spitting into the wind—Dakota drew in a deep breath, brought the glass to her lips, and tossed it back.