“Zip it, Dead. No more words,” Cheyenne growled.
Okay, they were kind of funny. “Um, my name is Raven.”
“Haaaa!” Dead laughed. “A cow named Raven. This is awesome.”
Cheyenne snapped her fingers at the exit and glared at Dead. “Go. I know what you’re doing. You’ve being awful so I won’t make you sign autographs tonight. You win! Go check on Quickdraw.”
Dead arched his eyebrows up high, and his lips thinned to small lines under that hotboy beard. “On second thought, I want to sign autographs. Me and Raven the Cow are going to sign them together.”
“Um, I’m good,” Raven said softly. She tried to unhook their arms, but Dead, smooth-as-you-like, grabbed her hand and hooked it into the crook of his elbow.
“I feel like starting some rumors tonight,” he said, staring at Cheyenne.
“You know what?” Cheyenne said loud enough to echo down the hallway. “Go do it then. Do whatever you want. Go start some media circus. Go spiral, but it doesn’t take away from what’s really happening!”
“And what’s that?”
“You’re upset over Two Shots, and you’re spiraling over dropping a rank. You’re still part of the herd, Dead! Dropping a rank doesn’t matter to me or to Quickdraw or Two. You’re still one of us.”
“Go check on your mate,” Dead murmured. “Me and Raven have boobies to sign.”
“But I don’t want to sign any boobies,” she quietly assured him as he pulled her toward the signing tables.
“Come on, girlfriend.”
“I’m not anyone’s girlfriend! Oh, my gosh.”
She swallowed hard when they got to the doorway. The VIP crowd had grown, and they all looked at her and Dead in the mouth of the entrance. Her cheeks caught fire. “I’m gonna go see about a thing and go bury myself in a hole and never come out again,” she murmured, releasing his arm.
She tried to duck to the side and make her escape, but Dead grabbed her hand in his, intertwined their fingers—intertwined them!—and then waved at a group who were snapping pictures. The line at his table was cheering.
“Shoot me with a water gun,” she uttered on a breath.
“This is my girlfriend, Raven,” Dead announced.
“I actually just met him,” she said as he dragged her straight through the crowd toward his table.
“She is a moo cow shifter.”
“It’s actually just called a cow shifter.”
“Her name is Raven and her mother is a pirate and her father is a seaman who works on a crab boat.”
“They’re both schoolteachers.”
“Who teach bomb diffusing in the Netherlands.”
“Um, sixth grade math and English in Idaho?”
“And she has an announcement to make about how big my dick is.”
“I have no knowledge of his dick size!”
He yanked the chair away from Quickdraw’s table and set it gallantly beside his, then gestured for her to take a seat. “My queen.”
“I’ve never wanted to kill a stranger before now,” she muttered under her breath, frowning at the boxes of magnets and bookmarks and pictures of Dead that filled open boxes under the table.
“That feeling won’t fade with me.” Dead arched his eyebrow up higher and pulled her seat back a little. “Have a seat, Sugar Tits.”
Raven eyed the exit. All she had to do was make it across an alleyway of trotting horses with riders, bolt under the VIP sign, and then leave the way she came in. Just with two less beers. She was still holding her empty cup.
“Have a seat, have a seat, have a seat,” Dead started chanting, and to her utter dismay, the line in front of them started chanting the same.
If the earth opened up right now and swallowed her whole, she’d had a good long run at life and would be fine with it.
Cheyenne was standing off to the side, arms crossed over her chest, frown furrowing her forehead. I’m so sorry, she mouthed to Raven.
Me, too, Raven mouthed right back.
Living a literal nightmare, which was to have people’s attention on her, she sat in the chair and wished she could bury her head in the sand like an ostrich.
The table got rushed by the first three girls in line, who all had pictures of Dead. Two were glossy eight-by-tens of his black and white bull mid-buck, his back hooves kicked up in the air, while the other one was of him without a shirt on, Wranglers, belt buckle, and a horse saddle thrown over his back. Now, Raven had never been a fan of cowboy hats because they just weren’t her style, but on Dead of Winter? He looked sexy. In the picture, a sheen of sweat glistened on his muscular chest, and he had his chin tilted up as he gave the camera a wicked smile.
“You like that one?” he asked as he signed the first one with a silver permanent marker.
“Me?” she asked.
“Yeah you. You keep starin’ at it. It’s okay to tell your boyfriend he’s hot. I like compliments. Compliments and positive reinforcement make me work harder. For example…” He looked up at his fan and grinned at her. “If a woman told me she liked something in the bedroom, I would explore everything about that until she was moaning my name and begging me to never stop.”
The fan started fanning herself with a sign that read—Raven leaned forward and squinted at the upside-down words—Dead, Dead, you’re good in bed.
Oh, God. “I should really be going,” Raven whispered.
“Nonsense, you aren’t going anywhere,” Dead rumbled, squeezing her leg under the table.
She didn’t even flinch. Huh. It actually was a little comfort. Huh.
“Look, when you’re in a relationship—” he started.
“We aren’t in a relationship,” she gritted out through clenched teeth.
Dead held up a finger and winked at the next fan, then yanked Raven’s chair right up against his and leaned into her ear. “You support your person. Tonight, I have to sign a bunch of half-naked pictures of myself for these humans. I don’t like humans much. And I have to take pictures I don’t want to take and fill these ladies’ spank banks with the fantasy of me, when in reality, I just dropped to a rank that guts me, I’m worried about my friend, I’m drowning in guilt, I’m starving, my shoulder is sore because I can’t seem to keep the damn thing in its socket, and the only thing that has felt decent tonight is when a woman I’ve never met before said ‘It’s okay,’ in that arena. Support me here, and I’ll buy you a pair of boots.”
Raven parted her lips to respond, but no words came out. He was just lingering by her ear, his lips almost touching her lobe. She could feel the featherlight wind from his warm breath, and chills rippled up her forearms. “What kind of boots?”
“Western, of course.”
“I don’t wear cowgirl boots.”
“They’ll be leather, good quality, and I’ll find them in black with a little bit of a heel to show off those sexy legs of yours. Python if you want. I could see you liking snakeskin boots. They match your style. The next rodeo you come to see me at, you’ll be wearing the right shoes.”
Well, she didn’t plan on attending any more rodeos, but how the heck was she going to argue with that? Those boots sounded awesome. And he’d paid attention to her style. Maybe trying black cowgirl boots wouldn’t be so bad. If they were a gift and she didn’t have to pay for them.