Rock Chick Redemption (Rock Chick #3)(18)
Author: Kristen Ashley

“What is this place?” I asked.

“Buckhorn Exchange, the oldest restaurant in Denver.

Great steaks.”

He held the door for me and I saw that the décor consisted largely of dead animal heads but somehow it seemed cozy, romantic and elegant at the same time. We sat at an intimate table for two with big, high-backed, comfy armchairs. Hank ordered a bottle of wine while I looked at the menu. It included rattlesnake, fried al igator tail, Rocky Mountain oysters and elk.

I looked up from my menu to Hank.

“Is the ghost of Wyatt Earp gonna walk through the door?”

He grinned at me, “Smart ass.”

“No, seriously.”

The grin deepened to a smile.

I shut up.

“Let me order,” he said and this surprised me. I’d never met a man who ordered for me before. I didn’t even know men did that anymore.

What the hel , when in Denver…

“No Rocky Mountain oysters,” I replied.

He nodded and kept smiling.

“And no al igator tail. Al igators are cute. I’m not a vegetarian but I don’t eat cute animals. Like lamb. Lambs are cute. We can try the rattlesnake. I think I could eat snake because snakes freak me out.”

He stared at me. The smile was gone.

“You think al igators are cute?” he asked.

“They always look like they’re smiling. I think al igators are misunderstood. They just want to laze in the sun and swim but people keep bothering them, forcing them to wrestle and stuff. It’s not nice.”

He kept staring at me.

“Do you eat cows?” he asked.

“I try not to think of them as cows, like that cute cow, Norman, in City Slickers. I think of them as bul s. Bul s are scary.”

More staring.

“How about pigs?”

“I heard somewhere that pigs are mean, they aren’t like Babe. Babe wore a toupee.”

His lips twitched. “You are definitely related to Tex,” he remarked.

“Wel … yeah,” I replied.

He ordered. When the wine came, we drank. When the food arrived, we ate.

It was good food. So good, I ate it even though I was stil ful from lunch. Hank ordered steak and it came in one big hunk of meat, which they carved in half at the table and plonked a big, old wodge of herbed butter on top of each portion so it melted al over. It was heavenly.

Al the time in between eating and drinking, we talked.

I was dreading it but it came easy.

I found out that Hank was (kind of) a second generation Coloradan, a (definite) third generation cop. His grandfather had been kil ed in the line of duty in New York City and, after, his grandmother had moved the family to Denver, where her sister lived.

Hank had gone to the University of Colorado, studying pre-law, and into the Police Academy a couple of weeks after he graduated from col ege. His Dad didn’t want him to be a cop, he wanted him to be a lawyer, but Hank had never wanted to be anything else but an officer of the law so there you go (I was learning, quickly, that Hank kind of did whatever the hel he wanted).

I could tel he was close with his family and he told me he’d known Indy his whole life. Her parents were best friends with his and when Indy’s Mom died young, Hank’s Mom promised to take care of Indy and make sure she was raised right. Indy and Lee had been in love as long as anyone could remember but had only gotten together recently. Eddie had been Lee’s best friend since third grade and was like a member of the family too.

Hank skied in the winter and played softbal in the summer. He listened to Springsteen and had seen him in concert three times but couldn’t say his favorite song or even favorite album; he just liked al that was Springsteen.

This, in itself, said a lot about him.

He was a Rockies fan, a Broncos fan and it was clear he loved his family, Denver and his job.

I told Hank that I lived in Chicago and owned a work at home web designing business but I’d been born and raised in Brownsburg, a town fifteen miles west of Indianapolis. I told him my parents stil lived there, my brother was a Park Ranger for Indiana State Parks and my sister worked in hospital administration at a medical center in Louisvil e. I told him I’d never been to the Indianapolis 500 but I’d been to the time trials, like, a mil ion times. I told him I was a Cubs fan, as were al the family, but we switched staunchly to the Pacers and the Ice for our basketbal and hockey needs. I explained I’d rebel ed against my family’s devotion to the Colts and cheered for the Bears.

I also told him, as was a prerequisite for anyone who lived in the Midwest, I loved REO Speedwagon (though, not the power bal ads, just songs like “Roll with the Changes” and “Ridin’ the Storm Out”). I also told him I liked Springsteen but had never seen him in concert.

Then, I’m afraid I got kind of lost in the discussion and admitted to him I loved Springsteen and thought he was a storytel er poet of biblical proportions (but I didn’t tel him I thought Springsteen had a beautiful lower lip designed by the gods because I thought that might be sharing too much). I also waxed lyrical about Mel encamp, maybe a shade too long but I’d been born in a smal town and Mel encamp sang about smal towns. I’d also watched a lot of my minutes turn to memories, life sweeping away the dreams that I had planned and Mel encamp sang about that too. A girl from Indiana understood those things like no one else. Springsteen might be able to tear through my heart but Mel encamp shot straight through my soul.

When I was done talking, Hank was staring again, but this time, his eyes were soft and lazy and I felt a shiver drift across my skin.

I didn’t tel him about Bil y.

When we were done, I declined dessert because the button of my jeans was digging into my bel y. Hank paid and I began to feel relief that the date was soon to be over.

If it lasted much longer, I knew I’d lose myself, I even knew I wanted to.

In the end, it wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was nice. I could almost pretend I was on an actual date, a great date, instead of on the run from a criminal boyfriend who was way too possessive and not afraid of wielding a sledgehammer.

Hank led me out the door and I began to relax thinking he’d take me home, likely kiss me (which would be a lovely addition to a lovely memory) and then we’d be done. It would suck, I’d hate it and I’d regret our timing for the rest of my life, but I was trying not to think about that.

Instead of going to the parking lot, he guided me to the light rail platform.

I stared at him as he bought tickets from a machine.

“What are you doing?” I asked.