Hovering over the toilet seat is #winning in my book.
Despite all this, the owner clearly feels no need to update—not with a packed house every night of the week. Sure, it’s a total shithole, pardon my French, but why would the owner spend money doing repairs when its legal and underage patrons will come whether it’s a rapey dump or pristine?
Caleb looks at me, countenance unreadable, and shrugs his broad shoulders. “It’s your call.”
With Molly’s pleading stare and Caleb’s passive expression—ugh! I’m torn about whether or not we should go. The bar scene really isn’t my thing. Never has been, never will be. Nonetheless, because I can’t gauge Caleb neutral expression, I nod my head slowly. “Sure, why not?”
After all, what’s the worst thing that can happen?
CHAPTER 20
CALEB
Lone Rangers is packed. And by packed, I mean wall-to-wall people. My personal preference is not to be caged into the corner of any fire hazard, but whatever.
In most cases, it would piss me off being here. Under normal circumstances I probably would have taken two steps inside the building, hit the vast wall of people, and walked back out the door.
But not tonight.
Tonight, my hand goes to the tantalizing curve of Abby’s slim waist, and I firmly rest it there as we follow behind Molly, Weston, Chelsea, and Stephan toward the far end of the bar, to the place our teammates typically tend to congregate.
Tonight it looks like everyone has turned out, and I see many familiar faces in the crowd.
The music is too loud, the bass is shaking the walls, the floor is sticky from spilled alcohol, and the lights are too dim, but it feels damn good being here with someone. Abby. A date.
The dating thing is a first for me.
In the three years I’ve been at college, I learned early on that pretty girls would rather date an asshole than someone like me—moody, unsmiling, and aloof.
Greetings take place as we approach; high-fives, knuckle bumps, some back slapping. I’m relieved to see the group already has pitchers of the cheapest beer money can buy, which saves us from having to hoof it to the bar.
Maybe it won’t be so bad being here.
A cold beer appears in my hand, and I lean down to whisper-talk in Abby’s ear so she can hear me. “Is there something you want from the bar? Other than this shitty beer?”
“If you go to the bar, you’ll be gone all night. I’ll just stick with this.” She holds up the cup in her hand and takes a sip, foam sticking to her upper lip. “Mmmm, yummy beer.”
I’m not sure if she’s being sarcastic or sincere. “Abby, if you don’t want it, I can get you something else. I don’t mind.”
“Caleb, it’s fine.” She takes another sip, regarding me above the cup’s ridge with a smiling, impish glint in her eyes. “See? Refreshing.”
My eyes go to her foamy upper lip, which she immediately licks away with a flick of her pink tongue.
God, she is so unbelievably cute.
If this weren’t a first date, I would lean down and plant a kiss on her pretty, foamy lips. Or run my rough palm through the wispy hair at the base of her neck…
True, we’ve already kissed a dozen times, already been in bed together—and to that point, my dick has already humped her pajamas until we both came in our pants like two horny, pubescent teenagers.
Which was totally awesome, by the way.
However, as fucked up as it sounds, being at this bar still seems far more intimate, probably due to my lack of experience with the actual act of dating. If I were any other dude—like any one of my friends—I would have had that shit with Abby locked down by now.
But I don’t, mostly because I’m awkward, and reserved, and out of practice. I haven’t had a steady girlfriend since eighth grade, when I dated Sarah Michelle Schroeder for seven whole days. I promptly dumped her one week later at the school Halloween dance for trying to kiss me during a slow song. I had to hide out in the bathroom from Sarah’s vengeful friends until my dad came to get me. After that, well, I decided that having a girlfriend was way too stressful, and sticking to hockey and hooking up with the occasional nameless co-ed was the better path to follow.
It’s served me pretty well. Until now.
Now, I wish I knew what the fuck I was doing. I feel like a douchebag. Twenty-one years old and still awkward as all hell. Besides holding my beer, I hardly know where to put my free hand. Should I touch Abby like Weston is touching Molly? Put my arm around her like Blaze has his arm around Shelby?
Dammit.
I scowl, staring down intently into my cup of beer, like the answer to all my problems could be found floating in the foam.