Once Upon a New Year's Eve (Meet Cute Romance 2)

Once Upon A New Year’s Eve

Why didn’t I just stay home with the Ben and Jerry’s? Surely ringing in the New Year with a pint of What A Cluster is better than this.

Gemma Forester picked her way across the gravel parking lot, praying she didn’t break an ankle, or worse, one of the precious Jimmy Choos she’d scrimped and saved and paid damn near retail for.

I’m going to kill him, she thought. That’s simply all there is to it. Family immunity does not apply. Mom will have to understand.

The bar door opened before she could reach for it. A pair of clearly drunk rednecks stumbled out, lips locked, along with a burst of truly craptastic country music. Whoever the bar had hired to play for the night was going to be lucky if they made it out without requiring intervention from Patrick Swayze and Sam Elliott.

Gemma leapt out of the way before the couple could lurch into her. With the door held open, she watched them stagger to a beat up pick-up truck. The guy managed to get the passenger door open, while simultaneously removing his date’s bra from her tank top. Gemma couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or appalled. She went inside before her suspicion that they weren’t going to make it out of the parking lot was confirmed.

The music didn’t stop and all attention didn’t focus on her, but she noted her fair share of raised eyebrows. She ignored the catcalls and wolf whistles.

“Eat your heart out, boys,” she muttered, crossing to the bar.

As a rule, she wasn’t opposed to honky tonks. If she was in the mood and dressed for one, she could totally go for some boot scootin’. But she’d been dressed for dinner at Chez Philippe, where she’d been forced to abandon her very pissed off date before the signature golden champagne raspberry sorbet was served. All because her stupid brother was drinking himself under the table over his latest lost love and making enough of an ass of himself that the bartender had liberated his phone and gone straight down his contact list trying to find someone to come pick him up.

And of course nobody else was dumb enough to pick up tonight, she thought.

It would’ve served him right if she’d left him to be arrested for public drunkenness. But there was always that niggling doubt that the bartender hadn’t been able to take his keys as easily as his phone, and what if he got behind the wheel…? So with profuse apologies, she’d walked out on her date—who she knew damned well was never going to call again—and taken a cab down here to Red’s Roadhouse.

The bar was two-deep in patrons. She’d had half a dozen offers of drinks and a headache from the caterwauling they apparently called music by the time she fought her way through. Red himself—it had to be him—was manning the taps, a towel tucked into the waistband of his jeans. A giant of a man, with carrot-orange hair ringing a bald pate and an enormous fu manchu mustache, he automatically asked for her order without taking his eyes off the glasses he was filling.

“I’ll take the drunk idiot you called me about and get him off your hands.”

Red shifted his attention to Gemma. His bushy brows rose. “Well now, which one belongs to you?”

“There’s more than one?” she asked.

“Got three. One’s sleepin’ it off under the pool table over there,” he nodded to the left.

Peering between the legs of the players, Gemma could just make out a figure curled into a fetal position. Too small to be Rick.

“One’s workin’ on soberin’ up with some chili cheese fries down at the other end of the bar.”

This guy was hunched over a plastic basket, shoveling in bar food as he swayed a little on the stool. Not Rick.

“The other one’s up there.” Red jerked his chin toward the back of the room behind her.

Turning, Gemma realized it wasn’t a live band that was playing so badly. It was a karaoke station set up on a little stage. Beneath the blinking party lights that were making her queasy without any alcohol, a lone performer clutched at the mic stand and wailed out a very explicit, very profane rendition of “Friends in Low Places”.

“Oh, of course, that one’s my drunk idiot brother,” she said. Heaving a sigh, she turned back to Red. “Do you have his phone? His keys?”

“Sure. One sec.”

She waited, her headache ratcheting closer and closer to migraine territory at her brother’s toneless screeching, while Red retrieved his stuff.

“Here you go,” he said.

Gemma thumbed the phone on, verified it was Rick’s. The keys to his truck she recognized. “Thanks for not calling the cops,” she said.

“He’s not fightin’ anybody. Just nursin’ a broken heart. Needs to sleep it off.”

She was pretty sure he needed a good kick in the ass, and she’d be happy to provide it.

Temper simmering, she pushed away from the bar. As if sensing her precarious mood, the crowd parted before her, giving her a free path to her brother. As she reached him, she did her best to buckle down fury over her wasted night. No need to let loose with the tongue lashing until he was sober enough to remember it. “That’s enough,” she said in a low voice, plucking the microphone from his hand.

“But I’m not through yet,” Rick slurred.

“Oh, I think you are. And if you leave now, maybe Mr. Brooks won’t sue you for the butchery you just made of his music.” Gemma laid the mic down and slipped her arm around Rick’s waist. “Time to go home.”

“Can’t go home. No car,” he mumbled.

“I’ve got your keys and your phone” she promised urging him off the stage.

“Need my phone,” he said. “Need to call Linda back. She broke up with me, ya know.”

“I heard that somewhere,” she said. He staggered on the single step and nearly took them both down. Good God, had he ever been this drunk before? Surely no woman was worth this.

“Need to talk her out of it,” said Rick.

“You need to get home and sleep it off,” said Gemma. “C’mon. Siblings don’t let siblings drink and dial.”

~*~

Red’s was jumping. A wave of sound broke over Aaron as he stepped into the bar, reminding him why he’d been home alone playing Call of Duty instead of out celebrating. He’d ignored Rick’s call initially, assuming his buddy was intent on dragging him out as a last minute date for some friend of Linda’s. On a break between missions, his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he’d checked his messages. If Rick was drunk enou

gh that the bartender had confiscated his phone and started looking for somebody to come ride herd on him, something had gone horribly wrong. Aaron suspected that meant Rick had been dumped. One night of getting shit-faced had always been his go-to coping mechanism for that eventuality in college. Not the kind of behavior one expected from an honors student or from the respected attorney he’d grown up to be, but everybody had their flaws. A friend in legitimate need could drag Aaron out where nothing else could.

Too many damned people, Aaron thought, weaving his way toward the bar. As soon as he made it through, he set his curled fists on the bar, claiming a foot of space and struggling not to shove for more. He’d be out of here soon enough. Bodies jostled against his as he waited. And waited, scanning the crowd, looking for Rick. But there were too many faces, too little light.