Tyson: I was going to stay at my parents’ rental house since I have the rest of the weekend off. Why don't we meet somewhere near you.
Me: Okay. How about My Dad's Bar?
Tyson: Um. Okay. I didn't know your dad owned a bar. Is that new?
Me: Ha! No. It's a new tavern in town. It’s called My Dad's Bar. You'll like it. They have great food too if you're hungry!
Tyson: I ate a late lunch. I'll google the address and meet you there around 8.
Okay. I was really excited when he decided to go with me, but now I'm unsure. I've known Tyson my whole life. He's usually quite happy and talkative so the answers I'm getting seem a little off, which sort of bugs me.
Me: K
My eyes roam over the outfit on the bed and I bite my lower lip, contemplating how I'm going to approach this. It's obvious after the way he left lunch the other day that something spooked him. I'm just not sure what that something was.
Shaking my head, I scoop up the clothes I'd laid out and put them back into the closet. I really need to make up my freakin' mind, I mumble to myself. I pull out my favorite pair of faded, boot-cut jeans and shimmy into them. I love these jeans. They're the perfect wash, they have a small tear in the right upper thigh that gives them a rugged look, and they make my ass look three sizes smaller.
I pull my favorite graphic tee out of the drawer and slip it on, and then finish the outfit off with my Converse. Hmmm...something looks off. The hair—it’s definitely the hair. The hair is sexy, but I'm now going for casual so I reach up and pull the pins out, run my fingers through it a few times, and let the waves fall down my back. Perfect.
If Tyson wants his friend, Harley, back, then by gosh that's what he's going to get. I read the words printed on my shirt through the mirror and smirk. It's time
to get my friend back.
WALKING INTO MY DAD'S Bar, I notice two things right away. One, Tyson isn’t here yet. Two, apparently its ‘fight night’ and I'm one of only a few females in the entire place. The bar is filled to capacity with groups of men, all watching the TV intently. Every couple of seconds, they all jump out of their seats in anticipation, their fists ready to pump the air.
Men.
I walk to the back of the bar and slide into a booth. It looks a little more private than an open table. A gorgeous waitress approaches and hands me a menu. I order an Amaretto and Coke and she walks off without a second glance. As I silently read the descriptions of the entrées, my stomach lets out a fierce growl and I suddenly realize that I haven't eaten since I made Max biscuits and gravy this morning.
My waitress returns, placing my drink on the table in front of me, and pulls out her notepad. "What can I get you, hon?" I grimace at the nickname; it's almost as bad as being called ‘ma'am.’ Leaning forward, I read her nametag. Brittany...oh, how fitting.
"Yes, can I get a plate of your chicken quesadillas? Oh...and a water, please." She glances at my mixed drink and then back at me with a blank look on her face."Okaaaay," she says slowly. "Anything else?"
My head pops up as Tyson slides into the seat across from me. "Yup. I'll take a Bud Light bottle, please."
Brittany turns her head in Tyson's direction and smiles appreciatively at what she sees. She nods her head slowly. "Sure thing, sugar." Leaning forward, she places her palms on the table, her cleavage on full display. "My name is Brittany. Holler if you need anything."
Bitch. I hate her.
Tyson smiles lightly, his eyes never wavering from hers, and nods his head. My eyes glare a hole in her back as she retreats. Who the hell does she think she is? Can’t she see that he isn’t here alone? I scoff internally at the nerve of that girl. Shifting in my seat, I reach for my drink and my eyes land on the amused face across from me.
"What?" I ask innocently, taking a sip of my sweet drink.
His smile grows and he shakes his head. "Nothing."
Brittany returns and hands Tyson his beer. Reaching in her pocket, she pulls out a napkin and slides it to him, the movement causing the side of her breast to brush against his arm. My mouth drops open in shock at her blatant flirting.
Smiling sincerely, Tyson grabs the napkin and uses it to wipe the wetness from his bottle before tossing it aside, completely ignoring the phone number she'd scribbled on the back. Brittany stalks off and relief washes through me at his rejection of her.
"So," he says, a smile tugging at his lips. "Should I read the next sentence?" His grin is infectious and I smirk back, reveling in his playful behavior. Growing up, Tyson and I always had a thing for text-based t-shirts. In my attempt to rekindle our friendship, I wore one tonight to see if I'd get a reaction out of him, which thankfully I did. I look down, reading the words written across my chest.
DO NOT
READ
THE NEXT
SENTENCE