“To us.”
Two hours later…
“Did I try the Good Grief brown?”
“You did,” the bartender says with a wry smile, his arms crossed in front of his big barrel chest.
“Wut about theee Sweet Ride porter?”
“You tried that one too, babe,” the man sitting with his knees around mine says.
“Babe, you said babe like…five times.” I hold up a hand in case he can’t count without digits in his face.
Dallas grins. “Maybe you’ve had enough.”
“Maybe one more. Because I get it now”––I slap the top of the bar––“I get why people do this! I’m juss sayin’. The sting is gone. I feel favulous.”
“About your list…” he starts.
That dratted list. Well, maybe not too terrible. We’re here…together.
“Number ten. It’s a blank. Why?” He looks so utterly curious that I play with the idea of torturing him a little only to determine he’ll only retaliate in a more effective way. I’m a lover not a fighter and I won’t apologize for it.
“I’m not telling you that.”
“Why not?” Smiling again. He’s such a tease.
“Because it’s personal…” leaning in, “but maybe one day you’ll have something to do will filling it in.”
Another sketchy dude walks by us and jerks his chin at my babe. “Why are all these people greeting you? You’re like…Mr. Popularity around here.”
“Not just around here.” He smirks. “And because I used to come here to buy drugs when I was in high school.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
The bartender with a ponytail on his face slides a glass of amber ale in front of me and I clutch the sweet sustenance with both hands and sip.
“Don’t turn me in to the Chief,” my crush murmurs in a low sexy voice. “We’ve already established that prison isn’t healthy for someone as physically gifted as I am.”
“I like you too much to ever do that to you,” I reply with a sly smile of my own. If my father knew, he’d never let Dallas within ten feet of me ever again.
He gets that sexy amused look I’ve come to know well. Then his voice drops into a pitch and volume that immediately elicit images of sweaty vigorous sex. “How much do you like me?”
“A lot,” my drunken, loose-lipped self admits. I can’t help it. The truth is dying to get out. Is this what people mean when they say truth to power? Because Dallas’s hotness is powerful.
He leans in, our faces inches apart. “Why’d you kiss me on Halloween, Kitten?”
I swallow. “Because you asked me to.”
He snorts. “Maybe you’re not as trashed as I thought you were. Try again.”
Alcohol is a dastardly truth serum. I start babbling things I should never ever babble. All the incriminating words start spilling out of me in buckets.
“Because I wanted to, okay!” His lips twitch. He curls them around his teeth. “Because I think you’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. My eyes hurt when I look at you––they hurt.”
Dall’s smile is so satisfied I should be embarrassed. I should be dying of embarrassment. And yet, I’m not. I should shut up too in fact, but guess what––I don’t. Nope. Once it starts coming out it does…not…stop.
“I kissed you because you looked so so so sad and lonely––like that picture of sad Keanu Reeves on the park bench––and I wanted to make you feel better. I didn’t want you to hurt anymore…I would’ve done anything to take away that look on your face.”
The smile vanishes and his eyes fill with tenderness. I’ve seen that look. I saw it that night all those months ago.
“I kissed you because…because I thought it would be my one and only chance to ever kiss you and I couldn’t pass it up. I know it’s terrible––what I did to you. I know I took advantage of someone I knew was drunk or high…but the truth is…the truth is…I would do it again.”
Eyes flashing, nostril flaring, he leans in just a little and places a quick kiss on my mouth. Holy crap, this is happening! It’s so good, so sweet. I close my eyes and I wait for more. And wait…and wait…
I open my eyes to find him studying me, gaze sexy with a side of smug. “You’re drunk. This isn’t happening tonight.”
Shut down again. Is this really happening? My head swivels in the direction of the bartender. “Sir––Mr. Pony Beard––how mush do I owe you?”
Smirking, the bartender responds, “Your boyfriend paid already.”
Boyfriend…right.
“Thank you,” I murmur to my non-boyfriend while avoiding eye contact at all cost. “You didn’t have to do that.”
I just poured my guts out, laid it all out there, and he turned me down again. How much rejection can a girl take? A lot apparently. Hell has frozen over because I am officially humiliated beyond anything.
Sliding off the stool rather ungracefully, I sway and Dallas catches me by the arms. “Dora, look at me––”
I gently push him away and make my way through the crowd in a less than straight line. It seems I am a lot more drunk standing than I was sitting. Very tricky, this getting drunk thing.