As for her life, she wanted a home like the one she'd grown up in, with respect and security and a partner who was both ambitious and loyal to his family. Someone who took life and relationships seriously.
Shelby knew only too well what could go wrong if you didn't walk that line. Her mother's brother--her uncle--had never had any real ambition, and he'd ended up divorced and in rehab after his band had broken up.
And her cousin Violet on her father's side had gone off and married a stand-up comedian who convinced her he was going to be the next big sitcom star. Now they fought all the time and lived in a tiny apartment in Los Angeles with three kids. And her husband managed a local fast-food restaurant.
Not Shelby. She wasn't going to be stupid about her life--and she wasn't succumbing to what felt like a family curse. Her parents had managed to find the right path, and she intended to walk right in their footsteps.
Maybe it didn't sound sexy, but to Shelby, the kind of financial security, ordered life, and familial affection that her parents shared was what defined a life well-lived. The kind of life she wanted for herself.
The kind of life that a man like Alan would fit into perfectly.
So why was she was fantasizing about bondage tape? Especially when the anonymous man in her fantasy was absolutely, totally, one hundred percent not Alan Lowe?
Chapter Three
"Oh, my God! You guys are terrible!" Celia pulled the purple vibrator and black bondage tape out of the pink gift bag with Bride-To-Be emblazoned on the side, then held them up for everyone to see. And not only the bachelorette party guests. No, to Shelby's utter mortification, pretty much every customer, server, and bartender in The Fix on Sixth also turned to look.
"Brian is going to absolutely love our wedding night. Thank you both," Celia added, aiming her crooked, drunken grin at both Hannah and Shelby.
"Um, Celia?" Shel tugged on her co-worker's sleeve. "The whole bar is staring."
But Celia just laughed, yanked her arm free, and brandished the purple contraption even more wildly over her head.
"Come on, Shel," Celia said, her words slurring together. "I'm getting married. Nobody cares about this." She poked Shel in the chest with the vibrator's silicon tip. "They're all just happy for me. Even them," she added, using the sex toy as a pointer while her arm swept the room to encompass all the tables in the main area of The Fix.
A few of the customers laughed outright, but most had the grace to turn away from the drunk and crazy bride-to-be. And Shelby--already too far down the rabbit hole to climb out--decided that it was time to either leave the party or surrender all pretense of decorum.
She weighed both options for only a second, then made her selection. "Pass me the pitcher, will you?" she asked Hannah, to general whoops of approval. "I so need another drink."
The group of six women had set up the bachelorette party at the large table by the window at the front of The Fix, right beside the colorful wall mural depicting Austin. They had a fabulous view of the pedestrians on Sixth Street, many of whom slowed to gape at the pretty bride in her gaudy, bejeweled BRIDE tiara. Not to mention the assorted selection of anatomically correct candies and cakes that dotted the table, courtesy of Naughty Cakes, a local bakery.
By the time Celia finished opening all the presents and the girls had devoured a platter of penis cupcakes, they'd also polished off three entire pitchers of Pinot Punch--a wine, Schnapps, and frozen peach concoction that the cute bartender had promised they'd love. He hadn't lied, and as the liquid in the pitchers decreased, the noise level rose in an almost mathematically predictable ratio.
Now, the din in little corner of The Fix had increased to DEFCON Rowdy.
"I'm totally serious," Shelby assured her rapt audience of tipsy women. She adjusted her glasses, then took another sip from her fourth--no, fifth--glass of punch, then continued the story she'd been telling about a local country and western singer who'd hit her up for advice not long after she'd passed her CPA exam. "He told me they were a business expense. Said they relaxed him so that he could hear the music in his head."
"Butt plugs?" Celia asked, her eyes wide. "Vibrating butt plugs were his muse?"
"You want to say that a little louder?" Leslie from payroll said. "I don't think that table on the far side of the room heard you."
"What did you do?" Celia asked.
"Nothing. I told you, he was just chatting me up at a party. But I can't listen to his music anymore. At least not without wondering how he wrote it."
Hannah laughed so loud she practically snorted. "I can't believe you haven't told me this story before."
Shelby shrugged. Honestly, she couldn't believe she was telling it now. But her mind and her tongue seemed pleasantly loose. She knew it was the punch--most of the time she never drank anything stronger than Perrier with lime when she went out. Not only did she hate having to rely on someone else to get her home--whether a friend or a taxi or a ride share app--she just plain didn't like feeling out of control.
But today was a special occasion, and it felt nice to be laughing and drinking and having a good time with her friends.
"I'm so happy for you," she said, leaning over to hug Celia.
"Thanks! And I know--"
Celia cut herself off, her eyes going wide as she gripped Shelby's wrist. "Don't look toward the bar," she whispered. "But that guy is watching you again."
"Really?" She was facing the window, and now she twisted in her seat to get a view of the long oak bar that ran parallel to the interior wall of the bar's main room.