Birthday Girl

I toss the paper and rub my scalp, exasperated. Dutch likes to mess with people, especially me, but she did sleep on a pool table, because she was too proud to ask for help. She doesn’t make the best choices.

I groan, knowing I’m not going to relax now. Sliding my phone into my pocket, I grab my keys and shut off the lights before leaving the house.

Climbing into my truck, I start the engine and blast the radio as high as I can stand to distract from the worry pooling in my gut. He just has to go and start shit, doesn’t he?

He did seem more amused than distressed, though, so he’s probably fucking with me. He just wants me to get out of the house.

It takes less than ten minutes to get to Grounders, and I find a parking space around the corner, not too far. I can hear the music from out here, and I wonder if the local leagues had some baseball games

tonight and everyone is still celebrating.

Misbehaving. I shake my head, pulling open the door. The girl doesn’t know the meaning of the word. She’s as good as gold.

Taking a deep breath, I pull open the door and nearly wince at the noise. Hard to believe this was exactly my scene once.

Addicted to Love screeches through lousy speakers, and round, high-top tables are packed with customers. The bar is filled, not a single stool vacant, and I look around, seeing that the booths are all filled, as well. A few women stand in line for the bathroom, the pool table is surrounded by bystanders, and the air is smoky and charged. I can already feel eyes on me.

I nod at Calista Mankin as her eyes light up and she waves, and I spot James Lowry out of the corner of my eyes. Both people I’ve probably seen only five times since high school, and I already feel uncomfortable.

My gaze finally falls on Jordan as she stands at the juke box, the pages flipping over in front of her as she scans the playlist through the glass. The crowd is thick, but I see the back of her head. I’d recognize her hair anywhere.

My shoulders relax a little. I knew it was just some asinine plot to get me here. She’s fine.

I move through the people, trying to find Dutch and the guys, but then I see Jordan leave the music machine and make her back to the bar, and that’s when I catch glimpses of her through the throngs of people and see what she’s wearing.

My eyes flare. Jordan, Jesus…

Her jeans fit her as snugly as always, the curves of her heart-shaped ass perfect, but her damn tits are threatening to pop out of her…corset. Why the hell is she wearing lingerie?

It’s a white top, shimmering and laced up the front into a heart-shaped bodice with demure-looking little ruffles along the borders. My eyes fall down her cleavage, my head spinning with images of what’ll spill out when she unlaces that top tonight.

The corset doesn’t even reach the tops of her jeans, but instead stops just above her hips, her trim waist and tummy drawing attention from every man she passes. The laces look tight, giving her an hourglass look that’s just begging for a man’s hands. I fist mine.

The skin of her bare shoulders, her hair falling down her back, the sway of her hips as she walks…. I tear my eyes away before I’m caught. She makes her way behind the bar again, and I ignore some of the self-satisfied smiles from men in the room as they follow her with their eyes and try not to wonder what their hushed whispers are telling each other.

A hand waves in the corner of my vision, and I shoot my glare up at Dutch sitting with the guys in a booth. I walk over.

“What the hell is she wearing?” I grumble, sliding into the booth.

Dutch turns his head toward me, his drink inches from his lips. “It’s the lingerie show,” he tells me. “They have it every Thursday night. The bartenders and servers don nighties or corsets and serve drinks and food. It’s fun.”

No, not really.

But I look around and see a few other ladies carrying out appetizers and bringing drinks, some of them in very thin attire. At least Jordan’s corset looks as thin as armor.

“But Jordan’s never done it before,” he goes on. “That’s what shocked me. Thought you should know.”

“Why the fuck would I want to know?” I pull a beer out of the ice bucket on the table.

“Yeah, sorry.” He turns away, mumbling into his glass, “You seem like you couldn’t care less.”

I shoot him a sideways look, hearing the laughter in his words.

Sticking the beer back in the bucket, untouched, I rise and head to the bar. I hear a snort behind me, but I don’t care. She’s kind of my responsibility, and I don’t want her doing things like this, because she thinks she needs money.

There’s only one bartender besides Jordan. The owner, Shel. I’m sure she hasn’t forgotten me, so I veer to the opposite end and catch Jordan’s attention as she pops the tops from a line of six bottles of beer.

“What the hell are you wearing?” I lean in, speaking as quietly as I can.