“Right. Lucky has eyes like that, only they’re real.” I try to sound casual as if I’m not making too big of a deal about it. But damn, Lucky Madden’s eyes should be under glass at the Smithsonian.
She squints over at me hard. “Who’s Lucky?”
“Just some chick I know. She’s a feisty brunette about this tall, lots of personality—too much if you ask me. She’s got a mean edge to her. Funny as hell, though. You know, she’s actually—”
The blonde lifts a hand. “I think I see my friends. Nice chatting with you.”
It goes like that all night. The clock ticks closer to midnight, and Rush has already taken Jenna to The Row, showered, and made his way back to the bar.
It’s eleven fifty-nine, and I can’t help but glare at my friends. It looks like Eli has joined in on the fun because the three of them are making their way over with a shot of something brown as syrup in Grant’s hand.
Shit. I cast a desperate look at the girls still swinging their hips.
What do I do? For the life of me, I try to recall if it’s illegal to pay someone to have sex with you. It’s only illegal the other way around, right? Fuck, I can’t think straight.
“Time.” Rush lands his mitt on my shoulder. “It’s midnight, Cinderella—your dick is about to swell up like a pumpkin.”
“It’ll be temporary.” Eli offers up his weak attempt at comfort. “I hear the swelling goes down in three to six weeks.”
Fuck. I have never lost a bet. I have never had so much on the line and lost a bet.
Grant pushes the shot glass to me. “Scotch neat. Drink up, princess.”
“You mean prince.” Eli offers me a pat to the back as the three of them navigate me to the door.
“Prince,” I mutter as I glare at the murky brown liquid before I down it. “I guess I’m ready for my close-up.”
I’m not ready by a long shot, but there’s no way I’m willing to admit it.
Rush drivesus down to Jepson, down to Think Ink, where the mutilation of my man parts is about to commence.
“So, what went wrong?” Eli seems genuinely interested in how I managed to lose a bet with my dick on the line. “The entire bar shut you out?”
“He couldn’t keep his mouth shut,” Rush offers.
“What?” I glance over at him as the streetlights whitewash him a sickly shade. “I talked to every chick in that bar twice. I don’t know what the hell happened. Maybe you paid them all to shut me down.” Now it’s making sense. Of course, he did. Rush has a wad of bills with him at all hours. Bankrolling the girls at the Black Bear is something he might consider if he thinks he can turn my dick into entertainment for the evening.
“You wish.” Rush barks out a laugh so loud and hostile, it alone refutes my theory. “I talked to Sharon about a half hour ago, and word at the bar is you kept bringing up your girlfriend.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend, so that right there proves you’re a lousy detective.” And perhaps a lousy friend, considering he’s sped us all the way over.
“Dark hair—purple eyes?” Grant interjects. “Dude, you talked to every chick in there about another girl. In the event you don’t realize it, that’s a big no-no when you’re trying to get laid.”
“He’s right,” Eli spouts off from the backseat. “That’s Getting Laid 101 basics. Do not mention another chick. Nothing dive-bombs a potentially fun night faster than another girl. You’ve got to make them feel like they’re number one. You got to make sure—”
“All right. Enough from the peanut gallery.”
Rush brings his truck to an abrupt stop and kills the engine before we head inside. Think Ink is in a seedy part of town with derelicts and the odd cop car parked precariously up the street, and oddly it’s not enough to make my dick or me feel safe. Nope. Not even an entire army of men dressed in blue is able to get me out of this predicament. I’m the one that landed myself in this shit hole, and now I’m the one who’ll suffer for it.
“You can chicken out if you want,” Grant says, looking at all the artwork displayed on the walls. It’s surprisingly clean and bright inside.
A beautiful blonde jumps out of her seat once she spots us and gives Grant a running hug. Her nametag spells out DAISY in rhinestones that shine like the real deal. “Where’s Ava?” She gasps as if we’ve lost a child.
“Girls’ night.” Grant is quick to answer.
“You boys getting tatted tonight?” Her eyes spring wide with hope at the prospect of four paying customers at this late hour.
“Pierced,” Rush corrects before giving me a tiny shove forward. “And it’s just the one.”
