“I’m not from here either,” he admitted.
I sucked down half my glass. Tenor’s attention bored into me, all smoky heat, igniting a spark in my belly and traveling lower. The feeling wasn’t Malibu fueled, though that wasn’t helping.
“Whatcha doing in town?” He leaned closer.
I inched away. “Uh . . . work.”
The bartender slid another pale-brown drink in front of me. “Malibu Coke from the gentleman at the end of the bar.” He lifted his chin toward the side closest to where Tenor was sitting.
I looked, but my gaze skipped over the guy a little closer to my age than Travis. Behind him, Tenor was tucked into a booth, glowering into his phone. He appeared oblivious to everything around him, but I knew better.
The second guy who’d bought my drink smiled.
“Th-thank you.” Two drinks in less than ten minutes?
Were there no other women in town?
Tenor had been right. The only other ladies in the bar were playing pool with a couple of guys. A group of three men older than my dad sat behind me in a booth, and the rest were pairs of men and a few singles, in addition to those who’d forked over cash for my Malibu Cokes.
I was prime rib at a hot dog stand. I giggled like a middle school boy. Hot dog was the worst analogy. The second guy must’ve thought I was smiling at him. He grinned wider.
“You know him?” Travis’s whiskey-scented breath wafted across the shell of my ear.
I leaned a little farther away. Tenor hadn’t looked up. I dragged my gaze off him. “No, I don’t.” When I twisted to face forward, I nudged him hard with my shoulder. He didn’t back off very far.
Suddenly, I didn’t feel like prime rib. I was a lame zebra on the Serengeti.
I was a slow duckling with eagles flying overhead.
A sick deer surrounded by coyotes.
Should I be astonished or insulted? Tenor had been right. But then I was almost the only game in the place.
A couple of women stumbled into the bar, laughing. Each one wore tiny jean shorts and cropped tees. Their long hair covered more than their shirt. One of the girls smiled and waved at the guys in the booth. They took the table in front of Tenor, surreptitiously checking him out, but he never glanced up.
Instead of tracking the new arrivals, the guy who’d bought the second drink picked up his bottle of beer and moved to the stool on the other side of me. “Have we met before?”
Was he seriously asking, or was that a pickup line? Would I have wondered before Tenor had made me try this stupid experiment?
Still, it was just two guys, and there were the new arrivals with their booty shorts that would surely get all the men’s attention. I might still prove Tenor wrong.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tenor
Four fucking men surrounded Ruby. Their laughter, mingled with hers, filled the bar. It had been three hours and she was on her fifth Malibu Coke—not having to turn over a single dime to pay for any.
Allen, the jackass bartender who wouldn’t quit ogling her tits, was known to pour the drinks strong. Not only did too much of a good thing ruin a good drink, but it was expensive as hell. No wonder Scooter couldn’t turn a profit and fix up this place.
Ruby held her phone out and all the idiots crowded around her. She’d been taking pictures of her drinks, of them, of Allen, and gushing about how good they’d look on a Flatlanders Prohibited poster.
Allen, the fucker, got her to send him the images—and her phone number in the process. Slick bastard.
I was scowling at the group when a pair of jean-clad hips blocked my view. The hem of those shorts didn’t cover much leg.
Cassie Horner and her sister, Andi, had arrived shortly after me. I’d thought they’d leave me alone, but I wasn’t so luckytonight. I wrapped my hands around my beer bottle. It was the only way I knew I’d get a measured amount of alcohol. I was lucky to get served at all. Pure nosy confusion was the only reason Allen had come to my booth.
“Hey, Tenor,” she purred.
