And now I have to. Because she’s said the three most horrible bachelorette party words in the history of the English language. I huff a breath into the microphone and wrap my hand around the pole, execute a twirl that makes the world spin a little faster than it should, then belt out the chorus like I’m Marilyn Monroe because I can.
I have that voice when I’m nervous–breathy, high-pitched, like I’m ready for sex. I can’t help it. Most of the time I hate it. For example, this voice was not useful during the speech I had to give in my public speaking class–a required course that almost made me drop out of college altogether.
By morning, I’m going to be a YouTube joke, because there are at least ten call cameras recording, so I have to own it. Make it seem like the voice is a choice not something forced on me that I can’t control. I’m a machine. That country guy with the twang has nothing on me. I thrust and do a slow twerk that brings the crowd to its feet. I’ve never been so in the spotlight and never felt it so much. It’s okay. I can deal. Would’ve been easier if I was dealing with tequila instead of anxiety medicine, but I can cope.
After the song, of which I could’ve crowd surfed from the stage, I walk back to the table of bachelorettes and stand at the edge. People walk by and pat my back, and a guy at the bar–tall, dark, and tattooed with a smile like Brad Pitt and a darker, stubble of a beard that I’m willing to bet would burn in all the best ways— lifts his glass and drinks while I smile and watch.
Sweet sweating Jesus. This guy is… wow. Possibly holy wow. Actually, unholy. But still… wow.
Maisie, who’s already dared me to flash a guy and be a singing pole dancer, has that look again. Because she’s watching the guy at the bar, too. And she saw the smile. The toast. The smile again.
I’m not the only one replaying it in my head.
She nods at me. “Oh yeah, baby. I double dog dare you to go get hot tattooed guy’s phone number.”
I should’ve never looked. Should’ve never thought about how nice his eyes are. Not that I can see the color, but when he smiles so do they. And it’s adorable. Seriously. It’s fold up on his lap to cuddle and make out until he wants to bang my head against the headboard adorable.
But he’s sitting with a friend–one I recognize–who I’d also have to interact with. It isn’t the exhibitionism of dancing slow and sultry on a stage, or flashing a stranger, it’s personal interaction that kicks off my oh-fuck-o-meter and makes the anxiety medicine a necessity. Dealing with more than one person at a time is a lot for me to handle.
I sigh. “If you weren’t the bride and you weren’t marrying a very good friend of ours and it would ruin the pictures you’re paying thousands of dollars for, I’d punch you in the face. Right now.” It’s honest.I’mhonest.
“Go ahead, but you still have to get his number.” And a second later, she’s back to chanting. “Get his number! Get his number!”
People are watching now. The Pit Stop isn’t an empty on Saturday kind of place. We’re at a table in the middle of the space with tables all around us, the bar just behind.
I should probably have a plan of some sort. But I don’t. And the closer I get to him, the faster my heart works and the slower my thoughts. He’s gorgeous. More so up close.
His reflection in the mirror behind the bar smiles at me, holds my gaze. This guy has moves. But of course, he does. A guy who looks like him probably has a playbook, moves, and intuition to know when to call an audible or run an option. My football background is showing through and I’m of half a mind to try my luck at a tackle.
The girls who were chanting and cheering have gone silent, watching now.
I move to stand between him and the friend he has with him and they both look at me. “Hi. I’m Belle. Isabelle to be exact, but Belle is okay, too.” And once again, I sound like the love child of Pamela Anderson and Anna Nicole Smith. And again, I can’t do one damned thing about it.
“Hello, Belle.” I like that he didn’t make it creepy by doing the wholeHi,Isabelle to be exact, but Belle is okay, toothing.
I point to the table of staring bachelorette party attendees, and turn to meet his eyes in the mirror before I look at him head on. And that’s when I know that I’m a weak willed woman. I have no strength. If this guy asks me to follow him to a dark corner and do the nasty with him with people not ten feet away, I’m going to say okay. I’m going to do whatever he asks me.
It’s also this moment that I know that everything from coming out with Maisie this weekend to standing here and talking to this guy is the kind of mistake that I’m going to have to make so I feel the regret deep in my soul. Remarkably, I don’t care, either. He looks like a worthy mistake.
CHAPTERFOUR
WALKER
She standing beside me, smelling like flowers and sunshine, wearing a skirt that shows off the miles of leg attached to a pair of fuck-me shoes that make my mouth water and my dick hard.
I look around her at Hunter and he holds up his pinky like this fuck is going to try to hold me to the promise I made under duress. I shake my head and wiggle my eyes. “What can I do for you, sweetheart?” I’m giving the voice everything I have, maybe because she is, too. Or maybe because it’s been said–many, many times–that my voice is a panty melter. It’s deep, smooth. Can also be stern, but that’s a third date choice, or a first date if the chick’s into spanking.
She leans in close enough I get a nice big whiff of her perfume, and if it wasn’t before, my dick is now hard enough to mine for diamonds. And when her tits rub against my arm, I suck in a breath because there isn’t enough air in this room.
Hunter chuckles behind me, and I rein it all in. It takes a second, but I pull myself together, will my dick soft, and stare at her. Although she’s smiling now, like she knows I’m struggling with self-control. And the smile isn’t helping my predicament at all.
“I never caught your name.” And along with the smile, her eyes sparkle. The effect could be the overhead lights, the ones strobing in time to the beat of the karaoke machine, or maybe it’s just her.
I’ve been horny before. Wanted to get laid by a pretty girl. But this is more than that. I’m sitting on this barstool picturing her face in the morning light. Usually, I’m ready with cab fare or a ride home ten minutes after we’ve finished.
“Walker.” I nod and slide her a half wink.
“Like the Texas Ranger?” That fucking smile is going to be the end of me.
