The warning flags ought to be flying. We have to play this right by the club. We can’t make any sudden moves.
But we’re inching toward this thing.
She heads toward me, a swing in her step. She likes it here. “So, what’s Sex on the Beach?” she asks.
“Vodka, peach schnapps, and some juices.”
She leans on the bar. “Ooooh, sounds good. I guess I don’t get to drink on the job.”
“It’s nearly one. It’s about to go totally dead.” I already sent Neil and Jake home. There are only two tables occupied.
“Can I have one, too, then?” Her eyes are bright as she asks.
“Absolutely.” I mix two, putting one on her tray and keeping one behind the bar.
“I’ll be there in a sec. I think this is their last round.” She flounces off, making a big show of swinging her hips and holding the tray overhead like a showgirl cocktail waitress.
I shake my head. I could watch this all day, too.
I can’t fathom for the life of me how she got this far in her life without a long-term relationship.
But then, I’ve never had one either.
When she returns, she slips behind the bar. “I can’t wait!” She picks up the drink and takes a sip.
Her eyes go big over the rim as her lips take the straw.
She wiggles her body like she’s about to take off dancing. “So good!” She sucks down another swig.
I have an itch to see her drunk. Really drunk. Hanging onto me, not worried about anything other than what her next funny thought is, following her every wild impulse.
And no doubt about it, the woman has some oats to sow. She craves recklessness. It flashes out of her like she’s a disco ball.
We both lean on the bar, the quiet conversations at the tables easily lost in the harsh beat of the music from the sound system.
“What makes you hold back?” I ask her.
She drinks deeply until her straw makes empty sucking sounds. She lifts the glass like she can’t believe she finished it already. “What do you mean? I believe I flashed your bar once, announced my virginity on your whiteboard, and joined a motorcycle club.”
“But you haven’t thrown yourself at anyone. You could have popped on any of the Wild Hair from the first night. Hell, you could have probably had them all at church that day.”
She rattles the ice. “No way. Iron Jack is all over this situation. He has the entire Wild Hair by the balls.”
I glance out at the bar, as if someone from the club might have come in and heard. “Don’t say that too loudly.”
“See, that’s what I mean.” She tries to drink again, then remembers it’s empty.
I take the glass and decide to fix another one. She’s already going to be too far gone to drive back to the clubhouse. I’ll have to take her. “Club hierarchy is critical to keeping things running.”
She attempts to slam her fist on the bar, misses, then connects with it the second time. Yeah, the drink is hitting. That girl has the alcohol tolerance of a goldfish.
“That’s why I’m writing it for about…” She pauses, lost in her words. “I’m writing about it for my thesis.”
“Still doing that, eh?” I pass her the fresh drink.
“Yes, if my adviser approves it. And thank you.” She toasts me with the drink. “Booze is fun!”
“It is until it isn’t.” I dump the ice from the first glass and set it in the dishwasher.
