For the firsttime in months, I’m finally letting loose. It feels good. I still won’t accept drinks from strange men, but I’ve been getting them from the bartender and knocking them back all night. We’re on the dance floor at a club, dancing and singing. Sulley and Palmer have let loose in a way I’m unaccustomed to from them.
Sulley and Vance keep exchanging longing glances, though they keep their distance. I lean over and whisper-yell, “Are you fucking him?”
Her eyes widen. “What? No. Of course not.”
Hmm. I’m not sure I believe her. The iciness between them from last summer has thawed significantly since her return to Philly from the holidays. I know he was in their hometown at the same time. Something definitely happened between them.
Even Palmer is shaking her ass tonight. Beau is standing at a nearby high-top table, homed in on her, taking it all in. He hasn’t moved his eyes from her body since we met up hours ago. His gaze is intense and obvious. I don’t think he bothers to acknowledge the hordes of women who try to talk to him.
Women are also all over both Vance and Daylen, but while Vance pushes them away, Daylen basks in the adoration. What’s wrong with these women? Don’t they see what he’s wearing? Why is it annoying me so much?
A few more hours and several drinks later, we’re all wasted. I’ve never seen Daylen this drunk. He’s talking to the bartender while a skanky woman is trying to stick her hands down his pants. I think he’s too drunk to notice.
In my own inebriated state, I decide I should rescue him from unwanted advances like he rescued me. In a bit of a stumbling, zigzag pattern, I make my way toward them and grab the girl’s arm. “Hands off, hooker.”
She snarls, “Fuck off, bitch. I’m taking him home tonight.”
I shove her and stand in front of him to protect him from this overly aggressive, vicious woman. Before I realize it, I cross my arms and yell out, “He’s my husband. Stay away.”
The woman’s chin drops before she scurries away. Daylen bursts out laughing. “Hooker?” He cackles like it’s the funniest word he’s ever heard. “What do a hooker and Walmart have in common?” He pauses for a few seconds of silence because I have no idea what they have in common. He continues, “Everyone makes fun of them, but when you’re in one at four in the morning, everyone loves them.”
He then bends over while his louder-than-reasonable laugh intensifies. For some bizarre reason, I decide it’s the funniest thing he’s ever said and join in on the laughter.
He throws his arms around me. “Well, wifey, what can I get you to drink?” He runs his nose through my hair. “Fuck, the smell of my wife makes me hard. I’d know that scent anywhere.”
I reach over to feel the truth of his statement. His dick is hardening. And I decide that it’s a good idea to keep rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.
He moans. “God damn, that feels good, wifey. Did I tell you how hot you look tonight? I’m gonna fuck those tits later.”
My panties flood at the thought. Suddenly I can’t manage to remove my hands from his hard body as I move them over every inch of him, wanting to explore his masculine, defined body. He’s so sexy. Was he always this sexy? It must have just started tonight. Yep, that’s it. Just started. Like spontaneous hotness.
He grabs my ass and pulls me flush with him before his lips crash to mine. He tastes like the lame-ass fruity drinks he’s been downing all night, but it’s kind of nice. Usually men taste like whiskey or scotch after a night out, but Daylen tastes like…strawberries. Yummy. Why have I been against this for so long?
Wait, his tongue is in my mouth. Oh my god, my tongue is in his mouth. Before I know it, we’re swallowing each other whole as we make out at the bar. My body ignites in a way it hasn’t in several months.
I don’t recognize my own voice when I mumble into his mouth, “Bend me over and fuck me on this bar, Neanderthal.”
A throat clearing ends our make-out session. We both turn to the bartender, who says, “You two can’t have sex in here. Why don’t you head out for the night and find a more private place to have a good time?” He hands us each the same drinks we’ve been drinking all night, Daylen’s girlie one, complete with fruit and an umbrella, and my espresso martini. “These are on the house, kids. Just leave before the bouncers get involved.”
Daylen smiles. “Free drinks. Wow, you’re the bestest, man.” He looks down at his drink, blanketed with an umbrella and fruit, and slurs, “Can I have two more umbrellas? Don’t open them though.”
The bartender sighs. “Sure thing. After that, you need to leave.”
He retrieves the two closed umbrellas and then hands them to Daylen. Daylen removes the small rubber bands keeping the umbrellas closed. Taking my left hand, he slides one of the rubber bands onto my ring finger. “My wife needs a ring.” He slides the other rubber band onto his ring finger. “I need one too. Now it’s official,” he smiles widely.
For some reason, I decide this is a brilliant idea and hold it up into the light as if the light will shine off it like a diamond. I’m mesmerized by its elastic-y beauty.
We each grab our free drink, link arms, and happily stumble our way to the exit door of the club, full of laughs and good cheer.
The club is a few blocks from our hotel. We took a party bus here, but it seems to be gone, so we decide to walk. As we do so, we’re both wildly amused by me leaving red lipstick kiss marks all over his neck. I inhale him while doing so. Ooh, he smells good. Has he always smelled this yummy?
About a block from the club, we pass a small wedding chapel with Elvis sitting out front, belting a few tunes. In his best Elvis impression, he looks at us and sings, “You two can’t help fallingin love. How about a little jailhouse rock?” He shakes his hips and does a little hip twist.
Daylen and I think it’s the funniest thing that has ever been said or seen. We’re practically on the ground laughing.
I ask, “Is your real name Elvis?” He doesn’t look like the real Elvis. I think he’s Indian, but maybe Elvis was Indian and I didn’t realize it.
Without breaking his Elvis character, he answers, “That’s my stage name, sugar pie. My real name is Pinky Punnathanathukunnele.”
