“Named after the plane, not the rock band.”
“Pop,” I smoothly correct. “They were apopband.”
“Pop rock,” argues the only other person in town that’s my height.
“They were no ABBA,” the woman I’m holding hands with innocently interjects, weakening my knees.
“Yup.” Using my free hand, I gently turn her face towards mine. “You will marry me.”
She isn’t given time to do more than giggle thanks to the male across the bar. “I mean…the guy’s already got the suit.”
More laughs lightly leave her, but an objection never does.
Because she knows it’s true.
Even if she’s not ready to admit it out loud just yet.
Our currently cupping hold transitions into a finger folded one as she asks, “What’s in this one?”
“Kahula – a coffee liqueur,” he points to the contents in our shot glasses during his explanation, “Irish cream – almost like a vanilla creamer,” the gesture moves up to the next layer, “topped with orange liqueur.” Moose casually folds his arms across his chest. “You can actually serve these flammin’ but Fire Marshall Burns is actuallyinthe buildin’ tonight, already pissy we’re gettin’ close to capacity, so I’m tryin’ my damndest to stay off his radar.”
There’s something I don’t miss about living here.
The grudges people hold.
Particularly when you ditch their daughter at prom to bang a sorority girl in the backseat of her stepdaddy’s Range Rover.
“Do we sip it?” innocently investigates my dancing partner upon picking up the glass.
“Like the last moment in a shootout,” lifting my own beverage occurs next, “it’s one and done.”
We grin, clink, and toss back the sweet mixture in tandem.
Thankfully, hums of approval follow her finishing.
And unthankfully so does the painfully slow licking of her lips to capture the droplets that got missed.
Either my tongue should be doing the lapping or my cock should be enjoying that treatment.
I’m honestly fine with either of my buds being put in the game.
“That…” she slides the empty dish back to him, “I liked.”
My mouth lowers to express my agreement when a new, feminine voice interjects, “We need to go.”
What?
No.
She can’t go.
Not yet.
Not without another dance.
Or another drink.
Or me knowing the important piece of information I can’t believe I don’t already.
