Then he returned his attention to Parrish, eying her with undisguised envy. “Why wouldn’t you want to work at the family business? Sounds like the sweet life to me.”
“Let’s talk about something else. Like, how do you get what I count as at least six shots of very expensive top-shelf tequila—and my two drinks—for free?”
He gave her a broad wink. “Trade secret, baby! Hey, you wanna dance?”
The jukebox was playing the kind of ’60s rock you always heard at beach bars, and the tiny dance floor was crowded, but before Parrish could refuse, he’d downed the rest of his drink, then slid off the stool, nearly tripping in the process before quickly regaining his footing.
Garrett tugged at her hand, dragging her in the direction of the music. Parrish smiled despite herself. It was the song “Be Young, Be Foolish, Be Happy.” She’d heard it played her whole life, at Saturday night dances at the Saint.
Garrett grasped her hand and they wedged themselves into the crowd. For a minute or two they did a respectable version of the Carolina shag. He was a good dancer, smooth and loose-limbed. But when he tried to execute a tricky turn, everything went to shit. He stumbled, collapsed onto the floor, and pulled her down on top of him.
Parrish jumped up, red-faced and furious, but the other dancers seemed oblivious to the debacle. She looked down at Garrett, who was still on the floor, glassy-eyed, grinning, and flailing around like a beached flounder.
“Get up, dammit,” she said, extending her hand. He took it, and pulled her down again.
This time the crowd parted, and when she looked up, all she saw were a couple dozen faces, pointing at them and laughing hysterically.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” she said through gritted teeth. She stood and stalked away.
“Parrish! Hey, Parrish!”
She grabbed her purse from the back of her barstool. After that, she didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, until she was on the sidewalk outside the bar, fumbling for her car keys.
Garrett burst through the bar’s door. “Hey, wait up!”
CHAPTER 23
Parrish took a few wobbly steps, then looked down to see that the heel of her left sandal was broken. “Dammit.” She stooped, dropped it in a trash bin, and began limping toward her car, with Garrett following behind, weaving from side to side on the sidewalk.
“Wait up,” he called. “C’mon. Slow down. Why you gotta be so mad?”
She stopped and waited for him to catch up. “Look what you did!” She gestured at her dress, stained from the filthy barroom floor. “My favorite dress is ruined, thanks to you. My shoe is broken, and I just flashed my panties to about fifty strangers at that bar back there.”
Garrett awkwardly reached out his hand to brush away some of the dirt on the back of her dress, but she slapped his hand away.
“Leave me alone.” She stopped, removed the other shoe, and pitched it into a patch of nearby shrubbery before resuming her trek.
“Where you going?”
“Back to the Saint. It’s late and I have to work in the morning.” She turned and glared at him. “I should leave you right here. It would serve you right.”
He threw his arm around her shoulder. “Aww, Parrish, you wouldn’t do me that way, would you?”
She shrugged out from his embrace, and kept walking.
“Hang on,” he called. “Gotta water some flowers.”
He walked over to the side of a building and, with his back to her, unzipped his fly.
“Gross!” she yelled.
“All done,” he reported, still fumbling with his zipper.
“Are you crazy?” Parrish asked, grabbing him by the elbow. “You’re so completely wasted you’re gonna get yourself locked up for public drunkenness, and indecent exposure.”
“Nah. I know all the cops in town. We play darts together.”
On the way back to the Saint, the silence in the car was deafening.
