Chapter 1 #2
Shock doesn’t hesitate to flash in her expression. “Wait. What?!”
“You said everything.”
“That’s because I didn’t think you’d really go for it!”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s…Idontknow…expensive?!”
“I make enough money.”
“It’s time consuming!”
“I have all the time in the world to be with you.”
Clearly caught off guard by my rebuttal leads to her verbal flailing, “It’s…It’s…It’s…”
“What you thought you could say to trick me into makin’ a choice for you.”
There’s no missing the tiny wince that scrunches her nose.
“Make no mistake, beautiful. I may look big and dumb, but I’m far from it.” A cocky wink precedes me hollering over to the nearest bartender. “Moose!”
The scruffy faced male behind the bar shoots me a smirk at the same time he pulls down on the tap handle. “Troff.”
“I want two of everything on the specials sheet-”
“Alright.”
“A seven and seven with mint-”
“Nee must be here.”
“And Wilcox. Top shelf. One ice cube.”
He pours the excessive foam from the top of the beer while shaking his head. “Dubs was dumped again, huh?”
“Yup.”
“When will the guy fuckin’ learn,” murmurs our classmate prior to topping off the glass and sliding it over to the patron.
Irony of course being that he himself denies the one woman he’s had eyes for since she divorced our high school football coach and took over the salon across the street four years ago.
Why?
Because she’s older than him.
And that’s somehow “wrong”.
Not to me.
I don’t give a fuck about the years between us as long as you’re old enough that it ain’t a crime and young enough that if I smack you on the ass during sex, it’s not considered elder abuse.
I’m pretty flexible.
On and off the ice.
Again…I would point out his hypocrisy if I couldn’t already feel the back of Grams slipper leaving pain on my ass.
Woman’s got a helluva wrist.
Pretty sure it’s where I get it from.
“What’s with the first part of the order?” Moose inquires after wiping sweat off of his beached tanned forehead. “You lose a bet or somethin’?”
“Nope. Jus’ tryin’ to show this beauty beside me a good time.”
At that, she lightly snickers.
Scoots closer.
Brushes her foot against mine.
In spite of the fact that I logically know the shit is innocent, my cock doesn’t.
But fuckme, do I wish it did because I don’t need half the town seeing me sporting lumber in the wild.
“You ain’t gotta give her alcohol poisonin’ for that to happen,” Moose jokes at the same time he grabs our first pair of glasses. “You ain’t that shitty to be around sober.”
“Thanks, asshole.”
“Anytime.”
More giggles get my mind spinning before she investigates, “Good friends?”
“We grew up together.”
“So, you grew up around here.”
“Yup.” Our eyes momentarily meet. “You didn’t.”
Her smile remains during her headshake. “I did not.”
“I know,” playfully leaves me. “We would’ve been married already if you had.”
The sound more beautiful than a sold-out crowd during a shut out reaches my ears yet again as she sweetly asks, “Do you always just…say…whatever you’re thinking?”
“I just say whatever’s my truth.” This time a mixture of a hum and sigh escapes prompting me to turn my attention to the bartender. “There’s a guaranteed hundo in your tip jar if you keep my orders a bit more of a priority.”
“Make it two.”
Chuckles bouncing my entire frame are attached to me reaching for my wallet. “You shakin’ me down?”
“You can afford it.”
“Not the point.”
“Keep talkin’ shit, and I’ll push for three,” Moose teasingly pokes while muddling the mixture of bitters and sugar in each of the glasses.
“This is extortion.”
“Can you spell extortion, Troff?”
The jab precedes me flashing him my middle finger and shoving two-hundred-dollar bills into the nearby jar.
“And don’t make me remind you that was for priority service.” He winks, tosses the tool to the side, and grabs a bottle of Wilcox to add to the glass. “That two hundo does not cover your regular services.”
I shove my wallet back into my pocket on a mirthful, “Noted.”
“Okay,” my future wife’s fingers curl adoringly around my bicep, unknowingly causing my cock to swell all over again, “so what’s he making, first?”
“Old fashions,” I reply more breathless than intended.
“Sugar. Bitters. Whiskey. And…” Moose plops solid chunks in each, “an ice cube.”
“Topped with an orange twist,” my explanation is given in tandem with the action being completed, “and a cherry.”
“Luxardo Maraschino Cherries,” informs our bartender upon his delivery. “Little trick of the trade I learned at a dive bar when I was visitin’ a friend in the mitten.”
“That’s a place?” Curiously croaks the woman still warmly clutching onto me.
“Michigan,” we answer in unison.
“Look at that,” she cheekily comments and reaches for the glass closest to her, “a mixology and geography lesson.”
“You are never too old or too skilled to learn somethin’ new.” Lifting my own drink is accompanied by finding her gaze again. “Words I live by.”
We exchange warm grins, clink our drinkware, and indulge in a sip.
Familiar tastes of smooth whiskey being mellowed by dashes of sweetness play pond hockey across my tongue; however, the sudden, harsh, open mouth gagging, from the first timer at my side have the game ending.
Immediately.
“You okay?!” leaves me in the concerned tone I typically only reserve for two people in my life.
“It burns!”
“What the fuck did you give her, Moose?!”
Mirth can’t be kept out of his tone, “An old fashion.”
“It’s like drinking fire,” she complains, head whipping rapidly side to side, curls clipping me in the eye. “And brimstone. And night terrors.”
“So um,” rubbing away the minor sting occurs in between light laughs, “you don’t like whiskey, aye?”
“No.” The definite answer is echoed by a harsh push back towards Moose. “No. Thank you.”
“See and now we know that.”
“We do.”
“Without a doubt.”
“Without a single fucking one.”
“You know my grams’ favorite things are a good glass of aged whiskey and a slice of pecan pie,” I casually announce, redirecting her gaze to me.
“Doesn’t matter if it’s Thanksgivin’ or jus’ a Tuesday in June.
” Seeing the hint of a smile encourages me to add.
“It’s always a good time for whiskey and pie. ”
“It’s never a good time for whiskey,” is spoken prior to another gag.
“What do you wanna try next?” my finger taps the mini menu. “Somethin’ fruiter? Chocolatier?” A flirtatious grin is given. “Like whiskey and pie, it’s always a good time for chocolate and coffee.”
“I like coffee.” Tiny splashes of red tint her cheeks alongside a shy nod. “I like coffee a lot.”
Hallhavemercy…I would put a ring on her finger right now if I had one.
Coffee is the only thing I love as much as hockey and my tunes.
Not wanting to influence her decision – but definitely tempted to – is what leads to me suggesting, “You wanna try somethin’ with coffee liqueur in it?”
She coyly nods again.
“B-52s comin’ up,” Moose proclaims only to quickly amend, “right after I grab them fresh cold ones.”
His exit prompts me to speak quickly in hopes of keeping her attention, “Can you Texas two-step?”
Another fast-paced headshake is offered alongside her confession, “I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s a dance,” coolly leaves me.
“It’s a religion,” the flannel wearing female on the other side of her corrects.
“For some,” I lightly concede at the same time I become completely upright. “And for you,” my palm is extended and turned upward, “class is about to be in sesh.”
The beam I’m presented threatens to have me panting harder than OT in the Cup finals.
Yup.
I’m out of my depths here.
We’re talkin’ tryin’ to sober karaoke George Strait in a Texas honky-tonk after his sold-out concert type shit.
As Grams would say…
Pray for me.
Steadying the hand that hasn’t shaken this hard since my first NHL game is practically a fucking miracle. “May I have this dance?”
Her dark eyebrows, which make a gorgeous contrast to her lighter features, lift towards the wagon wheel covered ceiling. “But what if we lose our spot at the bar?”
“Trust me.” Mischievousness meanders through my hazel stare. “We won’t.”
After a moment more of hesitation, she drops her hand into mine and sheepishly surrenders on a half-hearted shrug. “Okay.”
“We’re jus’ gonna do a couple basics, alright?”
Another unsure of herself nod occurs.
“It’s quick, quick, slow. So, I’m gonna start on my left-”
“Wait,” she hastily interjections, “shouldn’t we be like on the dance floor or headed to the dance floor or-”
“Right here where we can keep our spot, and I can keep my word?” An impressed grin is my segue to resume teaching.
“Like I was sayin’…First, we’re gonna be a bit off center.
” Repositioning myself is done. “And then I’m gonna start on my left foot, you’re gonna start with your right. I’mma shuffle, shuffle…”
My frame moves forward yet hers goes nowhere, resulting in my cowboy boot covered feet unintentionally crushing the tips of her toes. “Ou!”
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” I murmur in a panic. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I-”
“Should finish the instructions versus hoping I’m just gonna catch on quick.”
Embarrassment crimsons my face; however, the sight of her still smirking slightly lightens it. “I’m sorry again.”
“Forgiven.” She flicks curls away from her soft, round face I’m blocking myself from physically cupping. “Now, when you shuffle, shuffle, I need to buffle, buffle?”
“That mean back shuffle?”
“Yeah.”
“You jus’ make that up?”
“Yeah.”
Warm chortles appear prior to me nodding. “Alright then. Yes.” My chin kicks in that direction. “You need to buffle, buffle.”
“I can buffle, buffle.”
“Can you?”
“Pretty sure,” comes out in an impish nature. “I may have resting confused face, but I swear I’m not.”
“I like your face.” Not smiling is impossible. “And I can’t wait to see the other expressions it makes.”
Airy stammers swiftly escape but never turn into actual words.
Good.
At least now I know we’re playing in the same league.
“After your buffle, buffle, it’s slow, slow.”
“What’s slow?”
“Our steps.”
“But I’m still goin’ back?”
“Yup.”
“Buffle, buffle, buffff…bufff…?”
“Yup.”
“And then what?”
“And then under normal circumstances, I’d prep on turnin’ ya, but under these?
” Softening my grin is mindlessly done. “We’re jus’ gonna do the same shit in reverse.
” Her face twitches in what I’m pretty sure is uncertainty pushing me to attach my instructions to movements.
“Buffle, buffle,” I state, encouraging her to do the small actions, watching her feet.
“Buffff…buffff…Buffle, buffle…buffff…buffff…” The instant she completes all the small movements, I purr, “Good girl.”
An unmistakable moan gracing our presence invites my dick to the dance situation he is not meant for.
“I…uh…” the increasingly breathless tone effortlessly makes me even harder, “shuffle, shuffle, now?”
Nodding while not making eye contact is all I’m capable of doing.
Because if my stare meets hers right now, we’re done dancing.
And talking.
And doing anything that isn’t fucking in the back bathroom.
We’re talkin’ a good old Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” shit.
Which would not be a very gentlemanly story to tell at our future wedding.
Which will happen.
Bet.
My future wife leads me backwards while quietly murmuring, “Shuffle, shuffle, slowww…slowww…Shuffle, shuffle, slowww…”
“Slowwww…” I say with her, our eyes finally locking once more.
Hextallknows I should probably slow shit down.
Smooth play it.
Treat the situation with a little more Otis.
Little less Boosty.
But what can I say?
When something is meant to be…it’s meant to be.
“B-52s,” announces Moose, forcing our gazes but not our hands to part.
And I’m more than alright with that.
“Named after the plane, not the rock band.”
“Pop,” I smoothly correct. “They were a pop band.”
“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 actually in the 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.
“Oh…” her outward disappointment mirrors my internal one. “You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s an annoyingly long drive back to downtown Highland, Aly’s already drunk as fuck, and our flight has the nerve to leave before the LMC in the airport even opens in the morning.
” The woman I know will have my last name one of these days gets gently tugged out of my hold.
“Chop, chop, gurl. I am not gonna be holding anybody’s hair back while they puke on a horse statue. ”
Our fingers are almost completely done touching when I anxiously plead, “Give me your name?”
Despite her noticeable resistance to bailing, her friend keeps tugging. “You don’t want my number?”
“Your friend’s not really leavin’ time for the latter.”
“It’s Gillian.” Giggles grace me for the final time of the night, reminding me of the sound I look forward to hearing forever. “Gillian Blanc.”