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The bartender starts listing off drink specials, the first of which is something called a Great Falls Flyer, which sounds like a shitty name for a ski resort drink to me. Not that anybody asked me. I hold up a hand, stopping his recitation of fancy mixed drinks, and slide a fifty across the bar. “Bud. Bottle. Start a tab.”
He blinks, his face a mask of ‘yes sir’, and grabs me a bottle. He sets a frosted mug down beside it, the question in his eyes asking if I’d like to pour it myself or have him do it. I pick up the bottle and take a swig from it, skipping the mug completely. He dips his chin and disappears, taking the mug with him.
Finally alone.
Yeah, in a bar. But with a beer in hand, no one to talk to, and no expectations to be polite. I can just sit and be alone.
Most folks probably think I spend a lot of my time alone. They’d be wrong. I spend all day, every day with a thousand head of cattle. Those animals are my friends. I know when one’s feeling aggressive, I see when they’re favoring a leg or ready to get inseminated, I see the friendships between the big creatures as they group together among the larger herd. They might not talk to me in English, but they say plenty. Same goes for me. I might not say much, but I say a lot if you know how to listen.
But now, I don’t have to watch the cows or talk to family or anything, really. I can just sit here anonymously in peace and quiet.
After a bit, I order a burger, which comes out huge and delicious. I nod my thanks at the bartender, who’s picked up on my silence and twenty minutes later, quietly takes away my empty plate and delivers another Bud.
The bar starts to fill up as it gets later and the sun goes down. It gets louder, and I start to people watch. There’s a noisy table in the corner, some sort of bachelorette party or girl’s night out, I think, because it’s a group of women dressed to the nines for the resort bar. I might be underdressed, but they’re overdressed from what I can see.
The group shifts around the table as some pop song I don’t care to know comes on. They’re singing and have their arms around each other’s shoulders, swaying like it means something.
And then I see her.
A dark-haired stunner amid the group. She’s got on ridiculously high heels but seems to know exactly how to move in them because the pseudo-dance doesn’t make her wobble a bit. Her skirt is so short, I’d bet it measures in the single-digits for length, her flat chest is barely covered by a thin scrap of cotton that does nothing to hide the little perks of her nipples, and her face is expertly painted with smoky eyes and a bright red lipstick.
There’s something vaguely familiar about her, but she’s not the sort that runs with dirty cowboys. Still, I try to place her as I watch her hold court over her group of friends.
Maybe she was a previous resort fling? It’s not something I’ve done often, but there’s a certain type of woman who likes a one-night vacation when they come to town. And occasionally, a night of no-strings-attached is a release of a too-tight valve for me.
But that doesn’t seem right about her.
She’s obviously the ringleader, loud and happy as the other women follow her cue. Hell, maybe it’s her birthday or she’s the bachelorette?
I scan the rest of the room, but as the women take to the floor to start dancing, she pulls my eye again. It’s not that I’m attracted to her, exactly. It’s that it’s irritating the hell out of me that I can’t figure out where I know her from.
Suddenly, it hits me.
It’s Lil Bit. But sure not looking like she was before in those dirty coveralls, steel-toed boots, and grease.
I take another appraising look at Automotive Barbie on the dance floor. I wouldn’t have thought Lil Bit’s hair was that long, but it’s brushing far down her back, almost to her ass. Her freckles, which I wanted to count earlier, are all but invisible in the thick makeup she’s got on. Her body’s tiny and tight, barely a curve to be seen, but she moves with womanly grace. At least she is now when she’s not threatening my life with a wrench.
The difference is remarkable.
At the shop, she’d been all-business and snappy like a rabid raccoon. Now, she’s flirty and girly. But the idea jolts something inside me other than my cock.
I think I prefer the way she was before when she was about to take my head off. I can’t help but watch, fascinated at the difference.
