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Upon entering the local watering hole, I walked over to the bar, where Bailey was standing with the others laughing uncontrollably.
“What’s going on?” I yelled over the atrocious singing while patrons yelled and hollered for the singer to continue.
Whoever was singing needed to stop immediately.
They were awful.
Scribe stood behind the bar, whistling, waving his white dishrag in the air as my brother raised his beer in salute. Bailey held her stomach, trying to stop laughing while she pointed toward the stage, past Skylar who was recording the scene on her phone, chuckling.
Turning, I spotted Frank on the stage, singing Kenny Chesney’s ‘She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy’.
“OH. MY. GOD.”
“We got the call a little bit ago,” Henley snickered, shaking her head. “Scribe called us and told us we needed to get down here fast. Apparently, Frank’s been drinking all day.”
“Why?” I cringed when Frank hit a high note that sounded like a dying cat.
Dear God, someone take that damn microphone away from him.
And that was when I remembered singing that very song while I rode his magnificent dick as he plowed my field.
The crowd roared when the song came to an end.
Turning to Scribe and my brother, I growled, “What the hell did you two idiots do?!”
“We did what you said.” My brother laughed heartedly, then snapped a pic of his brother making a fool of himself.
“What? What did I say?”
“Frank said you told him to get drunk so he can remember.” Scribe chuckled. “And boy, does the big man like his Long Island iced teas. He drank twelve of them!”
“I never told him to get drunk. I just said the possibilities were endless. How could you let him drink that much?”
“Hey,” Scribe scoffed. “I’m just the bartender. My buddy wants a drink. I’m getting him a drink.”
“You’re useless,” I groaned, walking away from the laughing hyenas, women included. Pushing my way through the throngs of people, I finally made it to the stage where King, Gunner, and the rest of the brothers were laughing their asses off.
“Do something!” I shouted at them just when a new song came over the speakers. Instantly everyone shouted as Frank started shimmying and swinging his hips to Tim McGraw’s, ‘I Like It, I Love It.’
Seeing that none of the brothers were going to help, I jumped onto the stage, trying to take the microphone away from him, only for him to pull me into his strong embrace, yelling, “Hey, everyone. It’s my dream girl!”
“WOOHOO!” The crowd cheered, whistled, and catcalled.
“Sing with me, baby,” he drawled.
Rolling my eyes, I shook my head and he continued to sing the song. He clung to me, dancing me around the stage. When that song was over with, I snagged the microphone from him and said for all to hear, “Shows over, folks.”
“Aw,” several people moaned as the crowd slowly dispersed. Dropping the mic, I looked up at Frank. “Come on, Frank. Let’s get you some coffee.”
He grimaced. “Don’t like coffee.”
“Everyone likes coffee. Coffee is great. Coffee will help to get you sober.”
“Don’t want to be sober. Want to find my little rabbit.”
I stiffened.
Shit.
