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Bumping her hip, I say, “You, because you love me.”
“I do love you, but your recklessness infuriates me.”
“I’m not reckless. I’m just free from the chains of expectations.”
Her eyes roll. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be lying to everyone about what you’re really up to out here.”
“La, la, la,” I singsong with my fingers in my ears. “I can’t hear you.”
I dance around her, sticking my tongue out, and laugh when she mimics me.
“Don’t you do it,” she hisses when we spot a group of girls climbing on top of the bar with the help of a few beefcakes.
I mimic my best Gene Simmons’ tongue skills, and with a confident sway of my hips, I head toward a man with a deep complexion and biceps thicker than my thighs.
Carrie may be the daughter my father’s most proud of, but trouble always was my bestie, and she never turns me away.
I spin, letting the burly man help me up beside the young twenty-somethings. They giggle when the song changes to Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell,’ and one of them even reaches back, grabbing the belt loops of my retro style jeans and yanking me into her.
Lights flash all around us and a crowd has gathered in front of where we’re dancing, and despite it all, I love that Carrie’s voice sounds above the excitement, cheering me on.
My hips move in time with the beautiful woman in front of me as she bounces her ass around. Laughter peals from my chest, and when the bartender hands us all a free shot, I happily toss it back.
“Whoo!” I spin off on my own, letting the girls have their fun while I strum an air guitar along with Billy.
My hair mats at my neck and sticks to my forehead when I whip it around and then drop to my knees. The crowd beats on the countertop, whistling and singing, and I disappear in the noise.
I let it consume me so thoughts of being a failure can’t resurface; thoughts of Logan reappearing in my life—and me being unbearably, achingly lonely while pretending I’m not—can’t drag me under a tide of despair.
I imagine myself crushing them into paper balls before chucking them into the dark void that’s become my ‘do not enter’ zone. It gobbles them up happily, except for one ball that it spits back. When it unravels at my feet, Logan’s name is written in bright red ink, and my eyes pop open.
I’m out of breath by the time the song hits the bridge, and rising to my feet proves more difficult than I anticipated. I wobble, a lot, and just like in Cabo, my foot slips and I go flying off the bar.
I might scream, I might cry out for Mommy, who knows? The world is one big blur, and my last rational thought is, damn, I never got those hot wings.
A set of strong arms and a solid chest catch me before I crack my skull against the floor. The man grunts but holds steady as I get my bearings. Lights flash across the ceiling, and I blink twice just to be sure I’m not dead, but like the title of the next song, the alcohol in my stomach is ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door’.
People nosily crowd us, but the man holding me waves them off, and they make like roaches and split. Wait, that’s not right. They scatter like bananas.
“Yup, that’s the one,” I confirm aloud.
“What the hell are you doing, Pen?”
I go utterly still at the sound of my name rumbling from the man still holding me. Piercing blue eyes meet mine, stealing every word from my tongue but his name. “Logan.”
Dammit, is this what I have to look forward to from now on? Him popping up all over my city—making himself welcome in places he doesn’t belong.
“Are you hurt?” He’s all scowly and grumbly, acting like he’s in charge of what I do and where I dance, and I don’t like it one bit.
Observing the scrap of silk that I’m calling a top, his gaze darkens. “You’re not wearing a bra.”
I squirm, trying to get away from him before I do something stupid, like let him put his hands where his eyes easily fall. “Thanks for noticing, Captain Obvious. Now put me down.”
He releases me immediately, and there’s that dumb—albeit, sexy—smirk of his coming out to play. “Nice moves, by the way.”
I fold my arms across my hardening nipples when his scorching stare snakes down my body. He’s not half-bad looking himself, not that I’d give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
“I wasn’t actually falling, you know. It was a carefully constructed, and well-thought-out, leap… of sorts.”
