She slides them over the bar top toward the waiting patrons.
“Here you go, boys. Bottoms up.”
One of them drops a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. “Thanks, sweetheart. We’ll be back for more, so don’t go anywhere.” The gray-bearded man winks. He’s wearing a leather biker vest and has huge, bulging shoulders covered in tattoos, but the urge to shove him out of the way suddenly roars through me.
All right, chill out. She’s at work.
She smiles at him. The biker group takes the shots and moves down the bar. I move to take their place, but before I do, she turns around and starts tapping on the tablet register.
I’ve been with plenty of women, probably more than my fair share. But something about her Coke-bottle frame and the no-nonsense attitude she carries sends a tingle of awareness up my spine. She’s wearing tall black cowboy boots, which I know would look so damn good on my shoulders.
Sam steps up to my left side while Sterling sidles up on the right.
“Just wanted a change of scenery, hmm?” Sam asks.
“Only here for some special drink they offer, right?” Sterling muses.
I shrug, wrapping my arm around Sam’s shoulders. “What are you drinking? It’s your night.”
He peruses the backlit colorful bottles lined up on the wall. “Silver tequila with lime.”
“Seymour! Redford! How y’all doing?” a male voice calls out over the crowd, pulling Dallas’s attention from the tablet.
She spins, her eyes flashing when they land on me. She sets her jaw.
Sam and Sterling turn away to shake hands with the newcomers, but I keep my eyes on Dallas. She wets her pink lips and exhales before finally stepping up to the bar that separates us. Now that she’s closer to me, I can see the faint stretch marks on her stomach, probably from her twin pregnancy.
And I want to kiss every single one as I trail my lips down lower.
“What can I getcha?” she drawls, her Southern accent more pronounced than the last time I saw her.
“Hurricane shot.”
Her eyes cut to mine, widening.
“Oh, hell yeah!” A hand grabs my shoulder, tugging at me. “I heard Dallas is the best at those. I want one next.”
I turn to glare at Jesse, one of Sam’s friends. He used to be mine, too, up until this moment.
He stands about six inches shorter than my six-foot-three frame. He’s clearly already been drinking, and his body sways into the bar top.
“Fine. Jesse first. Fifty dollars. What kind of liquor?” Dallas says.
I grit my teeth and look back over at her, wondering why she would choose to let him go first.
She pulls a stool over to the bar and steps up onto it before sitting on the edge of the bar top with her legs on our side.
“I’ll take vodka,” Jesse says, rubbing his grubby hands together.
Another bartender with a red pixie cut hands her the vodka bottle and a glass of cold water.
I clench my fists and take a step back. Half the bar is tuned in to watch the show. Sam settles next to me, trying to hold back a laugh.
Dallas uses her finger to make a come-here signal to Jesse. He steps closer, right between her spread thighs.
I want to be sick, but I can’t stop watching. Dallassquares her shoulders, tilts her head back, and pours a generous amount of vodka in her mouth before leaning forward and spitting it into Jesse’s open mouth.
She grabs the cup of water, throws it right in his face, and slaps him so hard that the sound carries. His head jerks to the side, and this half of the bar goes quiet for a split second.
