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“Hey, Bob.” Heidi walked to the bar and laid her hand on my shoulder. “Len, I need two raspberry margaritas and an amaretto sour.”
“What the—”
Heidi laughed raucously. “Len, you know I’m joshing you. A rye and two Scotches.”
Len poured the drinks, and Heidi ambled away.
“Bob?” Joe said to me.
“Don’t ask.”
“You and her?”
“No. Well…almost. But no.”
“I’ve known you most of your life, Bryce, and I’d have bet my entire ranch that she’s not your type.”
“She’s not.”
“Then—”
“I was looking for a fuck, okay? Christ.”
“But you just said—”
“Right. And I changed my mind. Obviously.”
“She’s got a hot body. I’ll give her that.”
“Yeah. But she smokes dope, and she’s not…”
“Not what?”
Not your sister. Nope, couldn’t say that.
“Not my type, like you said.”
“How long has it been for you, man?”
“A while. I have a baby, remember? Wait until Melanie gives birth. The sex’ll go way down.”
“I doubt it.”
“You’ll have to stay away from her for six weeks after birth anyway.”
“I know.” He grinned. “We’ll make do.”
Oh, man. TMI again. I didn’t want to think about the bondage things he did to his therapist wife.
Joe signaled the bartender—Len, apparently—and got us two more drinks. He looked down the bar. Mike had left, so we were free to talk.
“I talked to Melanie last night about Rohypnol and its effects.”
“What? How did you bring that up without saying anything about this?”
“I said I’d read an article in the Post about date rape.”
“She bought that?”
