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“Cinch their balls,” I answer without thinking. Everyone laughs except for Battle, who shakes his head in annoyance. “What?”
Austin spits his beer, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “They don’t, but we got one of you girls to say balls. Old rodeo joke.”
Oh, great. The movie girl feeling returns. This is the scene where the popular guy and his friends punk the heroine for their own entertainment. I guess it’s not quite as dramatic as the movies. As least I’m not covered in mystery meat and cream-corn from the school cafeteria.
“Screw that,” JT says. “They do whatever it takes to get the bulls buckin’ and the gatemen enjoy fuckin’ with me.”
“Hey, language,” Cooper says. “We were askin’ the ladies if they saw us ride.”
“They saw,” Battle says in a clipped response. I snap my head around to him, but he still won’t look at me.
JT asks, “So, whady’all think?”
“We had a great time,” Marty answers.
After a few minutes, Ginger slides in between JT’s thighs with her butt to his crotch, Marty wedges into the group, attaching herself to Cooper’s side as she giggles with a pitch higher than most pre-teen girls. I stand alone in the aisle, hugging my beer to my chest like a security blanket.
We’ve reached that scene of the movie where the girl loses her best friend, or in my case, best friends. I don’t fit in here. Worse, I detest how awkward I feel. I’m upset with myself. I’ve always been ‘Wyatt’s girlfriend’ and without him, I have no idea who I am. Or where I fit in.
Battle’s eyes feel like they’re boring a hole into the side of my face. He’s finally taking an interest in me, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. He’s probably trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. By all appearances, I’m the awkward outcast of the group, the ugly duckling; only there’s little hope of me turning into a swan by the end of the night. I chug the remaining pint of beer, hoping if I get drunk enough, this night won’t totally destroy my self-esteem.
Battle makes a noise. When I turn to look at him, he shakes his head in a disapproving manner. I swear he’s silently warning me about drinking. Well, I have two words for Battle McCoy. “Fuck you!” Of course, I don’t actually say the words, because I’m a coward.
Instead of playing head games with Battle, I squeeze my body in between Scooter and Austin. If I’m stuck in thi
s dump for the night, I might as well have a little fun. They’re eager to make a sandwich out of me, apparently used to getting whatever scraps remain. Battle makes another sound; this one a strangled growl. I ignore him.
“Whatcha drinkin’, darlin’?” Scooter drawls, running his fingers through his dark brown hair.
“Shots!” I shoot Battle a look over Scooter’s shoulder. Our gazes clash. I guess I’m playing his game after all. Without pulling my eyes away, I say, “Jack D, straight up!”
“Hell ya!” Austin slams his palm into the deep wood bar. His light brown eyes twinkle with mischief as he winks at me. “Keeper,” he shouts, but a female customer holds the bartender’s attention at the other end of the bar. “Oh, nurse,” he sings and gestures with his hand this time. “Frank!”
The weathered barkeep looks up, grumbling, “What do ya want?”
“Three shot glasses and a bottle of Jack,” Austin answers.
Frank rolls his eyes. He makes his way slowly to the three of us, limping from a bad hip. I know this, because he complains about how much it bothers him as he approaches us. His eyes stay glued on mine as he sets the glasses and bottle of Jack on the bar loudly.
“Little lady, do you realize you’re askin’ for trouble?”
Now I’m annoyed. If a guy was askin’, he wouldn’t be sending him a warning. “Maybe you should ask these two jokers that question,” I say, jerking a thumb at Scooter and Austin.
Frank’s handlebar mustache lifts before he laughs a hardy belly laugh. “I like this one, fellas.” I smile as he pours our shots, adding an extra glass for himself. He lifts the shot in the air and says, “Here’s to the little lady. You boys have your hands full.” He drains the glass before moseying down the bar to the next group of patrons.
I clink glasses with Austin and Scooter before draining the shot like a pro. Jack Daniels tastes infinitely better than beer as it slides down my throat. I cast a glance over Scooter’s shoulder to Battle who speaks quietly, but with visible annoyance. Whatever he says has no effect on Scooter, who waves his hand over his shoulder without turning around.
My skin burns as the alcohol coating my blood begins to take effect. I talk a big game, but I’m a complete lightweight. Maybe if I’d bothered to do anything but study during college, I could handle more than a shot or two of booze.
As Austin pours another round of shots, my brain protests. Getting drunk with these guys goes against my better judgment. Conflict ensues in my thoughts as I don’t know how else to make this night easier. Screw it. I down the shot of Jack like one of the guys.
When Austin lifts the bottle from the bar, I seek escape, knowing another shot may obliterate all of my inhibitions. My eyes dart around, looking for Ginger or Marty. I find them on the dance floor. Perfect.
“Let’s dance, boys.”
“Oh, no,” Scooter shouts. “I don’t dance to this crap.”
I hadn’t been paying any mind to the music. “You don’t like country?” I ask.
