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An hour later, a sedan was taking us west, along a lonely stretch of highway between Amherst and Boston.
“I hear this place is kind of rough,” I said, wedged between Connor and Ruby in the back seat while Weston sat up front with the driver.
“Nah, it’s great,” Connor said. “You’ll love it.”
Autumn
The car pulled into the dirt parking lot of Roxie’s; a ramshackle, white clapboard building. A single street lamp illuminated the peeling paint and faded red sign. Despite the late hour on a Tuesday night, a few other cars and trucks were in the lot. Country music poured out of the front door.
I thought it strange that the door was left open on such a cold night, until I stepped inside and was sucked into a pocket of smoky heat. In contrast to Yancy’s, this joint had one pool table and a sole dartboard, both deserted.
Connor clapped his hands. “Excellent. Wes, you rack ‘em. I’ll get us beers and shots.”
My eyes widened. “Shots?”
“Hell, yeah,” he said with a laugh. “You in?”
I bit my lip. Connor deserved to spend his last night before deployment however he wanted, but he was already loaded. Shots and beer would kill my chances to talk to him or be alone with him in a meaningful way.
Then again, sloppy, drunk sex would be the perfect capper on whatever relationship this is.
Screw it. No Drakes were here to judge. Getting drunk was the way to kill the horrible unease twisting in my gut.
“I’m in,” I said.
“You sure about this?” Weston asked me, as the four of us lined up our tequila shots, salt and lime. “Tequila isn’t pear cider.”
“I got this.”
Ruby held up her glass. “To Connor and Weston,” she said. “For answering the call of duty.”
“Actually,” Weston said, “Connor picked up the phone to personally call duty and ask if it needed anything, but your toast works too.”
We laughed and downed our shots. I sucked the lime as if my life depended on it, and willed my stomach not to throw the liquor back up. I won the battle and everything suddenly felt warm and loose.
We played pool, laughed, and drank beer between shots. Tequila gave me a rather pleasant, underwater feeling, but I held myself to two slugs and drank plenty of water. Still, the floor kept tilting this way and
that under my feet, and I went from hysterical giggling to morbid brooding. No middle ground whatsoever.
Ruby and I sat on stools, watching Connor and Weston play. They talked shit, laughed and ragged on each other mercilessly. Chris Isaac’s “Wicked Game” came over the jukebox, and the night finally settled into a mellow warmth.
“Okay, this works for me,” Ruby said, as Connor and Wes stripped off their dress shirts, leaving them in jeans and wife-beaters. “Holy God, I think all men should be required to report to Boot Camp if this is the result.” She nudged my arm. “Look at your man.”
I blearily looked up and found Weston.
Oh my God, his arms alone…
That lean physique was honed to perfection. Sweat beaded the tanned skin of his chest and glistened in the hollow of his throat. I followed the cut and defined lines of his shoulder down to his forearm as he bent to take a shot over the pool table.
That’s not your man.
The thought sobered me more than it should have.
At two a.m., Roxie’s closed and we staggered out to the sedan and the waiting driver. Weston helped Connor who was hardly able to stand. We piled into the car and Connor’s head lolled to the window.
The entire ride back, no one spoke. Ruby dozed on my shoulder and Weston faced straight forward in the front seat, not looking back once.
Back at the Drakes, we poured Connor out of the car. He stumbled and swayed up the walk, an arm slung around Weston’s shoulders.
