When she comes down the steps, she's met by a cute man waiting for her and she freezes. He says something, and she says something back. Then he opens his arms, and she leans into his embrace. A moment later, he lays one hell of a kiss on her.
The emcee says, "Peacock is next."
Relieved my name wasn't called, I thread my way to Mona to meet her man. When I arrive, they are both all smiles. "Sam, I would like you to meet Tom."
"I'm her boyfriend." He interjects, cutting her off.
"Oh!" My surprise shows on my face. I didn't realize she had a man in her life.
He clarifies, "I've been a shit, but I apologized."
"Well, congratulations on manning up and recovering a good woman." I laugh with them, winking at Mona. "I guess that means I'm on my own tonight."
She nods, hugging his arm tight to her chest, staring into his face with so much love. The sight makes my heart hurt for my own lonely existence.
"You two have fun," I wish them well. "I've got to get some liquor courage before they call my name. Otherwise, I'll bomb big time!"
The crowd is packed in here like sardines. I thrash my boney elbows to clear my path. Gosh darn it! If they get bruised, I'll have to wear long sleeves next week job hunting. Not a good look for late August. They'll think I'm hiding track marks and will require a drug test.
Multiple scenarios pop into my head of me hovering over a toilet seat, trying to pee in a little teeny tiny cup. One has me missing the cup entirely, drenching my hand. Then wetting the long sleeve my bruised elbows forced me to hide. In another, I squirt so hard I blast the cup out of my fingers, and it lands in the toilet bowl, where it sinks to the bottom, settling in the cave drain line precisely. Forcing me to get my damn sleeve wet diving in to retrieve it because I can't flush the toilet with the drain hole plugged. A vision of the toilet overflowing caps off my nightmare vision of drug testing.
Why don't they give women cups large enough to cover our vulvas?
Jostled hard in the back, I break out of the scrum next to the bar, directly behind two big body-builder-type dudes watching the baseball game. I straighten my dress. Slim the hiked-up fabric down over my ass. Take a deep breath. Relax my shoulders. Set my psyche into 'fearless' mode, aka bold brat, and insert myself between them, intruding into their personal space.
I flash a quick smile full of the warmth of my southern charm to the beast on my left glaring down at me. His scowl is frightening, but I'm all in for the win.
Playing into the assumptive close that he won't eject me, I raise my hand to flag down a bartender for service and lean across the countertop, propping up on my forearm. My boobs plop over it and splay slightly onto the bar.
His eyes drop to view my smashed tits bulging out of my neckline, trying to decide if he's going to remove my sassy rude ass or not. I smile, flirting, hoping I won't be ejected from my holding pattern until I can order my drinks.
Mr. Frowny Face glances up at Beefcake Number Two, nods, and returns to watching the Yankees game. Totally ignoring me now.
I sneak a peek at The Boss's mirrored reflection behind the stacks of liquor bottles, and what I see causes confusion. While my erogenous zones come alive, singing, "Hallelujah," my lips pucker, then press together in a chaste line.
Ball cap, backward —Hallelujah.
Rudely looking my body up and down—Chaste line. Hang on….Licks his lips —Hallelujah.
In my enthusiastic attempt to garner the bartender's attention, I wiggled a little too enthusiastically, causing my hem to slide way too far up on my hips. My fanny is on display —and Mr. Blatantly Bold is getting an eyeful of my exposed posterior —Chaste line. But at least he isn't leering.
He sneaks a peek of my mirrored reflection, and my breath hitches in my throat.He is beautiful.
Perfectly straight, white teeth flash their bleached brilliance from behind gorgeously sculpted full lips as a slow, sexy as fuck, smile creeps across his face—Hallelujah.
His features are balanced and chiseled, with a straight nose and a square jawline with an unshaven scruff. The tuft of thick black hair sticking out of the hole at the clasp of his ball cap is dark but not black. He has straight brows framing long black lashes so full I squint, wondering if he uses eyeliner.
I meet Mr. Blatantly Bold's … scratch that … Mr. Boldly Beautiful's eyes, and an instant hot flush spreads over my face and down my body. —Hallelujah.Okay, now he's leering.
The lust on his face sends another strong surge of electricity through my erogenous zones. Everything comes alive and sings with joy. I know I should respond with indignation, but to be honest, looking is free, and I set myself up.
Besides, every woman's fantasy is to be looked at like this by a man so incredibly handsome. At least that's their fictional fantasy. My first job reading romance manuscripts at Hartman & Hartman Publishing House testified to that fact.
But this is really happening. He is a real testosterone-fueled man. Maybe I should reposition. What if he's a red-flag guy? The way he licked his lips while he was staring at my booty, he may have been fantasizing about spanking me.
My tongue finds its way into my cheek as the feminist in me decides how to handle this. I look down the bar for another place to insert myself. But there isn't one, and I'm too short to be able to get the attention of a bartender.
I'm stuck here. I need the liquor courage to stave off my stage fright. I have to be my fearless self in front of the crowd. I must give a winning performance. It's imperative I win that $2,000 because my rent is due, and I lost my job today. Without a drink, I'll bomb. I'm already here. I'll stick it out.
