Misunderstandings (20 page)

“You okay, slick?” Brittni asked, really looking at me for the first time since I’d entered the bathroom.

“Fine,” I answered, moving my eyes from the slow-rolling floor.

“She’s buzzing,” Tressa crowed, taking in my glassy eyes and flushed cheeks.

“I sure am.” I cracked up, not entirely sure why I found it so funny.

“Are you sure you’re up for this, you lightweight?” Brittni asked, placing her hands on my shoulders so she could study me critically.

“I’m fine, Mom,” I teased. “I just decided to take the liquid courage route.”

“So, you’re going through with it?” she asked, looking worried.

“Duh, that was the plan,” Tressa chastised.

“I know, but I thought she’d chicken out,” Brittni retorted like I wasn’t even there.

“Hey, standing right in front of you,” I said, waving my hands exuberantly in front of them like I was trying to land a plane or something to that effect. “Besides, I have to do it, it’s on my list,” I pointed out.

“Right, it’s on your list. I still think it’s ridiculous for someone our age to have a bucket list.”

“I told you a million times. It’s for a study I’m doing for the master’s program I’m hoping to get into,” I lied, smiling brightly at her. “It’s a study on living life to its fullest in a limited time frame.”

“So you’ve said a hundred times. I just think a study on males that have the best pecs or dreamiest eyes would have been more productive.”

“That’s so cliché and overdone. Having a nice six-pack
usually translates to ‘conceited asshole,’” I answered, sweeping the lip gloss Tressa handed me across my lips. “Thanks,” I told her, handing the wand back. I tried not to focus on the irony of my new friends having no qualms about sharing their makeup with me. Back home, most people refused to touch anything I had touched. They were all assholes. What I had wasn’t contagious.

“You better get back out there before Mr. Blue Balls thinks you ditched him,” Tressa interrupted, giving my back a light shove toward the bathroom door. “Text us if he turns out to be an asshole.”

“And make sure he bags his junk,” Brittni piped in.

Giggling at their advice, I twisted around before exiting the bathroom and threw my arms impulsively around both their necks. “I love you guys,” I said, knocking their heads together from my exuberance.

“Okay, we love you too,” Brittni complained, trying to extract my arms.

“Yep, she’s toasted,” Tressa commented, rubbing her head where it had knocked against Brittni’s.

“Maybe we should hang around to make sure she doesn’t embarrass herself,” Brittni mused.

“No way, you guys promised,” I reminded them. “If I’m doing this, I’m going in without a safety net.”

“Fine, but your scrawny ass better text us first thing tomorrow morning, or we’re sending out the armed forces to take down Mr. Seximist,” Brittni warned, giving me a quick hard hug.

“Don’t worry, Brit, he looks harmless enough. Besides, I’ve
taken at least twenty pictures on my phone. We’ll nail that bastard’s ass to the wall if he hurts her,” Tressa said from behind me as I pushed open the bathroom door.

“Don’t worry, my head will make a beautiful mantelpiece,” I threw over my shoulder as I sashayed across the room toward the bar.

“Hey, stranger,” I said, boldly sliding onto my bar stool.

“Whoa there,” Mr. Hotness said as my ass misjudged the middle of the seat and teetered on the edge, making the legs of the stool wobble. Hotness reached over and grasped my arm to steady me.

“You’re hot.”

“Why thank you,” he said chuckling.

“I mean, your hands are hot . . . no, I mean, your touch is hot . . . shit. Never mind,” I mumbled as he chuckled next to me.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been called hot, sweetheart.”

“Vanity isn’t a virtue,” I pointed out, picking up the shot glass that had magically filled itself in my absence. “So, what do you do, Mr. I Know I’m Hot?” I asked, realizing that in all our flirting we’d neglected to exchange names.

“Nathan,” he answered, holding out his hand for me to shake.

“Ashton,” I parroted as his hand engulfed mine. His touch was sure and sensual at the same time, making my poor hand feel bereft once he let go.

“I’m a freelance journalist.”

“Freelance journalist? What does that entail?” I asked, intrigued.

“Lots of traveling and a knack for being able to dig out the truth. I’ve been fortunate enough to be able to pick my assignments,” he answered, turning on his bar stool to face me. His knees knocked against mine, which my body was keenly aware of as our legs settled, intimately touching each other. “I’m actually on my way to my next assignment. What about you?”

“Right now, I’m working at Smith’s General Store over on the corner of Main and Stetson,” I answered defensively, waiting for his judgments. I didn’t bother to mention the barely dried ink on my BA in human psychology, or the fact that up until four months ago, I had been planning my internship at the local hospital back home. Those were need-to-know facts that he didn’t need to know.

“I think I met the owner when I arrived today. Fran, right? She’s quite an old card,” he replied warmly, surprising me.

“Yeah, she is. Don’t let her age fool you. She’s sharper than people a quarter of her age. That store has been in her family for more than a hundred years. Each generation it’s passed down to the next. Fran should have passed it down like fifteen years ago, but she claims hell will freeze over before she allows her ‘sniveling, no-good, lazy nephew to run it into the ground.’ She says she reckons she’ll stay until she breathes her last breath or her nephew finally decides to man up. She says she won’t be holding her breath on the latter . . .” I rambled on. Obviously, the multiple shots had turned my tongue into a nonstop chattering mess.

“That sounds like the person I met,” he said, chuckling
softly. “So, have you lived here all your life?” he asked as Joe set another round in front of us.

Running my finger around the small base of the shot glass, I weighed his question, contemplating how I wanted to answer. “No. I moved here four months ago after my dad died,” I lied, giving him the standard answer I’d given everyone else when I moved to town.

“Really?” he asked, studying me critically.

I was slightly taken aback by his response. I’d been greeted with nothing but sympathy when I’d let the lie slip on previous occasions. I always felt a twinge of guilt over it, but knew in the end it was necessary. “It was quite sudden,” I answered defensively.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he replied, finally offering up the words that I had grown accustomed to hearing.

“Thanks,” I said, not sure if his sympathy was genuine. Maybe he really was some psycho who traveled through small towns collecting heads and storing them in his trunk. I sucked down the contents of my glass once again. My brain was teetering on the edge of remaining focused on the noticeably rock-hard pecs beneath his shirt and becoming drowned by the liquor party that was flowing through my bloodstream. My tongue became numb while the buzzing in my head intensified, making me wish I could rest it on the bar. I contemplated climbing up on the bar so I could lie down, but even that seemed like way too much work. Instead, I tried to focus on my last coherent thought, knowing it had something to do with my head.

“Are you going to put your trunk in my head?” I asked, finally able to make my tongue work.

“Excuse me?” he asked, amused.

“Wait. I mean, are you going to put your trunk in me?” I asked, though the question still seemed slightly off.

“Is that what the kids are calling it now?” he asked with open amusement.

“Wait. What did I say?” I asked, shaking my head in a feeble attempt to clear it.

“Well, darling, you asked if I was going to stick my trunk in you. Is that an invitation?”

“Well, shit. I meant, are you going to put my head in your trunk?” I asked slowly, making sure the word placement was correct.

“Just your head?”

“Unless you keep the whole body, but won’t your trunk get full if you keep the whole body?” I reasoned, pleased that I was able to form a coherent question even if it was related to my decapitation.

“I’m more a breast kind of guy,” he said, smirking.

Laughter bubbled up out of me. “So, your trunk is full of boobies?” I asked, giggling uncontrollably.

“Boobies?” he snorted. “I haven’t heard that word in like twenty years.”

“Twenty years? How old are you?” I asked, giggling again at the idea that my one-night stand would be with an old man.

“Twenty-nine. What about you?”

“Twenty-nine? That’s not old.”

“Who said I was old?”

“Didn’t you?” I asked, confused over why I had thought he was old.

“I only said I haven’t heard them called ‘boobies’ in twenty years. It’s actually closer to sixteen years, to be precise.”

“So, ‘boobies’ is a thirteen-year-old-boy word?” I snickered again, not surprised at all. I’d been known to crack up over word choices for years. It was official. I had the mind of a thirteen-year-old boy.

After that, the conversation took on a hazy quality as Nathan ordered more drinks. I lost track of what my thirteen-year-old mind said, but I was pretty sure I asked Nathan to put his trunk in me again, which was what I was going for before the booze messed it up.