B. like a blow. He froze, paralyzed by the curve of her mouth, her breasts, her hips. Lord, she was gorgeous. His mood soared once more. It wasn't every day a man's son returned home. It wasn't every night he could share his pleasure in it with the sexiest woman he'd ever seen, even if she spent most of the evening on the other side of the bar. Mentally he threw off the last of his looming disquiet.
"Why not another?" he said. "A martini for me, another beer for Red. Hell, a round for the house. I'm celebrating." He grinned as the room erupted in a cheer.
The next martini went down in a slow, warm glow. Everyone in Bum Luck was jolly, a free drink a welcome end to the evening. Dylan's name came up over and over, along with retellings of his most memorable exploits. One of the men at the bar claimed to have taught Dylan his baseball swing, and another his forward pass. D. B. just smiled. The entire town had always taken credit for his son, reveling in Dylan's accomplishments, but D. B. didn't resent it. On the contrary, it only made him prouder.
"Another, Judge? Last call." Samantha was standing before him again, looking like a wet dream a middle-aged man like himself shouldn't remember.
He shook his head, curling his hands together to keep from reaching out and stroking the round, tempting curve of her rear end. "Two's plenty for me, thanks." Usually he stuck with one, afraid to press his luck by letting his inhibitions loose.
She was lingering beside him again, and he smiled, enjoying her out-of-the-ordinary nearness. Little tendrils of blond hair had escaped her temples to caress her faintly flushed cheeks. D. B. imagined himself touching those tendrils, then pulling her hair completely free of its confines to let it fall on her naked shoulders.
The ends wouldn't quite reach her breasts. They would be bared to his gaze and he would put his palms on her curving hips and draw her toward him. Draw her breasts toward his mouth.
As if she could read his mind, Samantha's breath suddenly caught. "I - I have to start cleaning up," she said, stepping back.
D. B. just barely stopped himself from preventing her retreat. Instead, he leaned back in his chair to savor the last drops of his martini.
Samantha moved gracefully around the room, retrieving empty glasses and wadding paper napkins. Though she bade a friendly good-night to each customer, she never lost her cool reserve.
In another fifteen minutes the barstools were empty. Red left too, assuring D. B. that he was walking home instead of driving. A foursome of young men in the corner booth argued good-naturedly over who would pay their tab. They finally settled it with an arm-wrestling match, breaking two beer mugs but netting Samantha reimbursement and a big tip.
D. B. slid lower in his seat, unwilling to stir himself. He rested his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. The young men left and he hoped they were walking as well, but he knew by now that Samantha was very careful about her patrons. She wouldn't let anyone leave the place with his keys in hand if the situation seemed dangerous.
Over the past few months, he'd come to realize she knew drinkers, and more, she knew men.
He thought he heard the sound of her locking the front door. He should move. Get up, take his martini glass to the bar. Something. But instead, he sat there, basking in the satisfaction of a good day and a pleasant evening.
All over the world, men his age were having midlife crises. They felt useless or used up or disappointed in what had become of their lives. They asked themselves what the meaning of it all was. More than one of his friends had been floored by the feelings.
D. B. didn't know if he was there yet or if he'd somehow bypassed that dirty trick that age could play on a man. While seeing his grown son could have made him feel old, he'd felt happy instead. Maybe he'd failed Dylan somewhere in the past, but now, perhaps, man to man, he could make amends. That was one of the blessings of being at this stage in life - dealing exclusively with adults.
A beguiling organ riff tumbled from the bar's speakers, followed by the shivery cymbal-drum-cymbal back-beat of The Doors' "Light My Fire." His eyes still closed, D. B. was instantly caught