knew we were too young to get married, but it didn’t mean I didn’t want to. I did, but I knew she wouldn’t. I knew she’d freak. But instead of slipping that small gold band with an eternity symbol on her finger, I got slapped in the face. Not literally. Although, I wish I had. That would’ve been easier to take.
Shaking my head to clear the memories, I turn my gaze to the red head down the bar and notice there are now three empty shot glasses sitting in front of her and what looks like a margarita on the rocks in her hand. At least she’s smart enough to stick to one liquor.
Maybe she won’t be a problem.
Maybe she can handle more than one would expect.
More than her petite frame might insinuate.
Forcing myself to face forward, I watch a few more numbers. The crowd grows a little, a few people I’ve seen before and have started to notice as regulars. I’ve never thought much about strip clubs and the people who frequent them, but it’s interesting, that’s for sure.
Old men.
Young men.
Wealthy men.
Blue collar.
White collar.
And women.
All kinds.
There seems to be a little something for everyone.
Especially Candy, the girl who is currently on stage, dancing to Pour Some Sugar on Me, because … Candy. She really draws the crowd and the whistles. Noticing a few guys getting a little close to the stage, I push off the bar and take a few steps toward them, just in case.
“Yeah, baby,” one of them yells, counting out dollar bills as he holds his beer in the crook of his elbow. “Pour it on me!” When he gets a little off-balance trying to place the bills on the stage, his beer pours over the side of the glass and onto the guy who’s sitting at the table beside him.
When he stands up and puffs out his chest, I walk forward, placing myself between the two men.
“Hey,” I call out, getting his attention quick. “It was an accident.” I cock an eyebrow and motion for Sarah to bring the guy a towel. “How about a beer on the house?”
His nostrils flare and he glares at the other guy who’s still luring Candy with his sweaty bills. Finally, the song changes and she blows a kiss, waving over her shoulder about the time Sarah walks up with the towel. Dabbing at the man’s shoulder with a sweet smile, I finally see his anger start to ebb.
“How about her?” he asks with a wink to Sarah.
“She’s off the menu,” I inform, giving Sarah a roll of my eyes.
“I’ll take the beer then,” he says, settling back in his chair.
Sarah smiles and walks off to the bar, while I take the mostly empty beer glass from the guy by the stage. “How about you have a seat, buddy?”
“How about you don’t tell me what to do,” he says, before turning around and getting a glimpse of who he’s talking to.
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
“Have a seat,” I reiterate and he obliges.
Catastrophe averted, I turn to walk back over to my post at the bar when I see her. Tempest.
With a break in on-stage action, the house music is turned up and Crazy by Aerosmith is blaring over the speakers. And Tempest is now climbing onto the bar.
Onto the mother fucking bar.
For a second, I’m frozen in my spot … in place … in time … as she sways her body to the music, arms above her head. The blissful look on her face makes me not want to disturb her. She looks … happy. But I can’t let her dance on the bar.
That’s another one of Hank’s rules.
If you’re not a dancer, you don’t get a stage.
Walking over to her, I tap her leg, but she continues swaying and now she’s belting out the lyrics, her expression making me believe she’s feeling every word down to her toes.
“Hey,” I call up, loud enough to cut through the music.
Her eyes pop open and she frowns down at me and I see the glassiness, the tequila shining through. When she goes back to dancing, closing her eyes and blocking me out, I huff, bracing my hands on my hips.
The guys two seats down are now fully invested in the show she’s giving and I growl in their direction. I want to ask them what they’re looking at, but I know.
I see it.
I see her.
She might not be a Candy or a Fuchsia. There aren’t any double Ds. But she’s got