She cooed, “Why the frown? You want a lap dance but don’t wanna wait in line?” She smiled and dragged a long red fingernail across her cle**age. “How about if I put a smile on that handsome face of yours, slick?”
“How much?” Dalton asked flatly.
“Twenty for a five-minute dance. Forty if you want me to face you and let you touch these.” She cupped her br**sts.
“Pass.”
“You sure?” she purred. “What these hips can do puts these girls’ lame moves to shame.”
“Pass,” he said again.
She might’ve muttered cheap bastard under her breath as she stomped away.
Truman laughed. “Well, you may not want them, but the strippers are still flocking to you.”
“Flocking,” he repeated with a laugh. “More like fleecing. Nothin’ more attractive than a drunk man with an open wallet.”
“Cynical.”
“I prefer to think of it as mature.”
Dalton had fun providing running commentary to Truman as they watched the strippers working the room. At one point they were laughing so hard a couple guys still in line gave them dirty looks.
After about an hour, Truman picked up his glass. “How can this be magically full again?”
Dalton squinted at the table in front of them after he saw a flash of green. Had that leprechaun chick been sneaking under the table and filling their glasses?
“What the f**k is in this drink?” Truman asked. “I swear I’ve had one and it feel like five. Shit. I’m buzzed.”
“Me too.”
Truman shoved the glass away. “Man. I gotta eat something and sober up. I’d never hear the end of it if I had to call my pregnant wife to haul my drunken ass home after a bachelor party.” He clapped Dalton on the shoulder. “Great seein’ you, McKay. I’m glad you’re sticking around.”
What? Wait. When had he said that?
Maybe he was drunker than he thought.
Used to be Dalton loved the happy buzz he got after several drinks. The happy place where he knew the people around him were his true friends. The happy place where he knew the women were laughing at his jokes because he was one damn funny man. The happy place where he knew he’d found his place.
But Dalton wasn’t feeling any of that now.
This wasn’t who he was anymore.
And he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here.
Dalton ducked out of the backroom and into the hallway. He had to close one eye because everything was so blurry. He slumped against the wall.
Fuck being drunk. He hated this. No f**king wonder he never did this stupid shit anymore.
He patted his pocket and found his cell phone. By holding his phone right up to his face he could sort of read the names. Selecting the one he wanted, he poked the Call button. “Hey. Sorry to do this to you but I’m at the Golden Boot and I’m really drunk and I need a ride so can you come and get me right now please? Thanks.”
He hung up and stumbled outside to wait for his ride.
The caller ID on Rory’s phone read Sierra. ’Bout damn time that little shit called her. Rory answered with, “Lemme guess; boy troubles.”
“Fuck off,” Sierra said by way of greeting. “I don’t only call you when I’ve got guy problems.”
“Do too.”
“Do not. Anyway, it’s not my guy that’s giving me problems. It’s yours.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I just got a phone call from Dalton. A very drunk Dalton. He’s at the Golden Boot and needs a ride home.”
Rory frowned. “Why would he call you in Arizona to give him a ride home in Wyoming?”
“He didn’t. And he didn’t let me speak. I’m thinking he meant to call you or Tell—since my name falls between yours and Tell’s in his phone.”
“Shit.”
“So go get ’em, sis.”
“I’m gonna kick his ass.” Rory slipped on her coat. “Dalton swore he doesn’t do this stuff anymore.”
“He doesn’t. So please don’t ream him.”
“I won’t. Unless he’s the drunken, belligerent Dalton I used to wanna punch in the face. Then all bets are off.”
“Rory—”
“I’m kidding.”
“If I remember correctly, you owe him a drunken ride home.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Sierra laughed. “But to really even things up, you’ve gotta sleep with him when he’s still slightly drunk and then be gone when he wakes up in the morning with a massive hangover.”
Not a bad idea. In fact, that was a great idea.
“I was kidding.” A pause. “No, you’re not seriously thinking of doing that, Rory.”
“Why not? He did it to me.” Twice. “See if he likes being used for sex and then discarded?” she volleyed back.
“Sista, please. Even back then it was more than sex between you and Dalton and you know it.” Sierra paused. “I think you both might’ve forgotten that there’s always been more between you two. Anyway, you aren’t a mean girl, a vindictive woman or a badass seeker of revenge.”
Her inner bad girl flipped Sierra off with both fingers and cranked up the Joan Jett tunes.
“But you aren’t a doormat either.” Sierra belted out the first three lines of I Will Survive and laughed hysterically.
“Thanks for nothing, little sis. Your pep talk sucked as much as your singing. And you still owe me a phone call where I can properly grill you for hours on boys, boozing and the rumors about the mysterious businesses you’re involved in.”
“Goddamned gossipy McKay family,” she grumbled. “Fine. I’ll call you next week. Later.” She hung up.
Rory had no idea what shape she’d find Dalton in when she reached the Golden Boot twenty minutes later. The parking lot was nearly full, forcing her to park at the far end of the lot.
The cold night air sliced through her as she walked around the corner to the front entrance. There he was, leaning against the building with his coat pulled up around his ears.
Dalton looked up at her approach. His smile…damn that smile of his. Even his drunken, lopsided grin was a sight to behold.
Kudos to herself for not morphing into a snarky bitch when she said, “Little too much liquid fun, McKay?” She jammed her hands in her pockets even when her fingers itched to smooth back his charmingly messy hair.
“My beautiful Rory. Thank you for comin’ to get me. I’m, ah, a little drunk.”