Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
The scruffy faced male behind the bar shoots me a smirk at the same time he pulls down on the tap handle. “Troff.”
“I want two of everything on the specials sheet-”
“Alright.”
“A seven and seven with mint-”
“Nee must be here.”
“And Wilcox. Top shelf. One ice cube.”
He pours the excessive foam from the top of the beer while shaking his head. “Dubs was dumped again, huh?”
“Yup.”
“When will the guy fuckin’ learn,” murmurs our classmate prior to topping off the glass and sliding it over to the patron.
Irony of course being that he himself denies the one woman he’s had eyes for since she divorced our high school football coach and took over the salon across the street four years ago.
Why?
Because she’s older than him.
And that’s somehow “wrong”.
Not to me.
I don’t give a fuck about the years between us as long as you’re old enough that it ain’t a crime and young enough that if I smack you on the ass during sex, it’s not considered elder abuse.
I’m pretty flexible.
On and off the ice.
Again…I would point out his hypocrisy if I couldn’t already feel the back of Grams slipper leaving pain on my ass.
Woman’s got a helluva wrist.
Pretty sure it’s where I get it from.
“What’s with the first part of the order?” Moose inquires after wiping sweat off of his beached tanned forehead. “You lose a bet or somethin’?”
“Nope. Jus’ tryin’ to show this beauty beside me a good time.”
At that, she lightly snickers.
Scoots closer.
Brushes her foot against mine.
In spite of the fact that I logically know the shit is innocent, my cock doesn’t.
But fuckme, do I wish it did because I don’t need half the town seeing me sporting lumber in the wild.
“You ain’t gotta give her alcohol poisonin’ for that to happen,” Moose jokes at the same time he grabs our first pair of glasses. “You ain’t that shitty to be around sober.”
“Thanks, asshole.”
“Anytime.”
More giggles get my mind spinning before she investigates, “Good friends?”
“We grew up together.”
“So, you grew up around here.”
“Yup.” Our eyes momentarily meet. “You didn’t.”
Her smile remains during her headshake. “I did not.”
“I know,” playfully leaves me. “We would’ve been married already if you had.”
The sound more beautiful than a sold-out crowd during a shut out reaches my ears yet again as she sweetly asks, “Do you always just…say…whatever you’re thinking?”
“I just say whatever’s my truth.” This time a mixture of a hum and sigh escapes prompting me to turn my attention to the bartender. “There’s a guaranteed hundo in your tip jar if you keep my orders a bit more of a priority.”
“Make it two.”
Chuckles bouncing my entire frame are attached to me reaching for my wallet. “You shakin’ me down?”
“You can afford it.”
“Not the point.”
“Keep talkin’ shit, and I’ll push for three,” Moose teasingly pokes while muddling the mixture of bitters and sugar in each of the glasses.
“This is extortion.”
“Can you spell extortion, Troff?”
The jab precedes me flashing him my middle finger and shoving two-hundred-dollar bills into the nearby jar.
“And don’t make me remind you that was for priority service.” He winks, tosses the tool to the side, and grabs a bottle of Wilcox to add to the glass. “That two hundo does not cover your regular services.”
I shove my wallet back into my pocket on a mirthful, “Noted.”
“Okay,” my future wife’s fingers curl adoringly around my bicep, unknowingly causing my cock to swell all over again, “so what’s he making, first?”
“Old fashions,” I reply more breathless than intended.
“Sugar. Bitters. Whiskey. And…” Moose plops solid chunks in each, “an ice cube.”
“Topped with an orange twist,” my explanation is given in tandem with the action being completed, “and a cherry.”
“Luxardo Maraschino Cherries,” informs our bartender upon his delivery. “Little trick of the trade I learned at a dive bar when I was visitin’ a friend in the mitten.”
“That’s a place?” Curiously croaks the woman still warmly clutching onto me.
“Michigan,” we answer in unison.
“Look at that,” she cheekily comments and reaches for the glass closest to her, “a mixology and geography lesson.”
“You are never too old or too skilled to learn somethin’ new.” Lifting my own drink is accompanied by finding her gaze again. “Words I live by.”
We exchange warm grins, clink our drinkware, and indulge in a sip.
Familiar tastes of smooth whiskey being mellowed by dashes of sweetness play pond hockey across my tongue; however, the sudden, harsh, open mouth gagging, from the first timer at my side have the game ending.
Immediately.
“You okay?!” leaves me in the concerned tone I typically only reserve for two people in my life.
“It burns!”
“What the fuck did you give her, Moose?!”
Mirth can’t be kept out of his tone, “An old fashion.”
“It’s like drinking fire,” she complains, head whipping rapidly side to side, curls clipping me in the eye. “And brimstone. And night terrors.”
“So um,” rubbing away the minor sting occurs in between light laughs, “you don’t like whiskey, aye?”