She continued to talk and laugh with her friends, swaying where she stood. It's a miracle she didn't fall over in those heels while she was so obviously trashed. Her friends seemed to be just as ensnared by her as I was. They listened intently as she spoke, and laughed hysterically when she stopped. I had no idea what they were talking about, but if her overly-animated hands and loud cackles coming from the group were any indication, it was one hell of a story.
A few minutes later, they started pointing out men and women alike as they walked by. They were rating the men on a one to ten hotness scale and bashing the women’s clothing choices. I could tell they thought they were being quiet and sneaky, but everyone in the room who had less than fifteen drinks could hear every word they said. The three women finally paused their scrutinizing eyes on the man across the bar, and judging by their smiles and boob adjustments, they were definitely interested. Lucky bastard. I needed to make my move soon before he had the chance to make good on the eye-fuck he was throwing their way. Tossing back the rest of my beer, I decided it was time to hit the bar.
It's just my luck the one night I decided to go out without my boys, I met a living, breathing, wet dream in heels. Women tend to run in herds, never straying far from each other. Fortunately for us, men work best as part of a team. One man approaching a group is difficult, but not impossible. I had to be smooth, or that group of piranhas would eat me alive. I needed to go over there, charm them all, and then ride off into the sunset with my leggy blonde. Well, her riding me until the sunset sounded like a much better option. But I was probably getting a little ahead of myself. I cracked my neck, shaking out my arms like some sort of prize fighter, as I found the only positive I could see about this situation—at least I didn’t have to argue with the boys over dibs.
"CAN I buy you ladies a drink?" I ask when I get close to the three girls huddled together. Real smooth, jackass! I'm sure they've never heard that one before. I mentally chastise myself.
"Nope," says the shortest of the bunch as she turns around ignoring me.
This is definitely not the usual response I get when I approach women. I'm not completely sure if she even looked at me before rejecting my offer. I'm a good looking guy. I won't pretend I don't know it. I'm 6'5" with brown hair and green eyes. I work out and take care of myself. All that shit women are supposed to like. I don't dress like the normal t-shirt clad douche bags you usually see in this club either. Tonight I'm wearing dark jeans, a button down royal blue fitted shirt, black belt and boots. It's not my best outfit, but seriously Miss Shorty Shoot Down would be lucky to even get my attention.
I stand there for a minute, shocked by the rejection and trying to figure out a new plan of action. I refuse to walk away. Jerry Jerkoff from across the bar is not getting anywhere near my Red Dress.
"Hey, you're tall!" I hear slurred from beside me. Turning, I come face to face with one of the sexiest women I have ever seen, and the newest member of my mental spank bank.
"So are you," I reply into her ear so she can hear me over the music. I toss her a mischievous smile when I lean away, just so there is no mistaking that I'm interested.
"No, I mean you are reallllly tall." She sways backwards, making a dramatic show of craning her neck to look into my eyes.
I laugh nodding my head to agree with her assessment, while she grabs her friends squealing, "Y'all look how tall this guy is." I squeeze my eyes shut and adjust my pants as I hear the sweetest southern accent roll off my drunken beauty's tongue.
"Hi, I'm Brett," I extend my hand out to her friend.
"Hi, I'm Regina Phalange," Shorty says, grabbing my hand.
"And I'm Anastasia Beaverhousen. Anastasia, as in the Russian royal princess. Beaverhousen, as in the house a beaver lives in." They all double over in fits of laughter.
"Right. Of course you are. So that would make you...?" I ask my girl when she finally stands back up and tries to wipe invisible tears from under her eyes.
"Oh God, I'm sorry about them. They have been drinking since noon, I swear. I'm Danika. Just Danika," she says without a single slur. Interesting. Maybe she isn't as drunk as I first thought.
"Well, Danika, can I buy you and your drunk friends a drink?"
"Sure...wait! Are you planning to drug any of us?" she asks in mock seriousness.
"Well, it wasn't the plan. But if you happen to have any drugs on you, I'd be happy to drop them in your drink when you aren't looking."
"Nah, I'm good. I roofied myself last weekend and it wasn't all that fun. I'll just take the drink," she jokes.
"Totally understandable," I nod, playing along.
"What do y'all want to drink? Brett here is buying this round," she yells over her shoulder to her friends. "Oh forget it, they can't hear me. Just get us a Corona, Sex on the Beach, and a shot of tequila."
I flag down the bartender to order, adding a beer for myself. As I wait for the drinks, I alternate between chatting with the girls and staring down Jerry Jerkoff from across the bar.
"So which one is yours?" I ask as our drinks are placed on the bar in front of us.