Hmm. I might be drunk.
I can’t remember what bar this is. I just remember a sign that had a neon cowboy throwing a lasso around a woman’s leg, and I thought, That’s where I need to be.
The old guy’s not giving up, though. Julia moans a little in disappointment as I remove my hand. Gotta respect the man’s wishes. He moves away, finally.
“Relax.” I nibble at her exposed shoulder. “Plenty of time later.”
“You’ve got great stamina.” She winks at me. “Much better than my ex. He used to be only up for twice in one night. And the second time would always be too quick.” She huffs and bites into a lime wedge.
“Fucker didn’t know what he had,” I whisper, pulling her against me and kissing her. She tastes like lime and tequila; a potent combination. Her lips part, and I flick my tongue inside her mouth. Her groan makes me rise to half-mast.
Down, boy.
“He especially didn’t like it when I started making more money than him.” She sighs and pulls away, leaning her cheek against her hand. “Romance writing was fun and sexy when I was doing it on my own, making five hundred bucks every six weeks on Amazon. He liked it ’cause he got to work as my ‘research,’ and we got enough extra cash for nice dinners a couple times a month. He was fine with that part. But as soon as my agent picked me up, and my career took off? As soon as I was pulling in contracts worth a couple hundred thousand? Bye.” She throws back another tequila shot. “Suddenly I was a workaholic bitch who didn’t give him blowjobs anymore. And I did!” she cries, slamming her shot glass onto the bar. “I gave him plenty of blowjobs! I’m a giving human being.”
She hiccups. Still sexy.
“He’d get along great with my ex,” I grumble. Phoebe appears before my eyes again, in a haze of alcoholic wistfulness. I can almost feel her small waist in my hands again, her long, creamy leg hiking up around me. I haven’t missed her in a while—no, I haven’t allowed myself to miss her—but just now she comes roaring back into my brain. I can see her beautiful face again, full of judgment. Full of disappointment. “Nothing was ever good enough for her. No, nothing I did was good enough.”
“Why do women not notice a good thing when it’s right in front of them?” Julia says. She kisses me back, and my erection is reaching urgent status. I break off gently.
“She does now. She’s got her soul mate.” I put the word into air quotes. “They’re so in love. Met at a fucking Cubs game. The Cubs, for fuck’s sake! Is that a bad omen or what? They’ll never make it to the World Series, you know?”
“I know,” Julia says, nodding sagely, like what I said made perfect sense. Which it did. Because I’m awesome.
“He works in the sales department of an air conditioner manufacturing company something or other.” Who can focus on details at a time like this? I put my hand on Julia’s knee. God, her skin is so fucking soft. “She left her practice, you know? On track for a partnership in Chicago, top law firm, and she quits to run out to Nevada with some asshole she just met.” I raise my shot glass. “Here’s to Hank Jessup. Good thing he’s an air conditioner man in a desert; he will never run out of work.”
I down my drink. Julia gapes at me.
“Are you kidding me? She went all the way out to Vegas just to be with some guy she met at a baseball game?” Julia strikes her chest. “I write romance, and even I think that’s a pretty fucking stupid thing to do.”
“’Cause you’re smart.” I lean in, my vision wavering slightly, enjoying the sight of her splitting into two Julias. Two Julias are better than one. Tyler swore he’d get me a threesome while I was here; I won the jackpot, buddy. “You’re so fucking smart.”
“No, you’re so smarting fuck,” she whispers, then kisses me. This is a debate for the ages. Being drunk with a stranger is the best present I could’ve given myself. Thank you, Mike and Stacy. I hope you have lots of scorching hot honeymoon sex.
“If I could find your ex, I’d kick his ass all the way downtown,” I mutter against her lips. Not even sure that makes sense, but screw it. Screw everything.
Julia pulls away a little, a wry little smile quirking up her lips. “The feeling’s mutual,” she purrs, trailing her fingers along my jaw.
“I hate men who turn into mewling bitches because their wives make money,” I say, feeling my annoyance at whatever jackass she was married to rising. “Don’t give me shit about your fucking fragile masculinity. Get a better job, asshole. No one’s stopping you.”