“That was a brilliant move on your part, by the way. I’ll never understand why any man would tie himself down to one woman when there’s so many to choose from.”
I don’t tell him it wasn’t my idea. That Jenny insisted on it after we talked—argued—when I was home for Christmas break. I don’t tell him the only reason I agreed is because the horny bastards in my hometown know Jenn is my girl, the mother of my daughter. I may only come home two or three times a year, but when I do I’ll happily rearrange the face of anyone who makes a move on her.
I also don’t tell him that I haven’t taken advantage of the new open-door policy in the five months since.
Not once.
Instead I explain, “I’ve never tried pickin’ up women in a bar before. I don’t know what I’d say.”
Drew chuckles. “You just drop a few y’alls, a few darlin’s—I got the rest covered.” He points at me. “One hour. Be ready.”
And he cruises out of my room.
? ? ?
Ninety minutes later, we walk into the Central Bar—a favorite student hangout. It has good food, a dance floor with a DJ upstairs, and no cover charge. Even though it’s finals week the place is wall-to-wall drinking, laughing bodies. “What are you having?” Evans asks as we make our way to the bar.
“Jim Beam, neat.” If I’m only allowed one drink, better make it count.
I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Nondescript blue T-shirt, stubbled jaw ’cause I couldn’t be bothered to shave, and a thick blond head of hair that needs cutting. It’s practically immune to gel, so I’ll be pushing it back from my forehead all night.
Drew passes me my bourbon and takes a sip of his own—looks like whiskey and soda. Wordlessly we survey the room for a few minutes. Then his elbow nudges me and he cocks his head toward two girls in the corner, by the jukebox. They’re good-looking in the way that appears effortless but in reality takes two hours of primping to achieve. One’s tall, with long, straight blond hair and even longer legs, wearing ripped denim jeans and a cropped tank top that shows off a lacy black bra and a twinkling belly-button piercing. Her friend is shorter, with curly jet-black hair, a pink halter top, and dark jeans so tight they look like they’re painted on.
Drew walks purposefully toward them and I follow.
“I like your shirt,” he says to the blonde, gesturing to the writing across her chest: Barnard Women Do It Right.
After looking him up and down her lips stretch slowly into a flirty smile. “Thanks.”
“I’ve got one at home just like it,” Drew reveals. “Except mine says Columbia Guys Do It All Night.”
They giggle. I gulp my bourbon while the dark-haired girl checks me out—and seems to like what she sees.
“You guys go to Columbia?” she asks.
Drew nods. “Yep. Go Lions.”
Even though I have no real idea what the hell I’m doing, I try to follow Drew’s instructions, asking the most unoriginal question ever. “What are y’all majorin’ in?”
The brunette giggles again. “Y’all ? You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”
“I’m from Mississippi.”
She eyes my bicep appreciatively. “How do you like New York?”
I think for a second . . . then it comes to me. With a lopsided grin I answer, “Right now, I’m likin’ it a whole lot.”
Drew nods almost imperceptibly—approvingly.
“We’re art majors,” the blonde offers.
“Seriously? Art?” Drew smirks. “Guess you have no interest in making an actual contribution to society.” He raises his glass. “Here’s to graduating without a marketable skill set of any kind.”
I know he sounds like an insulting ass, but trust me, it works for him.
“Oh my god!”
“Jerk!” The girls laugh, like they always do, eating up his cocky attitude and sarcastic humor with a spoon.
I take another drink of bourbon. “What kinda art do you do?”
“I paint,” Blondie answers. “I particularly like body painting.” She trails her hand up and down Drew’s chest. “You would be an amazing canvas.”