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.What I had wasn tcontagious. You better get back out there beforeMr.Blue Balls thinks you ditched him, Tressa interrupted, giving my back a lightshove toward the bathroom door. Text us if he turns out to be an asshole. And make sure he bags his junk, Brittni piped in.Giggling at their advice, I twistedaround before exiting the bathroom andthrew my arms impulsively around boththeir necks. I love you guys, I said,knocking their heads together from myexuberance. Okay, we love you too, Brittnicomplained, trying to extract my arms. Yep, she s toasted, Tressacommented, rubbing her head where it hadknocked against Brittni s. Maybe we should hang around tomake sure she doesn t embarrass herself, Brittni mused. No way, you guys promised, Ireminded them. If I m doing this, I m going in without a safety net. Fine, but your scrawny ass bettertext us first thing tomorrow morning, orwe re sending out the armed forces to takedown Mr.Seximist, Brittni warned,giving me a quick hard hug. Don t worry, Brit, he looksharmless enough.Besides, I ve taken atleast twenty pictures on my phone.We llnail that bastard s ass to the wall if hehurts her, Tressa said from behind me asI pushed open the bathroom door. Don t worry, my head will make abeautiful mantle piece, I threw over myshoulder as I sashayed across the roomtoward the bar. Hey stranger, I said, boldly slidingonto my barstool. Whoa there, Mr.Hotness said as my ass misjudged the middle of the seatand teetered on the edge, making the legsof the stool wobble.Hotness reached overand grasped my arm to steady me. You re hot. Why thank you, he said chuckling. I mean, your hands are hot.no, Imean, your touch is hot.shit.Nevermind, I mumbled as he chuckled next tome. It s not the first time I ve beencalled hot, sweetheart. Vanity isn t a virtue, I pointed out,picking up the shot glass that hadmagically filled itself in my absence. So,what do you do Mr.I Know I m Hot? Iasked, realizing that in all our flirtingwe d neglected to exchange names. Nathan, he answered, holding out his hand for me to shake. Ashton, I parroted as his handengulfed mine.His touch was sure andsensual at the same time, making my poorhand feel bereft once he let go. I m a freelance journalist. Freelance journalist? What doesthat entail? I asked intrigued. Lots of traveling and a knack forbeing able to dig out the truth.I ve beenfortunate enough to be able to pick myassignments, he answered, turning on hisbarstool to face me.His knees knockedagainst mine, which my body was keenlyaware of as our legs settled, intimatelytouching each other. I m actually on myway to my next assignment.What aboutyou? Right now, I m working at Smith s General Store over on the corner of Mainand Stetson, I answered defensively,waiting for his judgments.I didn t botherto mention the barely dried ink on my B.A.in Human Psychology, or the fact that upuntil four months ago, I had been planningmy internship at the local hospital backhome.Those were need-to-know facts thathe didn t need to know. I think I met the owner when Iarrived today.Fran, right? She s quite anold card, he replied warmly, surprisingme. Yeah, she is.Don t let her age foolyou.She s sharper than people a quarterof her age.That store has been in herfamily for more than a hundred years.Each generation it s passed down to thenext.Fran should have passed it down like fifteen years ago, but she claims hell willfreeze over before she allows her sniveling, no-good, lazy nephew to run itinto the ground. She says she reckonsshe ll stay until she breathes her lastbreath or her nephew finally decides toman up.She says she won t be holding herbreath on the latter& I rambled on.Obviously, the multiple shots had turnedmy tongue into a nonstop chattering mess. That sounds like the person I met, he said, chuckling softly. So, have youlived here all your life? he asked as Joeset another round in front of us.Running my finger around the smallbase of the shot glass, I weighed hisquestion, contemplating how I wanted toanswer. No.I moved here four monthsago after my dad died, I lied, giving him the standard answer I d given everyoneelse when I moved to town. Really? he asked, studying mecritically.I was slightly taken aback by hisresponse.I d been greeted with nothingbut sympathy when I d let the lie slip onprevious occasions.I always felt a twingeof guilt over it, but knew in the end it wasnecessary. It was quite sudden, Ianswered defensively. I m sorry for your loss, he replied,finally offering up the words that I hadgrown accustomed to hearing. Thanks, I said, not sure if hissympathy was genuine.Maybe he reallywas some psycho who traveled throughsmall towns collecting heads and storingthem in his trunk.I sucked down the contents of my glass once again.My brainwas teetering on the edge of remainingfocused on the noticeably rock-hard pecsbeneath his shirt and becoming drownedby the liquor party that was flowingthrough my bloodstream.My tonguebecame numb while the buzzing in myhead intensified, making me wish I couldrest it on the bar.I contemplated climbingup on the bar so I could lie down, but eventhat seemed like way too much work.Instead, I tried to focus on my lastcoherent thought, knowing it hadsomething to do with my head. Are you going to put your trunk inmy head? I asked, finally able to makemy tongue work. Excuse me? he asked amused. Wait.I mean, are you going to put your trunk in me? I asked, though thequestion still seemed slightly off. Is that what the kids are calling itnow? he asked with open amusement. Wait.What did I say? I asked,shaking my head in a feeble attempt toclear it. Well, darling, you asked if I wasgoing to stick my trunk in you.Is that aninvitation? Well, shit.I meant, are you going toput my head in your trunk? I askedslowly, making sure the word placementwas correct. Just your head? Unless you keep the whole body,but won t your trunk get full if you keepthe whole body? I reasoned, pleased thatI was able to form a coherent question even if it was related to my decapitation. I m more a breast kind of guy, hesaid, smirking.Laughter bubbled up out of me. So,your trunk is full of boobies? I asked,giggling uncontrollably. Boobies? he snorted. I haven theard that word in like twenty years. Twenty years? How old are you? Iasked, giggling again at the idea that myone-night stand would be with an old man. Twenty-nine.What about you? Twenty-nine? That s not old. Who said I was old? Didn t you? I asked confused onwhy I had thought he was old. I only said I haven t heard themcalled boobies in twenty years.It sactually closer to sixteen years to be precise. So, boobies is a thirteen-year-old-boy word? I snickered again, notsurprised at all.I d been known to crackup over word choices for years.It wasofficial.I had the mind of a thirteen-year-old boy.After that, the conversation took on ahazy quality as Nathan ordered moredrinks.I lost track of what my thirteen-year-old mind said, but I was pretty sure Iasked Nathan to put his trunk in me again,which is what I was going for before thebooze messed it up
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