Page 192 of Charming Deception

She lifts an eyebrow. “Will I?”

“You will.”

There’s a silent standoff that lasts about five seconds while she debates whether I’m seriously telling her what to drink.

I am. With good reason.

Then she orders a Moosehead and opens a tab. We clink the necks of our beer bottles and take a swig as we wander to find a table. She finds a booth to her liking on the side of the dance floor. The place is maybe half-full, and other than a few people who say a casual hello to Megan, no one comes over to us.

They’re definitely checking us out, though.

I suppose the local girl who disappeared in the night, leaving her job and her home and her boyfriend behind, made some waves. And returning with her new billionaire fiancé weeks later… definite gossip material.

By morning, maybe the whole town will know about that little scene in her mom’s driveway.

Maybe they already do.

Locke is also collecting stares where he sits at the bar, sipping his soda water.

Rurik will hang out just outside, keeping an eye on the entrance. At least I know that whatever happens tonight, Troy Duchamp won’t be wandering in.

“Hey, Jameson,” Megan says happily as we lean on our table, facing each other. It’s sticky. A waitress came by as soon as we chose it and dragged a dirty, wet rag over it that didn’t help. “Why are we drinking beer from the bottle? I’ve only seen you drink beer when you were looking to partner with the beer company. You know, in Germany.”

“Because we’re not risking anything on tap or by the glass. The glassware doesn’t look sanitized, and no way do they clean those keg lines properly.”

Her nose scrunches. “Ew. I never thought of that.”

“Think of it. Beer on tap is always a risk. You want to be sure you’re in a place that cleans their lines properly. Every two weeks, they need to be flushed with a cleaning solution. Many places do not.” I sip my beer, smirking a little as she absorbs that with horrified fascination.

“I’m never drinking beer from the keg again.”

“I know. Don’t even get me started on the lime wedges they leave out on the bar. Bartenders touch cash all night. Do you know how dirty paper money is? And the credit card machine? And then they dip their fingers in that bin of lime wedges and put one on your glass, and you’re supposed to squeeze it into your drink? Fuck, no.”

“I had no idea you were such a germaphobe.”

“It’s not a phobia. Just common sense and self-respect.”

“Even if we put aside that the alcohol probably kills the germs anyway?—”

“Maybe.”

“—you are ruining bar nights for me.”

“Then I’ve succeeded.”

“You don’t want me going to bars?”

“No. I want you home on my dick, where you belong.”

She laughs and smacks my arm like I’m kidding.

“So,” I say, ogling her perky cleavage in her little cotton eyelet dress for the dozenth time. “Who do we know here?”

For the next many songs, Megan points out every person in the bar she recognizes, which is all of them, and spills gossip on the ones she knows gossip on, which is most of them. Now and then, the waitress who looks, sounds, and smells like she’s been a pack-a-day smoker since 1973 comes by our table, bringing more beer, which Megan puts on her tab.

We hold hands and play with each other’s fingers while we talk.

Then we dance slowly to Kings of Leon, “I Want You,” like no one’s watching. They are.

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