Page 3 of The Love Wager

“The old Indie wouldn’t need liquid courage to get up there,” Tay teases in my ear.

“The old Indie would have already been shit-faced and banging a frat boy in the bathroom,” I correct, and we both bust up laughing.

Ten thousand dollars, I repeat in my head when I hear the music change to the song Taylor picked on the jukebox. Now’s my chance to shine.

The intro plays out, building my confidence. Swallowing down the rest of my whiskey, I slam the glass down and slide it down the bar out of my way. Clumsily climbing from the swiveling bar stool to the bar top, it takes a minute for the bar’s patrons to realize what’s happening.

But when the iconic lyrics of Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” fill the bar, somehow gaining in volume, everyone erupts in cheers. I dig deep and find that girl I used to be. My hips swing in time to the beat as my arms trace up my curves, locking in my wild red locks that flick from side to side.

It doesn’t take long for me to get lost in the music. I run a couple of feet and slide down the rest of the bar on my knees. The people lift their drinks out of my way. Laughter bubbles from my chest that I made it and didn’t crash off the side. It’s the perfect time to pluck the buttons from my shirt slowly open. It falls open, revealing my lace crop tank. Shimmying out of the only piece of clothing I intend to strip off, I whip it around my head and let it fly off into the crowd. The catcalls and whistles grow deafening. The song ends, taking with it my impromptuperformance. Jumping to my feet, I give one last booty shake and an exaggerated bow.

“Get off my bar,” a harsh, deep voice barks.

It breaks my concentration, and my ankle twists, hitting the counter's edge. “Oh shit!” I scream, toppling off the bar toward the floor.

TWO

Brooks

Even with the jukebox’s music flowing through the bar, you could hear a pin drop as a regular—John, who runs Sonny’s Hardware on the corner of Main—catches the spritely redhead who just caused an absolute ruckus on my bar.

Towel in hand, I glare at her as John helps her stand. She blows her wild waves back away from her face as she tests her weight on the ankle she twisted in her attempt at a wild night in Abaline when she’s clearlynotfrom here.

Her Hazel eyes narrow at me as she wobbles a bit in John’s arms. He’s trying to keep his composure, but everyone knows he’s having the time of his fucking life. The damsel in distress landed right in his arms. His curling, drunken grin says he thinks it’s going to sway her in his direction at the end of the night. If John wasn’t in his mid-sixties with a drinking problem and no front teeth, I’d be liable to agree with his assessment.

“You could’ve at least helped me down!” she shrieks as she shrugs out of John’s hold and pins her hands on her hips.

She’s in tight jeans, a little wet now from sliding across the bar, sopping up everyone’s condensation and spilled drinks, and a lacy undershirt that’s slipping a bit too low.

“Helped you down from my bar, where you were about to strip naked for all my patrons?” I toss back, unable to believe her audacity.

Fucking city girls.

They whip through here like F-5 tornados, leaving chaos in their wake.

“I wasnotstripping naked!” she counters, and a lovely little rouge fills her cheeks. She already had one from her explicit dance, but now it’s deepening.

“Oh? What was all this...” I toss the towel I’d been shining glasses with onto the bar and shimmy a little, pretending to open my buttons with my tongue hanging out.

A crowd has gathered around us, and a few of them chuckle. A couple of her friends have rallied around her and shoved John out of the picture. He gives a backward glance before sliding back onto the barstool. He won’t remember it in the morning.

“That is not what I looked like.” Her eyes roll as she leans on her ankle again, this time with more confidence.

It doesn’t seem strained—not like I fucking care.

“Listen, I could go ten rounds with you, but it’s not even worth my time, so save us both the trouble and go back over to your wedding party or bachelorette party, or whatever it is, and just stay off my bar, alright?”

Her head tilts as her mouth falls open, as if she can’t believe what I’ve just said. “Excuse me? It’s a bar; it’s meant to be danced on.”

She earns a few whoops of agreement as the song changes to “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey.

Even the booties she has on are pretentious and likely cost more than my entire bar.

“It’s not meant to be danced on by the likes of you,” I grind out before thinking.

John winces at me from where he’s looking on from his stool.

She steps into me, her finger flying in my face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

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