Page 51 of Doing Life

Sloan was relaxed. Happy. Strolling along like he didn’t have a care in the world. So Lance let that inform his mood.

The door opened, refrigerated air pouring out, and he chuckled as Abby paused. Yeah, he had a feeling she was a little put off by the crowd.

“You’re all right, Abby.” He encouraged her forward, and they followed Sloan into the bar.

He could hear a slight dip in the conversation as they walked in, but Sloan never tensed, never slowed. “I’m getting us a booth. That way Abby can scoot under the table and be with you. Does that work?”

“She’ll like that.” It seemed like the walk across the bar was endless, and Lance swore he could feel the weight of all the eyes on him. He kept his head up, his expression controlled. He wasn’t going to let this seem like it was wigging him out. Even if it was.

They got to a booth and settled in, Abby under the table, warm against his leg. The seat of the booth was wood and was just about unforgiving on his butt.

“What’s funny?” Sloan asked.

He felt his cheeks getting hot, and he leaned over the table, hoping that Sloan leaned in as well. “I was just kind of glad that there was nothing more than snuggling last night. Man, these booths are hard. On the butt, I mean.”

“I get what you mean.” Sloan’s chuckle was dark, rich, happy. “However, tomorrow I can guarantee you that you don’t have to do anything more challenging than the sofa.”

“Listen to you.” Lance laughed because it felt so good to tease, to play.

It felt even better because this morning he’d woken up with a piss hard-on, and he didn’t remember that happeningbut a couple of times since his accident. It had made it an even better good morning to him.

Lance guessed there were some things about the healing process that did not suck.

Sloan leaned back. “The waitress is on her way over. You want beer or you want a margarita or something?”

“Shit, I just want a beer, and then if they’ve got bar food—mozzarella sticks, fried chunks of something that we can dip that would be perfect.” He liked fried chunks of things.

“Right on. Fried Pickles, fried cheese, onion rings, and ranch.”

Sloan knew what he liked.

“Hey, y’all welcome in. I brought over menus, but?—”

“Cool. Good deal.” Lance nodded his thanks. “It’s all right; Sloan can look at it.”

“Okay well, I could read it to you. We don’t have a Braille one anymore. We had one, but somebody stole it, and we haven’t been able to find anybody to make us another one. What kind of an asshole does that? Steals the Braille menu? I’m Brittany, by the way.”

He was tickled shitless, because this woman was totally willing to talk to him, acknowledge his blindness, and just get on with it. “Hey, Brittany, Lance, and thanks, but I don’t read Braille yet. It’s like a whole new language, and my fingers aren’t that smart.”

“Right, I tried rubbing my fingers across it, and didn’t feel like much. Nothing. I don’t see how people do it.”

“Me either,” Lance admitted.

“Needs must, right?” Sloan muttered.

There was a pause, then Brittany said, “Pardon?”

“You know, needs must when the devil drives.”

There was a long pause, and then a chuckle. “Okay, do y’all know what you want to drink?”

Sloan was aging himself a little bit. Or maybe outing himself as a nerd.

“Two Shiners please. And then we need onion rings, fried pickles, fried cheese sticks, and a big thing of ranch.”

“You got it.”

She wandered off, and Sloan groaned. “God.”

---