Page 4 of Wicked Pickle

“Hello, darlin’,” one of them says. “Why don’t you take another one of those shots right now?”

Oh, hell no. Marietta will be under the table in five minutes from the one she already did. I snatch both of them out of her hands and down them.

“Hey!” she cries. “Those were mine.”

“You need to slow down if you’re going to talk to them,” I tell her, sounding way more like one of my many foster mothers than I’d like. All their warnings about what it takes to be a good girl are exactly what made me into hell on wheels.

“You need to lighten up, little lady,” the other man says. “Your friend here is having a bit of fun.” He turns to the bar. “Can I get another Fireball for this cute thing?”

Marietta lights up at that. Oh, damn. We’re in trouble.

But then I see him.

Another bartender. He has a confidence about him that’s wholly different from the younger man pulling a pint of beer from the tap.

He flips the bottle in his hand and pours the shot with practiced ease. “Found yourself a girl who doesn’t already know your reputation?” he asks as he pushes the glass across the wood surface.

Oh, that voice. It’s like silk sliding over naked skin. Despite feeling outraged that he called Marietta a girl, I’m mesmerized. He wears the same black T-shirt as the other guy, but his is filled out with a chest that could break brick. Arm muscles bulge as he sets down the bottle. Tattoos don’t just peek out from the sleeve, but theyaresleeves, full ones, snakes and roses and an elaborate iron cross.

Now I’m the one wanting to ask about tattoos. And maybe trail my fingertips over those.

He looks at me and catches me watching. His eyes are smoky gray as we lock gazes. He takes in my red dress, and I brace myself for a flicker of disappointment that I’m not some sexy waif. But he lingers. Cleavage, waist, hips.

My heart speeds up. He didn’t hate what he saw.

In fact, he keeps looking longer than he should. Then, one heavy eyebrow lifts for a second.

What was that? Interest? Or amusement?

I want to know.

But Marietta’s reaching for the shot.

I can’t let her do that.

I snatch it up and down it, too. God, that’s four already.

“Symphony!” Marietta cries. “Stop drinking my shots!”

The bartender’s eyebrow lifts another inch. “How many of those can you do?” he asks.

It sounds like a challenge. I like the idea of showing off to this man. I can hold my liquor.

I lean on the bar. “As many as you can dish out.”

He pours a fresh one and clinks it onto the counter in front of me.

I pick up the shot and down it. “That’s five,” I tell him.

He whistles, and the sight of his lips puckering makes my pulse race. He pours another.

“Isn’t your boss going to wonder where all his Fireball went with no receipts to back it up?” I ask.

He pushes the glass my way. “It’s my bar. I can do what I want.”

The owner. That’s something.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

---