Page 26 of Wicked Pickle

“All right.” I down the bourbon and scoot back from the table.

We walk along the back trellis, which glows white as the light fades.

The wind picks up, rustling the leaves. It’s nice, not too muggy. The band starts playing, a melancholy refrain among the bustle behind us.

“Who is this Merrick person Rhett mentioned a minute ago?” Symphony asks.

Small talk. I have better uses for her mouth.

“Well?” She doesn’t like silence.

Fine. “My brother. We’re only a year apart but the same grade, so we graduated together and joined the Army at the same time.”

“And running a bar now. That’s nice.”

“It’s been good.”

“You and him against the Pickle world.”

I huff a laugh. “Something like that.”

“You said you’re ex-military,” Symphony says. “Where were you stationed?”

“We did two tours in Afghanistan.”

“Oof.” She takes a swig from the champagne bottle. “You okay after all that? Must have been hard.”

I have no easy answer for that. “The bar was a good change.” I’m done talking about me. “So, what’s the deal with you and Bailey?”

“We started our Political Science Master’s program together. Been study partners.”

“I guess you’re pretty tight.”

“She’s my best friend.”

“But not tight enough to let you in on her plan at my bar?” I’m pushing it, and I know it.

Symphony takes another swig. “Nope.”

I’m not totally sure if it’s the truth or a lie. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

We reach the end of the fence. “We probably shouldn’t go too far afield of the crowd,” I tell her.

She laughs. “Yeah. People will talk.”

“Oh, I intend for them to.”

She stops to look up at me. “You don’t care what people think, do you?”

“I don’t give a single fuck.”

We’re standing close, the sunset turning her skin golden. She glances over at the reception. Everyone is settling in chairs with slices of cake.

“Come on,” she says. “I know where we can go.”

“Am I getting that fucking kiss?”

Her answer is a wicked grin, and my dick is back in the picture after this two-week wait.

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