Page 40 of Wicked Pickle

“Hey!” Marietta says. “That’s not very nice!”

“Nice is for wine bars,” Vicki says. “The amount of trouble in this joint would make a train take a dirt road.”

I glance over at Marietta. Her face is beet red.

“Thanks for the advice,” I tell Vicki.

“You ought to wise up and skedaddle.” She shakes her head. “But your elevator’s stuck between floors, ain’t it?”

“It is not,” Marietta calls, but the woman walks away. “Drink!” Marietta calls again.

The younger man returns to our end of the bar. His eyes go right back to Marietta’s chest.

“What’s it take to get a drink around here?” She grabs the top of her shirt and yanks it down, exposing both breasts. “Maybe these?”

The man’s eyes nearly pop out of his head.

There’s a roar along the bar, among whistles.

“I’ll bring ‘em a drink!” someone calls.

“I’ll suck those titties!”

“Marietta!” I reach over to snatch her shirt up, but I already see Merrick and Diesel coming out the door.

Merrick spots Marietta’s naked chest and stops short, making Diesel smack into him.

The men in the bar are whooping it up.

I grab her top and drag it into place. “What are you doing?” I ask.

She grins. “Showing everybody I’m not scared of nothing!”

Merrick hops over the bar, standing between her and a press of men coming close. “Risky business in a place like this,” he says.

She spins on her chair to face him. “I want a motorcycle ride.”

“I’ve got a Harley!” shouts a man with a red bandanna, an angry scar across his cheek.

“Yours sucks,” says another man. “I’ve got a Kawasaki that will rattle those sweet little tits.”

Merrick glances over at Diesel, who has his hands crossed over his chest like a scowling gargoyle.

Now we’ve gone and done it. Or Marietta has. What has gotten into her? First, the shots two weeks ago, and now, flashing her boobs in a biker bar?

“I had no idea she was going to do that,” I tell Diesel. “I’m sorry if we’re stirring up trouble.”

Marietta shoves herself up onto the stool and then stands on the bar. “I’ll flash them again for a ride!”

The room erupts with volunteers.

Did this girl lose her mind? Or take drugs between the car and the door? She isn’t acting drunk, other than maybe on the attention.

She lifts her arms and dances back and forth to a whoop from the men below.

God. I have no idea what to do with her. I scramble onto my knees on the stool to get high enough to grab her hand. “Marietta! Get down!”

But someone gives me a hefty push from behind, and I’m thrust onto the bar next to her. I turn back to see a bald man wink at me. “I’d like to take a gander at those grand knockers!”

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