Page 42 of Space Junk: Houston, We Have a Hottie
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Jackie
Holy Mercury.That. Was. Awesome.
My heart is pounding, my face feels flushed and, going by that reaction from Rose, I’m pretty sure I rocked the hell out of that Blow Job shot. It was tricky—the mound of whipped cream, in addition to the height of the table, made it a challenge. But by gauging the angle, helped by the forward pitch from the high heels of my new boots, I’d been able to tilt forward at the pelvis and—oh fuck it. Who cares about the science? Blow Job shots rule!
Also, I might be buzzed.
Unfortunately, not buzzed enough to forget about the wedge of lace strangling my nether regions. This thong has to go.
Not that I’m not grateful to Rose. According to Trish, Rose kidnapped her earlier today and took her on a shopping spree aimed at updating my look. The catalyst being that my feet are too big for their boots and no one wants to share underwear. That’s just weird.
Trish said that Rose hadn’t even looked at price tags, just went around gathering things up and whipping out her credit card. It’s sweet that Rose wanted to help with my apparently lacking wardrobe, but a stop at the ATM is definitely on my agenda so I can slip some cash in Rose’s purse. I’m not about to have a college student go into debt because my usual attire read moreRevenge of the NerdsthanSex in the City.
And now I have boots. Real cowboy boots.
Okay, so I haven’t exactly seen any of the heroines on my romance covers wearing studded motorcycle/cowgirl boots… but still. They count. Rose bought them, and she grew up on a ranch. That makes them legit.
I wave to the crowd gathered around us and tell the girls I’m heading to the bathroom. Trish hops down to follow, but Rose stops her. She’s motioning to something behind me, but when I turn to look all I see is a blur of unfamiliar faces.
I push through strangers and make it to the bathroom. For once, there’s no line. That’s a relief.
No, I take that back. True relief is when I close the stall door and shimmy out of the lace dental floss.
Much better.
I shove it in the pocket of my jacket and exit the stall, stopping when I catch myself in the full-length mirror.
I bend one way and then another while looking at my reflection. If I keep from squatting or bending down to touch my toes, which I’m pretty sure are not normal girls’ night out maneuvers, I think I can limit the free anatomy lessons made possible by the removal of my underwear.
I feel for my phone in my other pocket. Still no text from Flynn. That’s good, I tell myself. That’s what I wanted.
Right?
I open up my texts and thumb our conversation open. His last text,It gets me hard,stares back at me. The alcohol is vibrating through my veins to the rhythm of the two-step I can hear blaring from the speakers. My thumbs fly across the screen.
Jackie:How hard?
Oops.Is this what people mean when they warn not to drink and text?
The three period ellipse pops up under my text. Oh my God. Flynn just read my text.
Panic builds until I catch my eyes in the mirror. True, I might be out of my element, and in unfamiliar surroundings. But I’m a woman, who, if I believe even a smidge of what Trish, Rose and Jules say, is at least mildly attractive. I can text a good-looking man. I can be sexy. I cansext.
The booze and heels may have gone to my head.
Feeling quite pleased after my pep talk, I nod at myself in the mirror and pull the door open, a little extra sway in my step. Crossing the threshold, the heat from the packed bar and the pulsing beat of the music hit me, making me pause.
“Hello, darling.”
I spin around, hand on my chest.
Flynn’s leaning against the wall, eerily reminiscent of the first time I saw him. Except this time, he notices me. This time he’s actually talking to me. When he sees me notice the phone in his hand, a smile curls up on one side of his face.
“I got your text.”
Forget my earlier pep talk about being a confident woman. My whole body burns with humiliation. I clear my throat, trying to find words that will make me want to die a little less. Not able to meet his eyes, I address a spot over his right shoulder. “Yes, well, the appeal of that particular text was that it lacked the complexity and messiness of a personal, face-to-face interaction.” I move to adjust my glances but pause when Flynn takes a step closer. The smell of his cologne, subtle but intoxicating, fills my lungs, and I hate to say it, but I may be regretting getting rid of that thong when I feel myself dampen. Pheromones. Those damn pheromones.
