Page 25 of Space Balls: Houston, We Have Liftoff
“Yep.”
I pick up the drink and take a large swallow. “Huh.” I look around, soaking in rustic night club glamor—antler lights over our table, a cowboy hat-wearing DJ, and a mixture of crystal chandeliers and disco balls over the crowded dance floor. This place definitely has a cooler vibe than Big Texas. “You come here often?”
“Never been here until tonight.” The crinkles are back around his eyes. “Came here just for you.”
“Hmmm.” I was afraid of that. At the wedding it was easy to compartmentalize him as “man I’m done with.” But now, knowing he’s Helen’s son, finding out tidbits of his upbringing and career motivation, seeing first-hand how well he holds his own with my somewhat intrusive, wisecracking girl posse—I’minterested. He doesn’t fit in the box anymore.
A waitress comes by and asks if we need anything.
He shakes his head, the silky black hair moving as he does.
I want to touch it. I tighten my grip on my glass. Because even if I acknowledge my expanding interest in him (interested enough to want to hit it a few more times), I also know that our six degrees of Kevin Bacon is a lot closer than I’d previously thought. Which means complications are inevitable.
I pole dance with his mother.
I’m best friends with his co-workers.
He was in high school when I was born.
He turns his attention back to me, his deep brown eyes holding mine. His eye crinkles deepen.
Ah, fuck it.
Like flipping a switch, I get my flirt on, fluttering my lashes at him. “Blow Job?”
He chokes on his own saliva. “Excuse me?”
Vance
My lip curls involuntarilywhen the bartender slides the Blow Job shots across the bar.
“What, your masculine pride can’t take it?” Rose smirks, grabbing one of the shots.
“No, my teeth.” I eye the heavy dose of whipped cream on top. I’m not a health fanatic per se, but it’s a professional hazard to keep in shape. “How much sugar you think is in there?”
“Sure, the sugar.” Rose rolls her eyes. “Just admit you don’t wanna do a Blow Job.”
Leaning against the bar, I give my best condescending look. “Listen, Rosie-girl, as you love to point out, I’m older than you. I’m not one of the immature boy-men you’re used to. I’m secure enough in my masculinity to shoot a whipped cream topped drink, no matter what it’s called.” To prove it, I push off the bar and turn to line up my shot. “You want to shoot Blow Jobs? Let’s shoot Blow Jobs.”
Rose looks impressed by my words, proving there’s a first time for everything. She follows suit and centers her shot glass as well. “Fine, old man. Let’s do this.” But when she reaches for her glass, I slap her hand away. “Hey, wh—”
I tsk. “If I remember Jules and Jackie explaining this to me, and I should, because their aside during an EVA briefing about sexually named alcoholic drinks wasfascinating”—I roll my eyes remembering that particularly long training session—"the correct way to drink a Blow Job is hands-free.” I arch a brow at her, daring her with a look. “Am I right?”
“Are you mansplaining a Blow Job to me?”
“Are you not doing it right?” I fire back, clenching my abs at the look she throws me, expecting a gut punch. I turn my hips in toward the bar in case she decides to aim lower like she did at the strip club. It’s a dangerous business riling Rose West up.
She glares at me a second longer before squaring up to the bar, shot glass lined up to her center. “Fine.” A few tendrils of hair fall forward when she begins to lean over.
“Wait.”
She huffs, straightening up. “Now what?”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing at her exasperating expression and brush her hair back, fisting it in a ponytail. “It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”
If her eyes narrowed any more, they’d be closed.
With her hair out of her face, she bows forward, her rear end snuggled nicely against my crotch. I grunt at the contact, and she wiggles her ass, probably paying me back for irritating her.
