Page 100 of A Little Moore Action
“What? No way!” Leslie shouts to be heard over the blaring country music. “And miss you turn down not one, not two, butthreehot guys? Never!” She hands me a shot. “And you have, like, no game. It’s kind of hilarious.”
“I think I like lawyer Leslie better than social, club-hopping Leslie.” Leslie is in fine form tonight. Those boots she talked about? They weren’t cowboy boots. She’s in a bar called Wild West wearing over-the-knee leather stiletto boots with pointy-ass toes that look as lethal as cyanide. Most of the men in here want to flirt with death tonight, but Leslie’s shot down more than I have.
I never knew my lawyer was as much of a shark outside the courtroom as she is in it.
“Please, you love me.” She knocks her drink back and then pointedly stares at me until I do the same. “Besides, how do you think I’m able to kick ass at law? Need to get a releasesomewhere.” She eyes a twenty-something in a Johnny Cash T-shirt and baseball cap at the bar, showing genuine interest in a guy for the first time tonight. He eyes her right back.
“A bit young, isn’t he?” I mean, Leslie looks hot—blond hair down, wearing a white, scooped-neck tank top, its front tucked into skin-tight jeans, and those man-eater boots of hers. Any guy would be lucky to have her. But that guy looks like he just celebrated his twenty-first birthday.
“Please. I’m a hard-working career woman with no time for the emotional baggage of men my age.” Her face darkens for a moment, like she’s remembering something. Or someone. “Young ones are more easily trainable, have less chance of emotional damage, and can fuck for hours.” She brightens her face with a smile and waves to the Johnny Cash fan. “Everyone wins.”
The disco-mirror-covered saddle floating above the dance floor casts twinkling lights over my plain black T-shirt and jeans. Leslie took one look at my loose-fitting tee and tied a knot in it, making it tighter and showing an inch of midriff. I humored her, because let’s face it, Leslie scares the shit out of me.
Luke Combs is singing about how a cold longneck beer is the only thing that never broke his heart. And when the waitress comes back and I take a pull of my own longneck, I think he might be on to something.
I nudge her shoulder. “Want to talk about the heavily baggaged man your age that put you in this mood?”
She gives me a look. “Want to talk about the New York shit-storm?”
“Ah… no.”
She salutes me with her beer. “Didn’t think so.”
After another minute or so of mutual eye-fucking with Leslie, the twenty-something walks over, the closer distance revealing a sexy, scruffy chin and snug jeans that any woman can appreciate. “Evening, ladies.” He touches his fingers to the brim of his hat. “I’m Mike.”
My heart lurches thinking of a hairy cat probably licking his balls in Chase’s apartment right now.
“Leslie.” My lawyer sticks her hand out, eyes wide when Mike turns it in his and kisses the back of it.
“Campbell.” I just wave like a dork, because Leslie’s right: I have no game.
He nods, his eyes crinkling with a smile, his eyes on Leslie. “Either of you ladies want to dance?”
I smile politely and shake my head, though he still isn’t looking at me. “No thank you.”
Leslie shrugs, chugs the rest of her beer, and lets him lead her out onto the dance floor.
I chuckle when he swivels his hat backwards and tugs Leslie close in one smooth move that has her hands digging into his shoulders for balance. Holding her tight, Mike maneuvers them onto the dance floor. Looks like the young ones also have confidence and swagger.
Leslie may have met her match.
They reach the floor just as the song changes. Luke Combs fading into… Elvis?
Sure enough, the haunting pick of guitar strings and soft hum of the background singers prefaces the King’s sweet tenor from “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”
The crowd slows down, unused to this musical direction. A few old timers here for a night of two-stepping take over the oak-planked dance floor. Mike just goes with it, moving Leslie back and forth to the sad song, even keeping time during the song’s interlude where Elvis “talks” to his lady love.
When the King speaks about his love lying when she said she loved him but wanting to hear those lies rather than live without her, tears that I’ve managed to hold off ever since Chase left me by the elevator with a groped boob and half-empty white mocha, surface.
I know Momma said there was an Elvis song for every occasion, but this just seems heartless.
Thankfully, the song ends before I can’t hold back the tears any longer. Fanning my face like I’m hot and not about to cry, I signal the bartender for another shot. But before I can catch his eye, “Teddy Bear” starts up.
One Elvis song is unusual. Two back to back?
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
Startled, I swivel on my stool.
