Page 1 of Last First Time
K.T.
I’m happy for her, I really am trying to be at least. Nobody deserves to smile this brightly as much as Delilah deserves to, and believe me, by now I know every single bad thing she’s ever done in her entire life.
But the fact is she and Joe are as happy as if the stars have aligned especially for them, and instead of being a good friend who is plain old happy for her, I’m getting a sick knot of that Always the Bridesmaid feeling in the back of my throat.
The only fix for that is alcohol. Specifically Irish car bombs. That silky burn of the whiskey isn’t enough to loosen the deep claws of envy that are digging into me, but it’s enough to make it so that I care much less than I usually do about what will become of poor old spinster me.
Around me the engagement party swirls on, and my face hurts from the gritty smile I keep handing out like it’s a party favor. Christine laughs too loudly, slapping her hand down on the bar top like she’s squashing a bug. I should confiscate her keys, but also fuck it. At least someone should be having a good time later on tonight, even if it isn’t me. And I know her story too, at least the part with her no good cheating husband. She deserves whatever happiness she can get.
One of the out of town party guests, Brayden or Aiden or something, has been keeping me drinking along with him all night long. And okay, I get it. My breasts really do look magnificent in this little black t-shirt, but I’m not going home with you, Zaiden or Graydon or whatever, no matter how hard you’re trying.
First rule of being the bartender in this small town bar is don’t sleep with the patrons. It’s too hard on business when that dude you went home with—Caiden, that’s it—starts telling everyone stories about what color panties I wear and that I like it rough. In a town the size of Valentine, I’m going to have to see everyone who lives here sooner or later, even if it’s only at the grocery store, and I’m not having nice little old Mrs. Mueller calling me a slut over the fresh produce.
“Have another one, beautiful,” Okay-den slurs, giving me what probably passes as a panty dropping smile to most of this bro’s quarry. To me, it’s another dude in a long list of dudes leering at me deep from the fog of Axe body spray and cheap beer. Another disappointment waiting for me to sneak out of his place around the two o’clock hour and then deny, deny, deny that anything ever happened between us.
Not tonight, buddy. No matter how warm the alcohol is flowing through my veins. All I want to do is let the room spin its lazy way through the night, and probably not barf on anything. Modest enough goals for the local spinster slash bartender extraordinaire.
And then Delilah’s jerkface plays Thunderstruck on the jukebox because she knows I can’t resist dancing to the sickest guitar riff basically ever. Even if I’m on the clock, and especially if I’ve had a few, or a few too many as the case may be. I catch her eye and fake snarl at her, but she laughs and grabs Joe a little tighter and they start dancing in a way that I’m pretty sure will lead to late night shenanigans, if not bathroom-at-the-bar shenanigans.
I can feel the pull of the drums, making my hips shimmy. And somebody is whistling in that high-pitched catch a cab kind of way, and frankly we’re lucky that I’ve held off as long as I have given how much of my body is controlled by whiskey and beer at this point.
And before I can second guess the poor quality of my decision making, I’m hauling myself up onto the bar and the frantic churning of the guitar is rippling through my entire body like I’m electricity itself, or a flame twisting into the night.
“Yasss girl,” Caiden howls, pulling out his wallet and slapping down money on the bar top like I’m some kind of stripper. What a tool. Just in case I was even close to giving in on this long sad night and potentially pity banging him, this crap attempt at flattery has guaranteed him a long night alone with his favorite crusty towel and a bottle of hand lotion.
Might as well give him something really hot to regret later on tonight though.
The drums kick in, and then my breasts are sliding in a figure eight motion from side to side. I can practically hear Caiden’s jaw drop, his tongue unrolling like an old-time cartoon wolf, and steam issuing from his slightly too large ears, one of which is sporting a giant, gaudy golden hoop.
It never gets old to me. I love when people figure out for the first time that I know how to dance, and that I’ve obviously been practicing for years. So I let my drunkenness sink in, and roll my entire body to the underlying pattern of the music.
The movements of my hips are sharp, hitting each beat as the music escalates. And then I lean back into the music, bending over backwards as ACDC gets louder, the repeated chants of the song’s chorus driving every gyration of my leather clad hips as I stand atop the scuffed-up bar top.
The crowd, already drunk and happy, hoots appreciatively. Riddles isn’t really a dancing type of bar, even on our actual dancefloor. But I’m feeling so warm and happy that I can’t seem to hold it in any longer. My secret’s out, and now every last person in Valentine is going to know about me shaking my hips on my own bar top before the weekend is over.
And I am happy tonight, aren’t I? I’m trying to be as happy as I can because I am not a sucky friend, so I shimmy faster, the soft curve of my stomach shivering along with the lightning quick guitar licks.
I know what I look like normally, but the quick, seductive movements of belly dance make all of my curves and softness feel like something quite beautiful. I feel lush and gorgeous when I move, instead of feeling a little chubby and awkward, like I normally do. When I am fully invested in this type of dance, I feel like men should line up and beg for the chance to please me. It’s even more intoxicating than the alcohol.
I take down my work ponytail, and shake my hair, then take it even further by incorporating a few flashy headbanging moves into the siren song of my body. Take that, bro-den. You can look all you want, but you’re going home alone tonight. Like me.
For these few rock-n-roll moments, I’m willing to pretend that I am the luscious, sexy beauty that I feel like when I dance. Maybe someone special is watching right now, not only the bro at the bar. Perhaps Mister Right is watching, weighing his chances, and thinking about peeling my underwear off with his teeth. Theoretically, anything is possible.
But if Delilah finally found happiness after her whole giant telenovela level melodrama with Joe, then maybe I don’t have to die alone in an apartment with three different drawers full of vibrators.
I wind my body downward, grinding lower and lower toward the sticky wooden bar top. It feels as if the entire party roars its approval when I all but ride the bar top in a slinky, sensuous motion. Because now they know. I’m a tough, might-murder-you bartender, but also I am not-so secretly a very sexy heavy metal belly dancer.
My body ripples in time with the frenetic guitar work. I’ve reworked this routine repeatedly since I first designed it, and I know what I look like. I look like I’m dying to be touched, like my entire body is an earthly paradise of sensual delights. I’m drunk enough that I ease back into being upright and sway from side to side. Then, as I move to slide back up to standing, I feel my feet sliding out, not in a calculated move, but in an epic burst of clumsiness.
I look down, and Caiden has his hand wrapped around one of my ankles. Is he trying to keep me from falling or does he think this is some kind of joke? If he’s actually drunk enough that he’s pulling me down, then I needed to cut him off and kick him out at least an hour ago.
But even as I pull my leg free from his meaty grip, I lose my balance altogether and end up spilling off the bar, crashing down toward the floor, and ready to shatter.
And then somehow, I find myself wrapped in the most glorious set of muscular arms, which curl around me protectively. As tipsy as I am, I can’t stop from reaching out and stroking his glorious biceps with one slightly sticky finger. My finger keeps moving as if it has a mind of its own, and then my eyes slide up to this man’s strong, broad shoulders. Then, his neck, which I can honestly say looks good enough to eat right now. Strong chin, mischievous grin, and those eyes—the color of the ocean.
At least if I’m going to have to fall off the bar because of some stupid drunken mishap, then I had the good sense to fall right into the arms of this guy, my very own Mister Perfect. “Reed,” I breathe, flushed from the alcohol, the dance, and the fall. Certainly not from the epic muscles cradling all my soft parts right now. Nope. This is still Reed Fitzgerald Harrington IV, the same good guy who has been coming to my rescue for the last decade-ish.
“If you wanted to spend the night in my arms, K.T., all you had to do was ask,” his grin combined with those beautiful eyes is making my lonely lady parts stir from hibernation.
