Changing Course (Wrecked and Ruined #1)(2)

"CAN I buy you ladies a drink?" I ask when I get close to the three girls huddled together. Real smooth, jackass! I'm sure they've never heard that one before. I mentally chastise myself.

"Nope," says the shortest of the bunch as she turns around ignoring me.

This is definitely not the usual response I get when I approach women. I'm not completely sure if she even looked at me before rejecting my offer. I'm a good looking guy. I won't pretend I don't know it. I'm 6'5" with brown hair and green eyes. I work out and take care of myself. All that shit women are supposed to like. I don't dress like the normal t-shirt clad douche bags you usually see in this club either. Tonight I'm wearing dark jeans, a button down royal blue fitted shirt, black belt and boots. It's not my best outfit, but seriously Miss Shorty Shoot Down would be lucky to even get my attention.

I stand there for a minute, shocked by the rejection and trying to figure out a new plan of action. I refuse to walk away. Jerry Jerkoff from across the bar is not getting anywhere near my Red Dress.

"Hey, you're tall!" I hear slurred from beside me. Turning, I come face to face with one of the sexiest women I have ever seen, and the newest member of my mental spank bank.

"So are you," I reply into her ear so she can hear me over the music. I toss her a mischievous smile when I lean away, just so there is no mistaking that I'm interested.

"No, I mean you are reallllly tall." She sways backwards, making a dramatic show of craning her neck to look into my eyes.

I laugh nodding my head to agree with her assessment, while she grabs her friends squealing, "Y'all look how tall this guy is." I squeeze my eyes shut and adjust my pants as I hear the sweetest southern accent roll off my drunken beauty's tongue.

"Hi, I'm Brett," I extend my hand out to her friend.

"Hi, I'm Regina Phalange," Shorty says, grabbing my hand.

"And I'm Anastasia Beaverhousen. Anastasia, as in the Russian royal princess. Beaverhousen, as in the house a beaver lives in." They all double over in fits of laughter.

"Right. Of course you are. So that would make you...?" I ask my girl when she finally stands back up and tries to wipe invisible tears from under her eyes.

"Oh God, I'm sorry about them. They have been drinking since noon, I swear. I'm Danika. Just Danika," she says without a single slur. Interesting. Maybe she isn't as drunk as I first thought.

"Well, Danika, can I buy you and your drunk friends a drink?"

"Sure...wait! Are you planning to drug any of us?" she asks in mock seriousness.

"Well, it wasn't the plan. But if you happen to have any drugs on you, I'd be happy to drop them in your drink when you aren't looking."

"Nah, I'm good. I roofied myself last weekend and it wasn't all that fun. I'll just take the drink," she jokes.

"Totally understandable," I nod, playing along.

"What do y'all want to drink? Brett here is buying this round," she yells over her shoulder to her friends. "Oh forget it, they can't hear me. Just get us a Corona, Sex on the Beach, and a shot of tequila."

I flag down the bartender to order, adding a beer for myself. As I wait for the drinks, I alternate between chatting with the girls and staring down Jerry Jerkoff from across the bar.

"So which one is yours?" I ask as our drinks are placed on the bar in front of us.

"What? Oh, you mean the drinks? That depends, which one do you think is mine?" she says, throwing her own flirtatious smile my way.

"Okay, let's see," I rub my chin pretending to be deep in thought. "You don't seem drunk enough to be drinking tequila shots tonight, so that's out. And you don't seem like the type of girl to order a fruity drink that comes complete with a cherry sword skewer and toy umbrella. Simple process of elimination, I'm going to guess the Corona is yours."

Staring at all three drinks in front of her, she waves her hand over them, making a show of reaching for each one. She finally reaches down, pulls out the umbrella and cherry skewer, and tosses them out of the fruity drink.

“Well, you were right about one thing, I don't order drinks with cherry swords and plastic umbrellas. I do, however, love Sex on the Beach," she says with a wink before chugging the drink and slamming it on the bar like she’s hanging with Patrick Swayze at The Roadhouse.

"Do you dance?" she asks, using the back of her hand to wipe her mouth.

"Why, yes ma’am, Danika, I surely do." I reply in what can only be described as the perfect southern accent.

"Wow. That was terrible. Brett, for your sake, I hope your dancing is better than your linguistic abilities," she says, just seconds before slapping me on the ass and heading to the dance floor.

I know it is definitely too soon to be in love with this crazy woman, but I do know I'm in a shit ton of trouble.





Brett

I SPENT the rest of the night glued to Danika's ass. I mean that both literally and figuratively. We danced, we laughed, and best of all, we got to know each other. She was beautiful in every way possible. She told me about her dreams to become a writer, and I told her about my decision to join the police force as soon as I finished college. I bought drinks and her girlfriends made toasts to absurd things like "vibrating butt plugs" and "bisexual men everywhere." While I may have been wrong about the amount of alcohol this woman could consume, I was absolutely correct about where her evening would end.