Alcohol You Later (40)

“No, doll.” I sigh with relief. “Definitely not.”

She clucks her tongue as she hands it back to me. “All that ceremony…I was expecting a prince or at the very least a celebrity.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Sometimes not being the front man has its perks. I don’t believe there’s a woman on this planet who wouldn’t recognize Rhett’s face.

Helen leans forward, resting her palms on the table in front of me. Her tits inches from my face. “Oh, Mr. Potter,” she whispers, “something tells me you aren’t one to disappoint.”

“Knew I liked you.” I give her my signature wink and I swear she damn near swoons on impact.

She’s cute. Curvy in all the right places. Full lips and big doe eyes. My name would sound like the sweetest honey moaned in her thick, Southern accent.

But it appears I’m broken because while my eyes can appreciate her beauty and sex appeal, my dick hasn’t as much as twitched her direction.

After a few bloodys, I call it quits and meander over to the bar down the street, Rougarou’s, named for the legendary Cajun boogie man. The name is what draws me to this particular establishment, but the atmosphere sells it. I can feel the bass pumping in my chest from twenty yards away. Classic late 90s, early 2000’s hip-hop and R&B tunes drift to my ears, instantly lifting my spirits.

My nerves are on edge as I hand the bouncer my I.D., but he barely looks at it, paying no mind to the name, just checks to be sure the faces match, and the date makes me of age. Relief washes over me when he slaps a bracelet on my wrist, ensuring I won’t have to pull that sucker back out again, and sends me on my way.

I grab an empty stool at the edge of the bar with a great view of the dance floor, my eyes instantly drawn to a group of girls dancing to Usher. One in particular, with waist-long black locks and curves made to drive a man wild, catches my attention. It takes me a minute in my drunken haze to realize it’s because I’m reminded of the first time I really saw her.

Raven Winters, dancing provocatively around a campfire, practically naked. It was the ABC, Anything But Clothes, party at Camp Pour Judgment—a singles camp the band attended a few years back. I wore a kilt made up of Budweiser boxes, and she sported well-placed strips of caution tape that left nothing to the imagination.

Her beauty stopped me dead in my tracks. The way her sweat slicked skin glowed by the firelight. That megawatt smile. Her hearty laugh. I can still see it, hear it clear as day.

I don’t believe in love at first sight, but it was something more than lust. Our souls connected that night on a deeper level than I’d ever connected with anyone else in my life. She was so brazen and uninhibited—honest in a way I found not only refreshing but have craved every minute since.

“Can I grab you a drink, man?” A buff bartender, shirtless but for a tiny vest that showcases his body, pulls me from my memory.

“Jack and coke.”

“You got it.”

He hasn’t taken two steps before the stools on either side of me are taken up by a couple of Goth chicks clad in leather and chains.

“Hi,” the one to the right, with short, platinum blonde, spiky hair says. “I’m Glinda, and my friend there…” She cups a hand around my ear and her lips to shield her voice. “We’ll just call her the Wicked Witch of the West.”

I choke on a laugh. “I’m Nick.”

“We know.” The one to my left lifts my glasses before I can stop her, and nods as she sets them back on my nose. “Don’t you have a concert you should be at right now?”

Fuck. “I’m uh…” The room starts spinning, my mind unable to come up with a lie quick enough. “Taking a night off.”

“They let you do that?” Glinda asks, sliding the drink the bartender just placed on the bar to my hand.

I toss it back, relishing the way it burns through my throat. I swipe a hand over my lips to catch the leftover liquid and find her still staring after me expectantly. “I’m sorry. Did you ask me something?”

“You’re cute,” the wicked witch offers, tossing her stringy black hair over a shoulder. Hers has an almost blueish hue. It’s not natural, like my dude’s. Not as long and luscious. Her blue eyes are dull and her smile flat. And I have no idea why I’m sitting here comparing the two. They aren’t even in the same league.

“Thanks,” I say, motioning the bartender over. “Three shots of…” I look to the girls, ready to ply them with free alcohol in hopes they won’t out me to the rest of the patrons.

“Fireball.”

I fight the urge to gag as I nod my head, giving him the go-ahead. I’ve tasted that shit on the way back up one too many times in my early party days. I steer clear of it now as much as possible. But I can take one for the team in the name of a little damage control.

“So, the show?” Glinda asks, twirling one of the strings to my hoodie. “Why aren’t you on stage right now? Our moms are gonna be disappointed.” Her teasing tone brings a loopy smile to my face.

“Personal shit.”

“Girl trouble?” The Wicked Witch asks as we all grab our shot glasses and toss ‘em back.

“Ah.” I clear my throat, shaking the taste away. “Somethin’ like that.”

“I don’t understand how a guy like you has girl trouble,” Glinda muses. “Baby, I would let you do anything to me…and I do mean anything.” She winks trying to be sexy, but her comment only fuels my anger.