Drop Dead Sexy(11)

With my decision made, I cranked up the car and fastened my seatbelt. I peeled out of the parking lot, thrilled to be leaving the hellhole goodbye. Of course, I began to regret my decision fifteen minutes later and further into East Bumblef*ck. My cell reception wasn’t getting any better, and I debated whether or not I should just turn around and go back to the Texaco since I hadn’t come across any other gas stations. To be honest, I hadn’t come across anything for that matter. The two-lane road was lined with thick trees and an occasional house here and there.

But as I rounded a sharp curve, my salvation finally loomed in the distance. Oh sweet heavens, it was a bar. Gunning the accelerator, I couldn’t seem to get there fast enough. I feared it was just another mirage in the desert of my datelessness that might evaporate the closer I got. But then it stayed a shining beacon of hope as I whipped into the parking lot on two wheels.

That’s when I got a good look at my alleged salvation, which at best could be classified as something from Nightmare on Hee Haw Street. I exhaled the breath I’d been holding in one frustrated pant that came off more like a grunt. Multicolored Christmas lights ran the length of the ramshackle roof that hung over a long, rectangular building. A giant sign hung over the top of the bar with some of its bulbs burned out, so instead of reading The Rusty Halo, it said The Rusty Ho.

See, this is exactly what happens when you go off half-cocked searching for cock. Shaking my head free of my self-deprecating tirade, I glanced in the mirror to survey my reflection. Okay, so the Rusty Halo/Ho wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned on my quest to end my longsuffering sex drought. It was the epitome of every backwoods dive of a honky-tonk. But tonight, it was going to be Club 54 or whatever the hell the most happening hotspot was now. I was Dead Woman Walking when it came to sex—it was going down tonight and so was I.

Throwing open the car door, I grabbed my purse and then stumbled along the gravel pavement. Just as I passed a rusted-out Ford pickup, a hound dog bellowed in my ear, causing me to jump out of my skin and almost piss my panties. “Jesus!” I cried, glancing over at the long-eared hound dog. Sitting behind the wheel, it looked like it was waiting to drive its inebriated owner home at the end of the night.

Once I got my wits about me again, I made it to the door. Smoothing down my hair and dress, I drew in a deep breath. Okay, Olivia Rose Sullivan, get a grip and get in there and get some.

With that internal pep talk, I pulled open the door and took a determined step inside. The moment my heels slid through the sawdust and peanut hulls that covered the floor, I knew I had made a terrible, terrible mistake. The happy hoots and hollers of the patrons brought my attention up from what had to be a blatant health code violation to the small stage across from me. As a Skynyrd cover band blared out the opening from Free Bird, lighters appeared out of the pockets of faded Wranglers and overall bibs, cutting through the hazy smoke rings. The firelight helped illuminate the room, giving me a good look at my male choices for the evening.

My raging libido instantly shriveled at the sight of what had to be the reunion crew of Deliverance. Instantly the tune of Dueling Banjos started to play in my head. No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening. I could not bring myself to go home with a hillbilly, regardless of the state of tumbleweeds blowing through my nether regions. It was time I turned around, tucked my tail between my legs, and got the hell out of there.

And then the crowd parted, and the banjo music playing in my head screeched to a stop. Sitting at a table alone was the living and breathing embodiment of my fantasies. Even though he was sitting down, I could tell he was tall because his knees bumped against the tabletop. His wavy dark hair fell across his forehead, which seemed to cause him great irritation judging by how exasperated he seemed each time he pushed it back with his fingers.

Instead of Wranglers or overalls, he had on a suit. The jacket was draped across one of the extra chairs while the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up at his elbows. His tie sat a little askew as if he had been itching to rip it off. Multicolored folders littered the table along with the foamy beer he was nursing.

Even though people bumped and jostled me in the crowd, I stood frozen to that spot, undressing him with my eyes. A wet spot formed on my chin, and I brought the back of my hand up to wipe it away. Oh yeah, I was drooling. After thinking of having to bed Toothless Joe, this was a dream come true.

As if Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sinfully Handsome sensed someone staring at him, he jerked his head up, meeting my gaze. Then the most panty-melting smile imaginable stretched across his drop-dead sexy face. And in that bright and shining moment, my poor, male-neglected vagina, which for so long had been flat lining on life-support, coughed and sputtered back to life. The same jolt of electricity shuddered through its long dormant walls as if the paddles from a crash cart had been administered and a doctor yelled, “Clear!” Through a miracle, I had actually found the Dr. Feelgood who was going to end my longsuffering sex drought.

Considering his smile as an invitation, I pushed myself forward to close the gap between us. The sawdust on the floor, coupled with my nervously knocking knees, made it a little harder than I expected. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I stood before him.

My heartbeat drummed wildly when he stood up. “Well, hello there,” he said, his deep, rich voice sending a lightning bolt straight to my vagina.

“H-Hi,” I stammered.

He motioned to the empty chair across from him. “Won’t you join me?”