Redneck Romeo (Rough Riders #15)(67)

The groom arrived and after being subjected to a speech about the horrors of marriage, he was dragged front and center for wedding night tips by Busby’s friends.


All eyes were on the makeshift stage. As soon as the strippers had finished torturing Reggie, other guys pulled out their wallets to get in on the action.


Dalton didn’t move.


Truman slipped in beside him and rested his elbows on the table. “I’m surprised you’re not in line for a lap dance, McKay. Strippers used to be your thing.”


“They used to be your thing too, Truman. So why aren’t you in line?”


He shrugged. “Not my thing anymore.”


“Not mine either.” Dalton sipped his drink. “You think any of these married guys will tell their wives they paid a strange chick with monster tits to grind on them?”


“Hell no. We both know they’re gonna go home and swear up and down there weren’t strippers at this bachelor party.” Truman shot him a sideways glance. “The only bachelor party that I’ve ever been to that didn’t have strippers? Yours. And who’d believe that of stripper-loving Dalton McKay?”


Dalton laughed. “Point taken. So did you have strippers at your bachelor party?”


“Didn’t have a party. Didn’t do any of the normal wedding stuff with Addie after you…” He cleared his throat. “We opted for small.”


The cocktail waitress, aka—the backup stripper, stood in front of Dalton and rested her enormous rack on the bar. Yeah, he looked—hard to miss those gigantic blobs of flesh when they were right in his f*cking face.


She cooed, “Why the frown? You want a lap dance but don’t wanna wait in line?” She smiled and dragged a long red fingernail across her cleavage. “How about if I put a smile on that handsome face of yours, slick?”


“How much?” Dalton asked flatly.


“Twenty for a five-minute dance. Forty if you want me to face you and let you touch these.” She cupped her breasts.


“Pass.”


“You sure?” she purred. “What these hips can do puts these girls’ lame moves to shame.”


“Pass,” he said again.


She might’ve muttered cheap bastard under her breath as she stomped away.


Truman laughed. “Well, you may not want them, but the strippers are still flocking to you.”


“Flocking,” he repeated with a laugh. “More like fleecing. Nothin’ more attractive than a drunk man with an open wallet.”


“Cynical.”


“I prefer to think of it as mature.”


Dalton had fun providing running commentary to Truman as they watched the strippers working the room. At one point they were laughing so hard a couple guys still in line gave them dirty looks.


After about an hour, Truman picked up his glass. “How can this be magically full again?”


Dalton squinted at the table in front of them after he saw a flash of green. Had that leprechaun chick been sneaking under the table and filling their glasses?


“What the f*ck is in this drink?” Truman asked. “I swear I’ve had one and it feel like five. Shit. I’m buzzed.”


“Me too.”


Truman shoved the glass away. “Man. I gotta eat something and sober up. I’d never hear the end of it if I had to call my pregnant wife to haul my drunken ass home after a bachelor party.” He clapped Dalton on the shoulder. “Great seein’ you, McKay. I’m glad you’re sticking around.”


What? Wait. When had he said that?


Maybe he was drunker than he thought.


Used to be Dalton loved the happy buzz he got after several drinks. The happy place where he knew the people around him were his true friends. The happy place where he knew the women were laughing at his jokes because he was one damn funny man. The happy place where he knew he’d found his place.


But Dalton wasn’t feeling any of that now.


This wasn’t who he was anymore.


And he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here.


Dalton ducked out of the backroom and into the hallway. He had to close one eye because everything was so blurry. He slumped against the wall.


Fuck being drunk. He hated this. No f*cking wonder he never did this stupid shit anymore.


He patted his pocket and found his cell phone. By holding his phone right up to his face he could sort of read the names. Selecting the one he wanted, he poked the Call button. “Hey. Sorry to do this to you but I’m at the Golden Boot and I’m really drunk and I need a ride so can you come and get me right now please? Thanks.”


He hung up and stumbled outside to wait for his ride.


The caller ID on Rory’s phone read Sierra. ’Bout damn time that little shit called her. Rory answered with, “Lemme guess; boy troubles.”


“Fuck off,” Sierra said by way of greeting. “I don’t only call you when I’ve got guy problems.”


“Do too.”


“Do not. Anyway, it’s not my guy that’s giving me problems. It’s yours.”