Chapter 2
Molly
You better dance tonight, too.
I huffed impatiently at my phone. Ashlyn was driving me up the wall with all her texts. First she harassed me when I got off work, making sure I was still going. She texted me every hour on the hour, interrupting any chance I had of a nap to make sure I was going. Then she texted about my outfit until I changed. Now she was checking my behavior once I got inside. Leave it to her to shame me into looking sluttier. I still couldn’t believe she got me to agree to go to a club. Alone at that.
“Go out,” she said. “Stop being so boring,” she said.
She said that often, but I liked boring – my childhood had been exciting enough.
“It’ll be fun,” she said, and yet there I was without her. I could have sworn her catching a cold meant I was getting out of jail. Not so. Instead, I was there, soldiering forward and alone.
I will. I texted back.
Don’t be a clam and hold up the wall either. Find a fine man to dance with… or take you home. Either option is good.
LOL. In your dreams.
Exactly. In my dreams. So why don’t you make them come true?
I don’t think so, chick. Your dream. My reality.
Ugh. You’re such a bore. You realize you’re 30. Not 80. Right?
Duh, girl. 80-year-old me would not have these tits.
Seriously. I went all out. I had on a white vest. It was sleeveless. The only thing holding it together was a small gold chain, just below the curve of my breasts. It was cut low, giving everyone a good view of my chest and stomach. I had to dig way in the back of my closet to find it. I hadn’t worn anything like it in a long time. But I still had the body for it.
Before, I had on a pair of wedges, a jean skirt, and a plain, V-neck shirt. My long, brown hair was pulled into a messy bun with fun wisps curling near my face. Because of the incessant texting, I snapped a picture for approval. I looked nice. Her scathing response was quick.
Change. NOW.
Why? I like it. It’s not too much.
If by not too much you mean boring, then hell yeah, bitch. It’s not too much. I know you have better clothes than that. Try again.
I’m not trying to dress up too much. I don’t want to call any attention to myself.
The phone rang in my hand and with a sigh and some regret, I answered. “Do you know what the purpose of going out is?”
She didn’t wait for me to answer.
“To get attention, girl! Change that outfit. Now. You know you’re barely five feet. Put on some real heels!”
“Hey! I’m five foot five.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, ignoring me. “I don’t care what you say. Change it. Your friend on her death bed demands it.”
I laughed out loud. “You have a cold, not even the flu. You’ll be back this week, so that’s not an overly strong argument.”
“Change,” she huffed.
“Why?” I whined like I was having an argument with my mom.
“Because you look like a teeny bopper who just got permission to go out and who doesn’t want her dad to get mad at her outfit.”
She had a kind of brutal honesty that tested most friendships, but I appreciated it. I always knew where I stood with her. I stared at myself in the mirror and turned to the side. “I do not. This says classy and sassy.”
“Is that what you think it says? Believe me sweetheart. It most certainly does not. It looks like the outfits moms wear when they go pick up their kids to show that they’ve still got it, but the only reason their hair is in a bun is because it’s a sticky matted mess and, underneath all the makeup, they’re exhausted. Are you a soccer mom? No. You’re not. It does not say sassy nor classy. I’m almost positive it says you didn’t even try. I bet that was the first outfit you put on! Wasn’t it?” she accused.
I wasn’t going to tell her she was right. I thought about what I would wear all day at the office and decided on this before I was even home.
She took my silence for what it was – guilty admission.
“So help me God, Molly, if you don’t change, I will tell everyone the revolving door story.”
I gasped in horror. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me, bitch,” Ashlyn said.
And that was how I came to be in my ensemble, half-naked and catching the eye of every man with eyeballs in front of the club. I have to say, it was nice skipping the line though.
I’m going in now.
Have fun!
I smiled at the screen and moved to put it in my clutch, stopping only because it vibrated again.
And do everything I would do.
It buzzed again with a smirking emoji, then buzzed again.
And if you’re willing to play dense about that, I mean find someone to clean out the cobwebs in that kitty.
I could only shake my head as I laughed. The bouncer checked me and my clutch before opening the door. The cool air of the night was no competition for the damp air inside the club. It was dark, but full of strobe lights. The only stationary light was at the bar, so that’s where I went.
A man with slicked back hair stood behind the counter, flipping bottles in the air like a circus performer. I bet he called himself a mixologist instead of a bartender.
“What can I get you?” he yelled over the music.
“A margarita, please.”
“Coming right up,” he said, snatching a bottle of tequila from the counter and tossing it behind his back.
This place was much fancier than I thought it would be, but still equally up to my low standards. This wasn’t the city; this was Willow Springs, Arizona, small town and just like I remembered it to be. The only reason I was there was so none of my coworkers or cases saw me. Not that I was ashamed, because I deserved a night out like everybody else, but I worked hard to have respect in my profession. I wasn’t going to kill it by giving fuel to gossips. That was why I was an hour and thirty minutes away from Flagstaff, where I worked.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” he said, sliding me my drink.
I turned on the barstool that I’d managed to steal before another girl could take it and surveyed the club. It was full, packed to the brim with dancing bodies and had half naked women and hot men looking for something or someone to get into.
Beautiful men weren’t hard to find in Flagstaff, but their men were more polished, refined. The men here were rugged. Hard jaws with even harder bodies, loose morals, and interested in any woman with loose pants. I smiled into my drink. It had been awhile since I’d been there, but ironically, I didn’t feel as out of place as I thought I would.
I drained my cup and slid off the barstool. I was sufficiently warmed from my drink and ready to dance. I didn’t come all the way there, looking like I did, to not shake my body.
It was easy to join the throng of people. The beat shook the floor so hard I could feel it in my shoes. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let everything go. I didn’t think about work, the life I had, the life I left, and how close I felt to the person I used to be – in that moment, I was nothing but the music. I shook, gyrated, flung my heavy mane, and put my hands in the air. I had partners, some men and some women, but I kept dancing. I danced better by myself, and only when I was drenched in sweat and sufficiently wobbly on my feet did I take myself back to the bar.
I ordered another margarita and smiled at the hunk of a man standing at the end of the bar, sipping something dark from his glass. The alcohol was soaked up by the chicken wings I ate at the house, but still present enough for me to smile first and caution myself later. He was beautiful, the strobe lights adding shadows to his face, making his beard look full and soft. His dark-blond hair was wild, like he just had sex. I could see his arms were covered in tattoos and his chest was bare under the leather vest he wore. The plains of his chest looked smooth and hard, like granite. I wanted to touch and find out for myself. Feeling my eyes on him, he turned and smiled mischievously.
His eyes held mine and everything in me felt drawn, pulled to him. I resisted and my hair stood on end like I’d just been electrocuted. He could feel it too. He walked toward me in even strides, the crowd parting for him automatically. Before I knew it, he was standing over me. My eyes took him in up close and I could see his were blue. Light blue, like ice. And his arms were covered in tattoos. His chest looked unreal with muscles, but I was wrong: it wasn’t smooth. It was bruised and lined with scars I wanted to run my tongue over.
“Enjoying the view?” he said, leaning down to talk into my ear.
“More than you know.”
He braced himself on the counter with enough distance to not be awkward, but close enough to hear me. “Let me buy you a drink?”
“You can do more than that.”
He smirked and licked his lips “I like a girl who knows what she wants.”
I giggled and walked my finger up his arm. “Well in that case, I want a tall glass of you.”
He didn’t even look surprised. With his looks, I bet he got something like that all the time. “Here or somewhere a little private?” he asked.
I lived an hour away and what I wanted to do with him would die on that long drive. “What I’m thinking involves a bed,” he said making his intentions clear.
“Lead the way.”
He turned and held out his hand for me to take. He didn’t look back, not even considering the idea I might not take his hand. For the first time, I saw what was on the back of his vest – an insignia I knew well. A cartoon of a man with a cowboy hat and a bandana covering everything except his eyes. Underneath were the words “Los Banditos.”
The bandits.
My hand hung in mid-air as I debated taking his hand. He turned around, sensing my hesitation.
“Something wrong?”
In reality, no. Nothing was wrong. I didn’t have any reason to feel guilty or scared. I was just a normal woman. I didn’t owe anyone anything. I owed myself some pleasure. The kind I hadn’t had in a year and two, if we’re counting actual dick and not the rubber, silicone kind.
“No,” I said, looking up from his vest to his face. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”