There are three bartenders: two dudes and one cute little brunette. I get her attention and smile, being the flirt that I am, and she saunters my way.
"What's it gonna be, handsome?" She's even cuter up close.
I pin my pointer finger down with my thumb and show her three digits. "Three Modelo, three Cuervo shots."
She flashes a pouty smile, all full lips, and quickly turns and walks to the other end of the bar to fill my order. My eyes drop to her ass as it comes into view moving away from me. She's wearing shorts so tiny her cheeks are hanging out. Don't get me wrong, it looks good, she's in fantastic shape that's for sure, but here's the thing...I like some modesty. I know that's weird for a twenty-six-year-old guy who has a Ph.D. in flirting, but I think a little modesty reveals humility, which is one of the sexiest traits in a woman. I like a girl who's pretty, but doesn't know it, if that makes sense. Pretty, but doesn't shove it down my throat. Unassuming does it for me. So, when the bartender returns with the shots, she's somehow made the transition from cute to an afterthought. That's how quickly I can write potential off, in a split second. I know, I'm fickle, but if I'm going to spend quality time with a woman, I want to enjoy their company. It takes all kinds to make the world go around and I've dated them all, believe me, maybe that's why I'm so damn picky. I'm not looking to settle down or fall in love, but I still treat dating like an interview process, and vet like a mofo, because crazy or high maintenance isn't something I'm willing to entertain even on a casual basis. I don't care how amazing they are in bed, it's not worth it. Needless to say, I don't date much these days.
She pops the bottle caps off the beers and places them on the bar top next to the shots and flashes her smile again. "That'll be twenty-one dollars, sugar."
I hand her twenty-five and ask if she can help me carry the beers outside. She eagerly obliges, and when Jamie eyes her walking toward their table, with me walking behind, his sober expression lights up into mischief. He's into her. The kid can't hide an emotion to save his life. He sucks at poker because, you know, no poker face. The only person he can beat is Gus, and I half think that's because Gus lets him win.
She sets the beers on the table. "Hi, boys."
"Hi," they both answer. Robbie is unimpressed with her saccharine tone. He's only into blonds, so Miss Mahogany Mane doesn't stand a chance anyway, but he's not even trying to hide his displeasure. Jamie, on the other hand, is still grinning like crazy.
She turns to me and bends over slightly, so her cleavage is strategically at eye level. "Let me know when you're ready for more, hun." It seems she's one of those people who's incapable of ending a sentence without a pet name.
I kind of hate that, too, but I'd like good service tonight and I don't need her spitting in our next round of drinks, so I wink and offer, "Sure thing."
She sashays away, ass swinging like a clock pendulum while Jamie drools.
"Wipe your chin and close your mouth, man, it's embarrassing," I say to Jamie when she's out of earshot. I'm laughing at him, God this kid kills me. He's like a mini-Gus, except they're nothing alike. They share a lot of the same personality traits, but they project them differently. They're both insanely nice and generous, but while Gus does it with an easy, it's-who-I-am attitude, Jamie is more naïve, like a baby animal that you want to protect from the fierce, vicious world outside for fear he'll get eaten alive.
Jamie's smiling because he knows I'm joking, but his eyes are still glazed over with the prospect of getting in her very tiny shorts. For being on the shy side, the kid gets his fair share of tail and then some. Chicks dig his innocence. Women are attracted to Gus and Jamie like moths to a flame. Though Gus has been converted to monogamy by Scout, and I love seeing that change in him. "What? She was hot," Jamie defends.
I nod. "She's cute." And shrug. "Not my type."
He nods slowly, and a smirk plays at his lips. "She didn't pass the test, huh?" He knows the list of shit that turns me off with women is long and getting longer by the day.
I take a long pull on my beer before I answer his taunt. "Nah, I just didn't like the fact that everyone else has seen ass-ets before I'd have a chance to unwrap them myself. She's all yours."
Robbie holds up his tequila shot. "I need to unwind. Let's get fucked up." He's a man of few words.
Jamie and I raise our shot glasses, and as the three clink together, we repeat after Robbie, "Let's get fucked up."
An hour passes in no time, and we've downed two more rounds of drinks when it starts sprinkling rain, which is pleasant until the clouds open up and it turns into a downpour chasing us inside.
I glance at my watch—it's only nine o'clock and I'm already feeling a little hazy. "You two wanna play some pool before we have another beer?" I need to slow down if I want to walk out of here tonight of my own volition, instead of carried out by my compatriots.
"Sounds good. I'll take your money. Rack 'em up," Jamie says confidently.
I'm shit at pool. I know it's a game of geometry and angles, but my mind doesn't work that way, which means I always lose. And we always play for money, so not only do I lose my dignity, but I lose cashola, too. Technically, it should be the last thing I enjoy doing, but I love it. I have a pool table at home, and I can play whenever I want, but I'm still shit even with the practice. I guess that's proof you don't have to be good at something to enjoy it.