The interior smelled of beer and buffalo wings. More fishing nets hung on the walls, along with plastic floats, fake compasses, reproduction ship’s wheels, and a collection of bras. The wooden tables were pressed close together with an open space at the rear for the band. The bar, which had a reputation as a hangout for the younger vacation crowd, was just beginning to come alive.
Lucy watched the band tune up while she sipped a watermelon margarita. Why would Temple even think such a thing? Just because Panda was hot? So were a lot of men, maybe not to the same degree-definitely not to the same degree-but love was more than sex. Love implied common interests, an ease being with each other, a shared sense of values. Okay, so she and Panda did have some of that-a lot of that-but…
She was relieved when a beefy jock type sidled up to her. “What’s your name, foxy lady?”
“I go by Viper.”
“Like windshield viper?” He was already visibly drunk, and he blew a series of hee-haws through his nose.
“No,” she replied. “Like, if-you-piss-me-off, I’ll-kick-your-ass Viper.” She blew her own silent hee-haw.
Only as the kid backed away did it occur to her that, between her dreads, tattoos, and tough talk, she might be too scary for the average male, which kind of defeated her purpose in coming here. But as she watched jock boy retreat, she had to admit she loved the idea that goody-goody Lucy Jorik could frighten anybody away.
She’d dressed in full-out goth-skank mode: a little black skirt that barely covered her butt, a one-shoulder black halter top with a grommet border, and her only pair of heels-studded black platform mules. With her tats on full display, nose and eyebrow rings in place, heavy dark eyeliner, she definitely stood out from all the college girls in their cute little shorts and flip-flops.
She drifted toward a kennel of males: a golden retriever, a greyhound, a pit bull, and a couple of mongrels. All of them were watching her. She almost asked permission to join them before she remembered who she was. “I’m Viper.” She set her beer on the table and took the only empty chair. “If you hear any stories about me, they’re probably true.”
WHERE THE HELL WAS SHE? By midnight, Panda had checked every bar in town before he remembered The Compass. Lucy had taken his car, so he’d had to come into town by boat, leaving Temple alone. For all he knew, Temple had downed the rest of the chocolate Lucy had bought. He no longer cared.
He surveyed the crowd and spotted her right away. She was dancing in front of the band with a skinny, long- haired kid who looked like a young Eddie Van Halen. If you could call that pelvic grind she was doing “dancing.” Both the lead guitarist and bass player were singing right to her, a cover of Bon Jovi’s “Runaway.” She looked tough, dangerous, and barely legal in her trashy top and trashier shoes. Her skirt wasn’t much more than a handkerchief and showed way too much leg, along with a new tat of a snake coiling up one calf, its fanged head pointed toward Nirvana. Hard to remember that two and a half months ago this tough-as-nails man-eater had been wearing pearls and preparing to settle into domestic bliss with the most respectable guy in Texas.
He was attracting his own kind of attention, but he’d long ago lost his taste for coeds. The song came to an end. She hooked her arms around the young stud’s neck, leaned into him, and kissed the son of a bitch. Long and hard.
Panda plowed through the crowd and gave the punk a nudge on the shoulder. “Get lost.”
She turned her head just far enough to lift her phony-pierced eyebrow at him, then tightened her hold on the kid’s neck and stuck her lips near his earlobe. “Ignore him. He’s not as tough as he looks.”
Panda didn’t have to stare at the kid more than a few seconds before the kid figured out that wasn’t true. The boy broke Lucy’s hold. “Later, okay?”
Lucy watched the kid hurry off, then glared at Panda. “Go away,” she shouted over the music. “I’m drunk, and I was just getting ready to make out with him.”
He gritted his teeth. “Congratulations. At this rate, you’ll be done with your list in no time.”
She stomped her metal-studded shoe. “Damn it, he’s leaving, and I was going to sleep with him. Now it’ll have to be the greyhound.”
She looked way too outraged. “I’m not your woman. And I’m not your
He kissed her before she could say any more. She tasted like booze and cinnamon lipstick. But she didn’t throw herself into the kiss the way he wanted. Instead she nipped his bottom lip with her teeth and backed off. “Nice try, Patrick, but no dice. I’m partying with new friends, and you aren’t invited.”
“Hold on. You told me you wanted to make out in public.”
“And you said you wouldn’t.”
“Changed my mind.” He was a shitty dancer, but he figured what she’d been doing wasn’t exactly dancing, so he pulled her against him.
She refused to cooperate. “Buy me a drink first.”
“You’ve had enough.”
She glued her feet to the ground. “No drink, no dance. Get me a kamikaze.”
He gritted his teeth and stalked over to the bar. “Make me something that tastes like a kamikaze,” he told a female bartender who looked like a prison guard. “But without the booze.”
“What are you?” she growled. “Some kind of religious nut?”
“Just make the damned drink.”
The final concoction tasted more like an orange Popsicle than a real kamikaze, but maybe Lucy wouldn’t notice. He spotted her perched on some guy’s lap. The kid was tall and almost comically skinny, with a long nose and longer neck. The greyhound.
He bought himself a beer and sauntered over to the table. The greyhound saw him coming and got up so fast he nearly dumped her. Panda nodded at him and handed Lucy her drink. “I see you’re up to your old tricks,
She gave him the stink eye.
“A word of advice, boys…” He sipped his beer. “Check your wallets before you let her get away. She can’t help herself.”
As they reached for their pockets, he set down his beer and pulled her back to the dance floor, where the band had launched into an off-key ballad. She smirked at him. “No need to make out with me. Like I told you, I’ve already done that. With
“I’m impressed.” He cupped his hands around her butt and moved his mouth closer to her ear. “How about getting felt up in public? Is that on your list, too?”
“No, but…”
He squeezed. “You should put it there.”
He was hoping for a little embarrassment on her part, but he didn’t see it. He backed her to the wall next to a wooden whale and kissed the hell out of her. This time he got a reaction. She wrapped her arms around his neck, right where they belonged. She seemed a little dazed, or maybe that was him. He tugged at her earlobe with his lips. “Let’s get out of here.”
She acted as though he’d dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. “No way, dude. I’m staying.”
“Think again,
“And how exactly are you going to pull that off?”
She had a point. As much as he might want to, he couldn’t exactly throw her over his shoulder and drag her out without attracting the attention of at least a few good Samaritans, right along with the prison guard behind the bar, who probably had a handgun tucked away somewhere.
Lucy sauntered off, ass wiggling. She found another table, this one holding an older and tougher crowd. His temper surged. She was a big girl, and if this was the way she wanted it, to hell with her.
He began to elbow his way toward the door, then paused. Some of the women were watching her a little too closely, probably because they didn’t like the male attention she was attracting. But maybe they were trying to place her face, and if that happened… He imagined cell phones pulled out, cameras clicking away, people pressing in on her…
He ordered a club soda, leaned against the bar, and watched her until the men at the table got uneasy and stopped talking to her. She tried another table, but he had his glare on good and strong, and they didn’t roll out the
