Choosing Henley(12)

We walk up to the table and stand around it. There are only three high-top chairs, so the rest of us have to stand. I try not to notice that Jami isn’t at the table, but it’s useless, and a few minutes later, I find myself scanning the crowd for him.

I guess I’m not being very subtle because Peyton leans over and whispers in my ear. “I saw him at the bar. He’s just getting drinks. He’ll be back.”

I smile at her. Perceptive little thing.

Jami returns after awhile with a tray of tequila shots. He seems to have shaken off his earlier moodiness, and for that, I’m thankful. Moody Jami is exhausting.

“I’m ready to get fucked up!” Jay shouts and starts singing the LMFAO song, “Shots.” Which really isn’t that hard considering that the entire song basically goes, “Shots, shots, shots, shots, shots, shot, EVERYBODY, shots…” You get the idea.

We all cheers and knock back the tequila. I close my eyes to feel the slow burn, and when I open them, I’m met by a pair of heated brown eyes. His gaze lingers on my mouth before travelling across my breasts, down my long legs, and back up again.

I feel the flush spread across my chest, and I’m not sure if it’s from the tequila or the look in his eyes, but either way, I know that this night has trouble written all over it.

And with that thought in mind, I head to the bar for another round.





I WEAVE MY way through the crowd, finally making it to my destination—the bar. It’s almost eleven thirty now and it’s impossible to get a waitress to bring you drinks. Well, unless you want to wait until after the new year for them, anyway. I slink my way through some of the people who are so far gone that I’m not sure they even know what year we are in and land a prime spot along the edge of the bar. I shoot the bartender a wink and he nods in my direction. Oh so what? Like you’ve never used the whole ‘I’m a girl’ shtick before to get served faster. Please. I’m still waiting to be served when a guy slides up to the bar in front of me.


“Hey, gorgeous,” he slurs, tossing me what I assume he thinks is an attractive grin. Maybe sober it might be, but right now, he kind of looks like one of those chimpanzees at the zoo.

I smile back at him but don’t say anything, turning my attention back to the busy bartender. A moment later, I feel a hand running down my backside and warm beer breath against my neck.

“Did it hurt?” my drunk admirer questions.

I reach around to remove his hand from my ass and spin around to face him, putting some space between us. “Excuse me?” I arch my eyebrow and fold my arms under my chest.

I meant to come across bitchy, but my action distracts him and he’s now staring at my pushed-up chest. Stupid big boobs. I drop my arms again and wait for him to answer. In the light and when he’s not drunker than an Irishman on St. Patty’s day, he probably would be very attractive. He’s blond and decently tall, standing maybe an inch or two taller than I do in my heels, and he has that whole ‘college guy’ vibe oozing off him. Definitely a tourist.

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. How unoriginal is that?

He looks incredibly proud of himself as he reaches out to grab my waist again. I start to back away, but the bar is too crowded and I just bump into the person behind me. He squeezes my hips harder than he should, which causes me to wince. Even with a stellar buzz going, that fucking hurts.

I place my hands on his chest and shove. Too bad for me, he’s built like a brick shithouse and doesn’t move an inch. He starts to lean in towards me, but I’ve had enough. Somebody needs to knock frat boy down a peg.

“Listen up, doll face,” I seethe sarcastically. Somewhere in my twenty-five years, I developed a habit for using pet names in a derogatory way. “I don’t know what about you and your popped collar”—I wave one hand around his neckline—“makes you think you can do whatever you please, but news flash, frat boy. You can’t. If you could please take your paws off me before I shove my heel up your ass, that would be greatly appreciated.”

I shoot him a nasty grin and place my hands over his to remove them from my waist. When his hands don’t budge again, I look up to see the anger in his eyes. Oh goodie! Frat boy has anger problems. No doubt making up for having a pencil dick.

His fingers dig harder into my hips, and I cry out as he opens his mouth to say something. “Listen here, you little bitch…” He trails off and his eyes go wide as he looks at something over my shoulder. Before I have a chance to turn, I feel a familiar arm wrap around my waist from behind, pulling me from the frat boy’s tight grip.