Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(168)
I slapped her hand away, aware of the sidelong glances we were getting from nearby tables.
“You just leave my crotch outta this, Mel,” I warned her.
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah sure, why not.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I,” she sing-songed.
“Ugh.”
I pulled my phone out of my purse again and checked it, hoping she would savor the last word and be done with this conversation. No new messages. Shit. Melita cut her eyes toward it and quickly looked away.
“If he’s not here in five minutes,” she started again, her voice deceptively reasonable, “I want you to drop them tits on the next handsome guy that walks in.”
I thumbed the smartphone face bitterly and chucked it back into my purse.
“OK, first of all, Carl’s just late, let’s cut him a little slack--”
“Again,” she reminded me in a mutter.
“Yes… again, whatever. Shit happens. And second... exactly who drops their tits, Melita? Seriously? Is dropping tits like even a thing?”
Her face fell into a perfect diagram of surprise.
“Is it even a thing?” she repeated incredulously, her voice spiralling up like an air raid siren. “Is dropping your titties even a thing?”
I looked around, nervously yanking on the deep V of my dress as a few nearby hipsters angled their eyes toward us.
“You’re telling me you’ve never just rolled up on a man and brushed your nips against his arm? Are you serious?”
“Lower your voice!”
“Why do you even have them big ol’ country girl titties if you’re not going to use them, Bree? It’s a waste, I tell you! It’s a damn shame!”
I snatched my purse off the table and threw it on my shoulder, hugging it across my cleavage with both arms.
“OK, I’m leaving,” I announced.
She swished the straw around in her mouth, suddenly demure and thoughtful. “Well. But. I’m not done with my drink.”
“Melita, you were right…” I said through my clenched teeth, folding forward at the waist and trying to stay stable on the hooker heels she’d strapped to my feet. “He’s not coming… It’s late, I’m tired… What. What can I say. Let’s go.”
“I don’t want to go,” she moaned, tipping her head to the side. “You said we were going out. I got the babysitter, I paid for the babysitter, and now here we are in this fabulous fake-country bar for rich people…. I fucking love it here. We are not leaving.”
“But you were right,” I said slowly, drawing the words out for maximum effect until she started smiling like a cat. “You were riiiiiight.”
“I sure do love it when you say that,” she admitted.
“I know you do. And you were so, so right.”
“Because your boyfriend is a weenie,” she said too loudly, one finger poking toward the ceiling, preacher-speaking-truth-style.
“Melita--”
“Say it,” she commanded.
I sighed and made a face. “Because my boyfriend is a weenie,” I repeated glumly as some kind of country pop song started, just like the other one.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “That really does feel pretty good. Tell you what. We can call Operation Harden Carl’s Flaccid Manhood a failure and go catch a movie or something if you do me one favor…”
“OK, what?”
“Drop your titties--”
“MELITA!”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest, rolling her eyes to the conspicuously wood-panelled ceiling like she was having a conversation with the angels about how stubborn I was being.
I paused to consider my options: Was I going to be able to get her out of the bar without a theatrical monologue about either my boobs or Carl’s manhood? I couldn’t be sure. She certainly seemed to be enjoying herself, and I had a suspicion the three Long Island Iced Teas were egging her on.
“Fine,” I sighed resolutely. “You did loan me this dress… after all…”
“And it looks a-mah-zing on you, did I mention?”
I nodded. “You did. And thank you. You’re a good friend. And it’s totally not your fault that Carl is not here to see your handiwork and throw himself at me.”
“Pssht,” she agreed. “Exactly.”
“So tell me,” I said sweetly, reaching out to stroke her arm, “what do I need to do to get us out of this fucked up hillbilly outpost of a bar?”
She cocked her head at me, her lips pursed in a thin line.
“Melita, dear? Just clue me in?”
Her breath came out in a puff through her flared nostrils. “Brienne, I just want you to try it. Just flex your girl muscles a little bit. Show me you can.”