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“Yes, that’s why I said it. I wouldn’t lie to you, Smokey. You’re a good guy, I like you, and you haven’t given any hints that you’ve got a lying or deception kink, so, yeah, I’m telling you the truth. Now, if you want to have a little fun, assume some fake names, break out some costumes, maybe you be a daring, rule-breaking FBI agent and I’m the naughty criminal you’ve just captured and are determined to make talk through whatever nefarious means necessary, well, I’m game.”
“I’m shocked.”
“You going to go up there? Or do I have to drag you there myself?” Striker says. “At the very least, you could flirt a little and get us some free beers.”
“Yeah. At least go dangle the prospect and get us some beers,” Moose adds.
“‘Dangle the prospect’? Are you calling my cock ‘the prospect’ now?”
“Well, if it’s useless, pointless, and ain’t doing nothing, yeah,” Striker says. “So put that little guy to work and get us some beers.”
“You want to know how I put my prospect to use? Go call your mother.”
“My mom’s in a home, man.”
Moose pats Striker on the shoulder, a comforting look on his face.
“Just because she’s older doesn’t mean she doesn’t have needs. Hell, the closer you get to the end, the more aware of those needs you become. Time gets shorter, so you get more determined to savor every moment. Why, there was this one time, I was down in Pensacola — on account of the fact that I had just seen Top Gun and I was in the mood for some airtime with some Navy fly boys — when I ran into this older man at a bar there. And when I say older, I mean experienced at the retirement home game. We got to drinking, drinking led to chatting, chatting led to flirting, but then I stopped. You want to know why?”
Striker and I both nod at the same time. “Why?”
“I knew, deep in my soul, that I couldn’t satisfy this man. The things he was telling me that went on at the retirement home he was living in, well, it was like having the wool pulled from my eyes. If Buddhism was sex, this guy had hit Nirvana."
Striker raises an eyebrow. “So, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying your mom probably fucks, and fucks a lot,” Moose says. “Like, more than you want to know.”
“How much do you think?” I say, loving just how much Striker is squirming right now. “You think she’s had two guys at once?”
“Oh, at least. Probably three, if not more,” Moose says. “I’ll bet she’s ravenous. I’ll bet she’s fucked most of the men in her retirement home.”
Rook slams his empty beer glass on the table and then pushes it toward me. “Stop talking about how much cock Striker’s mom can take and go get us some more beers. And put it on your tab.”
“My tab? What the fuck, Rook?”
“For making me have to think about Striker’s mom taking three cocks at once,” he retorts.
“At least,” Moose adds.
Rook has a look in his eyes like he’ll cut my head off, so I go to the bar.
The bartender’s still watching me with those blue-gray eyes and that smile that pulls me the same way a magnet pulls iron.
“Another round for me and my table. On my tab.”
“Usually, people are in a good mood when they pick up a round for their friends, but you look like you just announced your own memorial service.” Her lips quirk into something like a smile. For a second, I look at her and feel a sense of déjà vu, yet shake it off almost right away; even someone half as sexy would’ve been tattooed on my memory.
“Feels like I’ll be announcing it if I don’t,” I say.
“Some friends, huh?” She sets out a tray and begins filling glasses. “Listen, I know what it’s like to have a bad day. I can’t give you free beers all night, because I like my job and also need my job, but maybe this first round won’t find its way onto your tab, OK?”
I blink. “You serious?”
“Call it paying it forward, call it kindness, or maybe call it the fact that, when you were talking to that huge guy at your table, I saw you smile and I liked it,” she says, and she sets all the beers on the tray, full. “But whatever you call this free round, you can call me ‘Alex’ or ‘Alexandra’, if you prefer. I go by either.”
She then winks, waves for the server, and gestures for them to take it over to the club’s table.
I take my beer from the tray, and I stay. “I’m Dixon.”
