Bad Behaviour. Kristin Hardy
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it’s a bar. So was the last place we stopped, and we didn’t have to walk another mile to get to it,” Cilla grumbled.
“It wasn’t a mile. Only twenty or thirty feet, more like,” Delaney said, “and that other bar was exactly like some place you’d find in L.A. Bo-ring.”
“My feet weren’t bored,” Cilla sighed as they stopped. “My feet were happy with that bar. And the one before that.”
“You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself, wearing stilettos down here.” Delaney took in Cilla’s cranberry red spikes and matching skimpy silk dress. Versace, unless Delaney missed her guess. “Why didn’t you wear sandals?”
“You can look at these gorgeous shoes and ask me that?”
Delaney rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, Granny,” she said, patting Cilla, “we’ll find you a chair.”
Just then, a couple moved away from one of the tall bar tables. Delaney pounced like a cat, neatly edging out a group of frat-boy types. “Sorry, guys, taken.”
“Why not share?” A guy with spiky orange hair winked at her. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
Delaney glanced at him and fought a smile. If he was twenty one, he was lucky. “I think we’ve got all the company we need.”
“I bet I could buy you a drink and change your mind.”
“It’ll take a lot more than that to change my mind.”
He moved in closer, cocky. “I’ve got a lot more than that, trust me.”
She laughed, the pure merriment melting away his bravado. “We’re all set for tonight, thanks,” she said, resisting the urge to pat the top of his head.
“And here I thought he was your type.” Kelly slid onto one of the tall stools as he left. “You go for the bad boys.”
“Bad boys, not underage boys. He’s about ten years too young to be interesting. I’d rather hold out for better.”
“Getting choosy in your old age?” Sabrina asked in amusement.
“Or slowing down,” Paige put in.
“Give me a break.”
“Think about it,” Paige said reasonably. “First, you skip the crowded, noisy bar and then you turn down a hot guy who’s hitting on you. I think it’s pretty clear what’s going on.”
“Oh, please.” Delaney rolled her eyes. “You keep talking like that, you’re going to drive me to drink. Speaking of which, I’m going to make a bar run, so figure out what you want.”
Slowing down? Absolutely not. Just because she didn’t want to walk into some neon-filled cave that was pumping with acid house music, or mash with a youngster didn’t mean she was getting old. Especially down here, Delaney thought as she waited for the rest of the gang to make their choices. The week ahead was wide open with possibilities for fun. No responsibilities, no place to be, just pure play, out on the town again with her posse. She wasn’t slowing down, she was merely getting started.
Reaching out, she caught the edge of the table and shook it a little.
Kelly raised her eyebrows. “Checking it for stability?”
Delaney moved her shoulders to the beat. “Who knows? We may be dancing on it before the night’s over. Okay, four margaritas, two piña coladas, one virgin daiquiri,” she ticked off. “I’ll order. Who’s going to help carry them back?”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Cilla said.
Practically like old times, Delaney thought as she stood at the bar, nodding to the music and waiting to catch the bartender’s attention. The whole Supper Club, together again. Lately, it seemed, the group of them almost never managed to make it out, and if they did, it was only for a quiet dinner. Gone were the days of roving wild, of shutting down the clubs and hunting for after-hours joints. Something about finding a man had made all of the others more sedate, happy to relax at home for an evening.
And Delaney’s deep, dark, unsettling secret was that some nights she felt exactly the same way.
Working too much, that was all. It wasn’t that she was slowing down, getting boring. Never in a million years, not the way she felt in that moment. Definitely no way she was going to let herself get tied down. So maybe the rest of them had found their men and fallen in love. She was genuinely happy for them. But she also understood the obligations, the accountability, the compromises of a committed relationship. Sure, Sabrina and Trish and the rest never seemed to mind what had to be the ongoing frustrations and concessions that made up the fabric of their lives.
It would drive her nuts. Dating a guy for a few weeks, maybe a couple of months was one thing—she had her own space and she could walk away at any time. Commitment? That was different.
She’d grown up with parents who’d had too little of everything—money, living space, time. The only thing they’d had too much of had been kids, six of them, all close together. As the youngest, Delaney had always found herself fighting for her slice of everything. Not that she didn’t love her family, but when she’d finally moved out and gotten a place of her own, she’d sworn that she was done with sharing and compromising and living packed cheek by jowl with anyone else. She’d guard her space jealously, be extravagant, live exactly as she chose.
And if she found herself at loose ends every now and again, whose business was it but hers?
“Hola, señorita.” The bartender’s eyes gleamed at her with that unapologetic appreciation that never failed to give her a buzz.
“Hola, Rodolfo,” she read off his badge. “Quattro margaritas, dos piña coladas, y uno…” How did a person say virgin daiquiri in Spanish, she wondered. “Y uno daiquiri, no…rum, por favor.”
“No rum?” he repeated in English. “No fun.”
“Oh, we have fun.” Her eyes sparkled. “We always have fun.”
“I always have fun, too. Maybe you and I, señorita, we have fun together.”
“Are you hitting on me, Rodolfo?”
He frowned, even as his hands moved from bottles to blenders in an efficient blur. “What is hitting on you?”
“Inviting me to have fun.”
“Ah.” His teeth gleamed. “Señorita, only a dead man does not invite a woman like you to have fun. And I am not a dead man.”
Delaney winked at him. Flirting. It made her feel good. How could she settle with one guy and give that up? Give up the excitement of a first date? The anticipation of never knowing how a night might end—or with who?
The tap on her shoulder had her sniffing. “About time,” she said, turning. “I thought I was going to have to—”
The words died in her throat. And all she could do was stand there, staring at the man before her.
He was, purely and simply, gorgeous. He had one of those faces that was all intriguing planes and angles, the kind of face a sculptor might chisel for a statue of some dangerous god, Ares, perhaps. Or Eros.
Something fluttered in the pit of her stomach.
He was tall, tall enough that she found herself tipping her head back to look at him, and close enough that all it would take was leaning forward a fraction to have her mouth on his. His brows were dark and straight, the same color as the hair that flowed thick and unruly to his collar. His jaw was darkened by a rather overgrown Vandyke. His eyes were so black that in the dim bar she couldn’t see the pupils.
As she watched, some spark of humor flickered in them. “Your drinks are here,” he said helpfully.
Oh, and it was a bedroom voice, low and a little rough, perfect