Page 3 of Wicked Pickle

I scan the back wall. Sure enough, I spot a door that says, “Outhouse.” I turn back to Bailey. “You can clean up there.” I point to the sign beyond the long bar.

“I’ll go with Bailey,” Jenna says. They beeline for the door.

Marietta is transfixed by the scene. “It’s exactly like I imagined.”

Good gracious, I better hang on to her, or she’s going to take off on the back of someone’s motorcycle in six seconds.

I thread my arm through hers. “There are some stools open at the bar.”

As we approach the long counter, I spot my reflection in the mirror behind it. It’s not hard, despite the rows of liquor bottles. I’m wearing siren red and a lot of it.

I tilt my head to examine the hourglass silhouette I achieved with a spandex body suit that starts below my double Ds and goes halfway to my knees.

It shifted my curves to all the right places. Too bad I can’t move.

Or breathe.

And judging by how tight it feels now compared to when I put it on, I better not eat or drink anything else.

We reach the stools, and I ease onto one. We’re not there five seconds when a man in a black T-shirt that reads, “Splash your skull,” sets two shots in front of us. “From the gentlemen at the end of the bar.” Then he plops down two more. “For your friends when they return.”

“Oooooh,” Marietta says, lifting the glass and toasting it in the direction of the buyers. They have beards to their bellies and black bandannas tied on their heads.

“Don’t drink that,” I hiss.

“Watch me,” Marietta says. Then she downs the shot.

“It could be drugged!”

The bartender, a young guy probably barely old enough to drink, rolls his eyes. “I poured them myself.”

“See?” Marietta croons. “Chicken.”

Oh, no, shedidn’tjust challenge me. I snatch up the shot and down it.

Flames lick along my throat.

Fireball. I recognize that taste from my undergraduate days. I don’t think I’ve had one since.

Marietta hops from her stool. “I’m going to go talk to them!”

Oh, Jesus.

She picks up the other two shots and heads down the bar.

“Wait. I’m coming.” That shot is going to hit her any second, and she’s holding liquid dynamite.

I hop down, glad for the mega-bra keeping my boobs from bouncing hard enough to give me two black eyes, and follow her.

Upon closer inspection, the men are easily twice our age. But Marietta doesn’t care. Based on my knowledge of her bookshelf, I know what she’s thinking.

Age-gap romance.

I crane my neck to see if Jenna and Bailey have made it out of the bathroom yet. Hopefully, a new ride is on the way. We’ll smile for a second, thank them for the drinks, and get out of here.

“I heard you got us shots,” Marietta says.

The two men grin at her. This cannot be part of her motorcycle club fantasy. They are grimy and tattered. I’m pretty sure the smell that’s wrinkling my nose is coming from them.

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