Page 41 of Wicked Pickle

I have no intention of standing up, but Marietta reaches for me and drags me into place beside her. “Let’s dance for them, Symphony!” She lifts our joined hands in the air and closes her eyes, swaying her hips and shimmying her chest.

Oh, no. I’m not doing that.

I look down at Diesel, who watches me, one eyebrow raised.

I remember that look. The same one that had me drinking six shots of Fireball. He reaches for a set of controls by the register, and the music level goes up a notch.

Is he encouraging me?

A man below passes both of us shots. Marietta smacks her into mine and drinks it.

We are so going to regret this tomorrow. But I down it.

Even though the alcohol will take a hot minute to work its magic, the act of shooting it while standing on the bar is a hit of adrenaline that makes me feel high.

That voice in the back of my head that says,Big girls don’t dance on bars, is drowned out.

Marietta and I bump hips, then stand back-to-back, getting low with bent knees and working our way back up.

The crowd is almost entirely men, the lone few women sitting with their guys among the tables. They’re banging their beer mugs with as much enthusiasm as their male counterparts. Even Vicki seems amused, leaning against the far end of the bar.

Watch this elevator, lady. It ain’t stuck nowhere.

Boots stomp to the rhythm of the music, and we keep dancing. Merrick returns to behind the bar to pour drinks. I guess we’re out of danger.

Marietta drags the elastic out of her bun and lets her hair fall down to another eruption of encouragement.

We dance, facing each other for a moment, and she reaches over to yank my hair down, too.

Another pair of shots are passed to us from below. I know how much I can handle, but I watch Marietta take a second one with some concern. She’s a lightweight, and the alcohol is hitting.

She bends over and spins her hair to a roar of appreciation. Several men approach and lift her by the legs to crowd-walk through the men. They take her to another table to dance solo.

“Strip! Strip! Strip!” echoes through the bar.

She toys with the strap of her top like she’s going to pull it down again.

Geez, Marietta. I cautiously move to step onto a stool, but Diesel takes my hand. He and Merrick lift me down like I’m a feather to stand behind the bar.

“Stay here,” Diesel warns, and he and Merrick leap over the bar.

The two of them nudge their way through the men to the table. Marietta still dances, teasing the crowd with the straps of her top until the brothers arrive and take her down.

There’s a general groan of disagreement as Marietta is brought around the far end of the bar. Diesel waves at me, and I scurry over to them. He pushes both of us through the swinging door.

Merrick shouts, “Free round of beer!” which changes the boos to cheers.

We’re marched through a kitchen where a couple of men wash dishes. What is going on with Marietta? It’s like she’s become a rebellious teen hell bent on destruction. Even I know not to rile a bar full of bikers.

“You’ve got this. I’ll head back,” Merrick says and peels away toward the bar.

Diesel pushes us into a small office scattered with folders and beer signs and closes the door.

“You two are a party and a half,” he says. “You need to stay put for now, or I can’t guarantee your safety in my bar.”

Marietta scowls, tugging on her shirt. “Spoilsport.” Yeah, she’s drunk.

“What were you thinking?” I ask her.

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