Page 1 of Meeting Mr. Adorkable
CHAPTERONE
“I think I’m going to make a move. It’s—”
Oh god, was it really only eight o’clock? Lucian smothered a sigh. Friday night, and he was making plans to make a run for it and curl up with a cup of tea and Netflix for company; it may have been pathetic, but it was better than spending any more time trapped in the hell that was Randy’s Rodeo Grill and Bar.
“No way, Luci. Loosen up and have another drink. It’s Friday night, and you’re staying right here.” Bibi grabbed his glass and filled it from one of the pitchers of beer littering the table, a glint of mischief and a touch of alcoholic glaze in her eyes.
Luci… He’d given up trying to stop her from shortening his name.
Lucian found himself wedged in the booth, trapped between a tattooed cowgirl who seemed to be asleep, a selfie-taking muscled guy with alarmingly orange-tanned skin, and Bibi’s glower. He sipped the thin, sour beer and wrinkled his nose. At least it was cold, which was the best thing he could say about it.
More people joined them, forcing those already seated to inch along. More pitchers of the beer that tasted like cat’s piss were slammed down and his glass was topped off again and again. The background music went up a notch, and the warbling, syrupy tones of the woman pining for her dead dog, or horse, or whatever, competed with the ever rising volume of the Randy’s Friday night crowd. Everybody was shouting to make themselves heard as pitcher after pitcher found its way to the table.
“No, I don’t—” But it was too late. His glass was refilled to overflowing, the foam soaking his hand. He took a mouthful. It really wasn’t bad. Or not that bad.
“Chicken wings. Tenders. BBQ ribs. Steak. Salads, fries, onion rings, corn.” A waitress landed a huge tray of food in the middle of the table, the various plates of fried and breaded animal piled up high. Not a sign of a veggie burger in sight.
“Excuse me? Miss?” Lucian called out. Several heads turned his way, including the waitress’s, whose pencil thin, plucked brows arched, and all but disappeared into her piled high, sunshine yellow hair.
“Been a while since anybody’s called me Miss,” she said, laughing. With her scarlet lipstick, bright blue eye shadow, too high heels and too tight uniform, and with her hands planted on her hips, she was intimidating, but her smile was warm and her eyes friendly.
“I ordered a veggie burger.”
The waitress peered at the tray as though she might find the offending article hiding between a breaded chunk and a battered chunk of something crispy and unidentifiable.
“Sorry, honey, but the vegetable burger isn’t available. I can get you a regular burger. One hundred percent prime local beef.” The kindly eyes now dared him to demand why a veggie burger was listed as a menu item. Lucian decided he wasn’t that brave.
“Okay. Sorry. I’ll, erm, just have the chips — sorry, I mean fries — and the vegetables. Really, it’s no trouble at all.” Lucian gazed in dismay at the oily lumps. At least the salads looked as if they were less likely to induce a sudden heart attack.
More beer arrived. It really wasn’t too bad. In fact, it was more than okay. What had been sour was now sharp and refreshing, cutting through the—
“Oh.” The piled high platter was now only a pile of bones, the salad reduced to a few, leftover mayo covered lettuce leaves.
Lucian slumped back into the seat and drooped against the sleeping tattooed lady. Sleep, that sounded good. Serenaded by the woman’s syrupy voice, his eyes closed as she bemoaned her jail bird man…
“Errgghh!” he screeched, as an eardrum shattering, high-pitched squeal thrust him awake. His heart beat wildly. What the fuck? He blinked at the tens, hundreds, thousands of eyes all boring into him.
“Don’t worry, he’s English.” Bibi waved her arm toward him.
The owners of all those tens, hundreds, thousands of eyes nodded.
“I’m not surprised you hollered. The feedback on that microphone’s loud enough to raise the dead.”
Lucian blinked at the ink adorned woman, awake for the first time all evening.
Lucian laughed. “A little embarrassing, though, so—”
A sudden thunderclap of applause drowned out the end of Lucian’s words as a group of five men, resplendent in plaid shirts, leather chaps, cowboy boots and hats, trooped onto a small stage, clutching guitars and fiddles, as they smiled and waved at the crowd.
A small, round man, wearing much the same as the cowboys but who definitely was not rocking the Wild West look, waddled onto the stage. “Give a warm welcome to the Collier’s Creek Cowboy Combo! On your feet, everybody. Let’s make this a real Randy Friday night.”
Lucian snorted. Seriously? A randy Friday night? He couldn’t remember when he’d last got randy on a Friday night. Or any night. Everybody was pushing to get out of the booth, stampeding for the dance floor. This was it. His way was clear. Now he could make a run for it. Everybody was on the dance floor, connecting with their inner cowboy and cowgirl. Or everybody except the muscly guy, who was digging through the gnawed remains of the meat fest.
Tugging his wallet from the pocket of his jeans, Lucian pulled out some notes. He’d missed out on the food, thank god, but he’d had a glass or two of cat’s piss. Or maybe three. Or four. Which all came to… He had no idea. Would thirty dollars cover it? He put the money in a neat pile on the food strewn table and started to edge his way out before he remembered… He dug a five-dollar bill from his wallet and added it to the pile. No way did he want to be chased along the street — again — by an angry server demanding an upgrade in the tip. The squirm wriggled in his gut. The huge, hairy man who’d come after him hadn’t been over interested in his arguments that his employer should pay him a proper wage… He added another couple of dollars.
A bright green exit sign near to the bar beckoned. He’d be home soon. A cuppa and some custard creams. His lips lifted in a grin. Proper English biscuits that were definitely not cookies. Good old Mum, or maybe he should say Mom, and her care packages. His stomach grumbled, urging him on as he ducked around the line dancers, keeping his head down and hoping to god Bibi didn’t catch sight of him and haul him into a Cha Cha Slide, or a Harlem Shake, or—
“Oh, fuck.” His feet skidded. Spilled fries, squashed and greasy, making the smooth flooring an ice rink. His legs buckled, his arms windmilled, sending a tray with a pitcher flying in one direction as he flew in another.
