Page 30 of The Vacation Mix-Up
“Come again?”
“Riley… are you going to make a move?”
I laugh at his foolishness. “No. I’ve only just met her.”
“So?”
“So… that’s not me.”
“Well, it’s me. All day, every day.”
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know he’s not kidding, but for some reason I can’t explain, the thought of him making a move on Riley irks the shit out of me. So, I lie.
“On second thought, man, hands off. I’m simply biding my time.”
He grins at me as if he knew that’s what I was doing all along. “Well, don’t bide for too long, or I’m cutting in.”
I’m confident his “cutting in” skills are pathetic. Not to mention she’d no doubt knee him in the balls or sever his head from his neck if he tried. And even though that’s something I wouldn’t mind witnessing, if I can save her the annoyance of having to do so, then lying and telling him to back off so I can have a crack at her is the gentlemanly thing to do.
“Like I said…” He claps me on the back just like he had at dinner. “Lucky son of a bitch.”
Burying the urge to punch him in the face, because I don’t feel like being thrown in the brig on day one, I step around him. “I’ll see you around.”
“Nah, man.” He throws his arm around my shoulders and tugs me to his side. “You’re coming to the nightclub with me.”
Jesus fucking Christ!
I pry myself loose. “Some other time.”
“Don’t be a pussy. There’s plenty on offer in there while you’re… biding.”
I’m not in the mood for what’s on offer, nor am I in the mood to indulge in it with this dipshit. “Not interested.”
“Look—” He sticks his cigarette into the butt stand beside him. “I haven’t lucked out so far, and I can sure use your help. The ladies love a pretty boy like you until they realize they need a man like me.” The idiot winks at me. “Come on. Help a guy out.”
He definitely needs all the help hecan get, and then some.
My bro code rears its ugly head, and I stupidly relent. “Okay. One drink.”
“Sweet!”
We enter the nightclub, strobe lights and heavy-bass dance music attacking my eyes and ears. It’s been several years since I stepped foot into a hellhole such as this—the last time with Krystal. It wasn’t my jam then, and it’s not my jam now.
“What are you drinking?” Ben shouts over the music.
“Beer.”
“Fuck that. I’m hitting the hard stuff.”
He orders me a Bud and himself a whiskey on the rocks, then rests his back against the bar, wasting no time scoping the place out, nodding his head to the music and grinning like the Joker at every woman who passes by. They all ignore him or scowl. It’s humiliating, and before long, I feel marginally sorry for him—he doesn’t stand a chance.
“Check out the ass on that one,” he says, his elbow colliding with my ribs, my beer sloshing onto my shirt.
I no longer feel sorry for the dick.
Brushing myself off, I take note of the woman he’s leering at, recognizing her from when I rode the elevator earlier in the day, her spidey eyes locking with mine. They light up as she waves and coaxes her friend to follow her in our direction.
“I saw her first!” he shouts over the music before taking a gulp of his drink.
