The attendant rolled her eyes. “It’s to keep people from running off with the key.”
Considering how the woman looked like she wanted to bitch-slap me, I refrained from saying, “Who in their right mind would want to hang on to it?”
Instead, I thanked her and headed back outside. Once I stepped into the bathroom, I knew why the key disappeared. People were so mentally scarred by what they saw that they didn’t want to waste the time going back into the station on their way home to get a scalding hot shower.
While I wiggled into the skintight dress, I tried my best not to let any part of my body touch the dirt-encrusted walls. When my pants accidentally touched the floor as I was taking them off, I decided just to toss them. It was either that or burn them when I got home, and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to contaminate my car with any germs. As for my shoes, I would hose them off with some of the body disinfectant when I got home. Until then, I would throw them in the trunk.
After washing and drying my hands, I used a paper towel to open the door. I received quite a few looks when I reentered the station outfitted in my sexy dress. I managed to make it almost back to my car before I received a blaring catcall from a trucker, which was just the icing on the cake to a truly horrific experience. Considering all I had been through, I had more than earned some mind-blowing sex.
Once I was back inside the safety of my locked car, I picked up my phone and started my Internet search. But the one bar I had on my reception meant I wasn’t able to find jack shit. I had two choices. I could go back inside and ask the asshat sales lady if she knew where I could get a drink and some dick, or I get back on the road and try to find a place with better cell reception.
With my decision made, I cranked up the car and fastened my seatbelt. I peeled out of the parking lot, thrilled to be leaving the hellhole goodbye. Of course, I began to regret my decision fifteen minutes later and further into East Bumblefuck. My cell reception wasn’t getting any better, and I debated whether or not I should just turn around and go back to the Texaco since I hadn’t come across any other gas stations. To be honest, I hadn’t come across anything for that matter. The two-lane road was lined with thick trees and an occasional house here and there.
But as I rounded a sharp curve, my salvation finally loomed in the distance. Oh sweet heavens, it was a bar. Gunning the accelerator, I couldn’t seem to get there fast enough. I feared it was just another mirage in the desert of my datelessness that might evaporate the closer I got. But then it stayed a shining beacon of hope as I whipped into the parking lot on two wheels.
That’s when I got a good look at my alleged salvation, which at best could be classified as something from Nightmare on Hee Haw Street. I exhaled the breath I’d been holding in one frustrated pant that came off more like a grunt. Multicolored Christmas lights ran the length of the ramshackle roof that hung over a long, rectangular building. A giant sign hung over the top of the bar with some of its bulbs burned out, so instead of reading The Rusty Halo, it said The Rusty Ho.
See, this is exactly what happens when you go off half-cocked searching for cock. Shaking my head free of my self-deprecating tirade, I glanced in the mirror to survey my reflection. Okay, so the Rusty Halo/Ho wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned on my quest to end my long-suffering sex drought. It was the epitome of every backwoods dive of a honky-tonk. But tonight, it was going to be Club 54 or whatever the hell the most happening hotspot was now. I was Dead Woman Walking when it came to sex—it was going down tonight and so was I.
Throwing open the car door, I grabbed my purse and then stumbled along the gravel pavement. Just as I passed a rusted-out Ford pickup, a hound dog bellowed in my ear, causing me to jump out of my skin and almost piss my panties. “Jesus!” I cried, glancing over at the long-eared hound dog. Sitting behind the wheel, it looked like it was waiting to drive its inebriated owner home at the end of the night.
Once I got my wits about me again, I made it to the door. Smoothing down my hair and dress, I drew in a deep breath. Okay, Olivia Rose Sullivan, get a grip and get in there and get some.
With that internal pep talk, I pulled open the door and took a determined step inside. The moment my heels slid through the sawdust and peanut hulls that covered the floor, I knew I had made a terrible, terrible mistake. The happy hoots and hollers of the patrons brought my attention up from what had to be a blatant health code violation to the small stage across from me. As a Skynyrd cover band blared out the opening from Free Bird, lighters appeared out of the pockets of faded Wranglers and overall bibs, cutting through the hazy smoke rings. The firelight helped illuminate the room, giving me a good look at my male choices for the evening.
My raging libido instantly shriveled at the sight of what had to be the reunion crew of Deliverance. Instantly the tune of Dueling Banjos started to play in my head. No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening. I could not bring myself to go home with a hillbilly, regardless of the state of tumbleweeds blowing through my nether regions. It was time I turned around, tucked my tail between my legs, and got the hell out of there.
And then the crowd parted, and the banjo music playing in my head screeched to a stop. Sitting at a table alone was the living and breathing embodiment of my fantasies. Even though he was sitting down, I could tell he was tall because his knees bumped against the tabletop. His wavy dark hair fell across his forehead, which seemed to cause him great irritation judging by how exasperated he seemed each time he pushed it back with his fingers.
Instead of Wranglers or overalls, he had on a suit. The jacket was draped across one of the extra chairs while the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up at his elbows. His tie sat a little askew as if he had been itching to rip it off. Multicolored folders littered the table along with the foamy beer he was nursing.
Even though people bumped and jostled me in the crowd, I stood frozen to that spot, undressing him with my eyes. A wet spot formed on my chin, and I brought the back of my hand up to wipe it away. Oh yeah, I was drooling. After thinking of having to bed Toothless Joe, this was a dream come true.
As if Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sinfully Handsome sensed someone staring at him, he jerked his head up, meeting my gaze. Then the most panty-melting smile imaginable stretched across his drop-dead sexy face. And in that bright and shining moment, my poor, male- neglected vagina, which for so long had been flat lining on life-support, coughed and sputtered back to life. The same jolt of electricity shuddered through its long dormant walls as if the paddles from a crash cart had been administered and a doctor yelled, “Clear!” Through a miracle, I had actually found the Dr. Feelgood who was going to end my longsuffering sex drought.
Considering his smile as an invitation, I pushed myself forward to close the gap between us. The sawdust on the floor, coupled with my nervously knocking knees, made it a little harder than I expected. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I stood before him.
My heartbeat drummed wildly when he stood up. “Well, hello there,” he said, his deep, rich voice sending a lightning bolt straight to my vagina.
“H-Hi,” I stammered.
He motioned to the empty chair across from him. “Won’t you join me?”
“Sure. I’d love to.” After I sat down, I thrust my hand at him. “My name is Olivia Sullivan.” I’m not sure why I felt the need to give him my full name. What was next? Rattling off my social security number?
When his hand touched mine, I literally felt a spark of electricity. The rational side of me argued that it was my heels rubbing across the sawdust floor that had caused it. “I’m Catcher Mains.”
Embarrassment flooded my cheeks when I realized I was still holding his hand. I quickly dropped his and used my hand to sweep my hair over my shoulder. “Catcher? That’s an interesting name.”
“I like to think so.”
“Let me guess. It’s your nickname from playing baseball.”
“You’re right that it’s a nickname, but it’s not from baseball.”
“Please tell me it’s not something cheesy like you’re a real catch or you always catch the women you chase?”
Catcher threw his head back and laughed heartily. “You could say that’s part of it.”
“Seriously though. What’s it from?”
“You see my parents were English teachers, so they named me after the main character in one of their favorite books—Holden Caulfield.”
“From Catcher in the Rye.”
Catcher’s blue eyes lit up. “You know it?”
I laughed. “So I must look like some bimbo who doesn’t have an appreciation for literature.”
“No. Not at all. It’s just I don’t find that many people who get the reference.”
After glancing around us, I cocked my brows at him. “Maybe you’re hanging out with the wrong people,” I suggested.
He grinned. “Trust me. This isn’t my usual Friday night hangout.”
“Mine either. I just happened to be passing through and was in desperate need of a drink.”
“And you just happened to be wearing a banging-hot dress.”
“You think my dress is banging?”
“Hell, yeah.” With a wink, he added, “I know I’d sure like to bang you in it.”
A nervous giggle escaped my lips. “I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself.”
“Maybe I am. I should probably be more of a gentleman by trying to get to know you better. Then I can feel pervy telling you how much I’d like take you to the bathroom, shove that banging dress up above your hips, and fuck you senseless.”
My mouth ran Mojave Desert dry at the image he had just painted for me. Of course, right on its heels came a flashback of the Texaco hellhole, and I shuddered. “No bathrooms,” I whispered.
Catcher’s brows rose in surprise. “Just no to the bathrooms? You mean you’re not shutting me down on the rest?”
“Buy me a drink, and we’ll see.” His attraction had bolstered my confidence.
That drop-dead sexy grin slunk across his face. “It would be my pleasure. What’s your poison?”
I was pretty sure The Rusty Ho didn’t have an extensive mixed drink menu. “Just a cranberry and vodka would be great.”
Catcher nodded as he rose out of his seat. As he walked over to the bar, my gaze zeroed in on the imprint of his finely sculpted ass through his pants. Oh yeah, it was the kind of ass you wanted to sink your teeth into.
Easy there. You need to pace yourself. If you keep up the dirty thoughts, you’ll be jumping him the moment he comes back to the table, and you’re too big a prude to enjoy public sex.
Catcher returned and sat my drink in front of me. “Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” Catcher had gotten his mug of beer refilled. After taking a sip of his beer, he leaned his elbows in on the table. “So, Olivia Sullivan, what is it that you do for a living?”
“I’m a m—” I snapped my mouth shut. There was no way in hell I was going to tell him the truth and send my potential sexathon down in flames before it even got started. I quickly recovered by tossing my hair over my shoulder. “I’m a flight attendant.”
Catcher narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s no way in hell you’re a flight attendant.”
“Why would you doubt me?”
“Because I’ve undergone extensive training to unravel the many layers of deception. Therefore, I can see right through the façade of you flying the friendly skies.”
A stare down then ensued. When I finally blinked, Catcher gave me a self-righteous smirk.
“Fine. I’m a mortician and county coroner.” Wincing, I braced myself for him to run screaming from the table. But instead, he surprised the hell out of me by grinning.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
“That is too fucking cool.”
I cocked my brows at him in surprise. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“Usually my profession is a mega turn off for men.”
“You mean it’s a turn off for pussies.” He captured me with his hypnotic gaze. “I’m a real man, Liv. It takes a hell of lot more to scare me off.”
“I-I’m glad to hear that,” I stuttered. “And what do you do?”
“What do you think I do?”
After glancing at the folders in front of him, I tilted my head in thought. “I’m thinking some form of law enforcement or maybe the military since you mentioned your training.”
Catcher flashed me that panty-scorching grin again. “You’re right. I’m an agent with the GBI aka Georgia Bureau of Investigation.”
“Wow, that must be an interesting job.”
“It keeps me on my toes.”
I motioned to the folders. “What brings you out this way?”
“Ah, see, that’s confidential,” he replied, before taking the folders and putting them in his briefcase.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is it one of those ‘if you told me you’d have to kill me’ kinda things?”
“Maybe. And I sure don’t want to kill you. Especially before I got to fuck you and make you scream my name.”
My mouth gaped open at him once again being so brazen. “Um, okay,” I replied.
“Don’t play the prude with me, Olivia. We both know that you came in here on a search mission for cock.”
“I-I don’t know what you’re t-talking about,” I replied as I shifted in my seat.
Catcher snorted before taking another swig of his beer. “Babe, I could see right through you the moment you walked through the door. But hey, I get it. Just because you’re a woman, it doesn’t mean you don’t have needs. I’m sure as hell not going to judge you for saving face by coming to some dive where no one knows you to get your dick.”
I gulped down two sips of my drink before I responded. “Okay, you’re right. I came here to get…” Somehow I just couldn’t seem to say it aloud.
“Fucked, laid, banged, bonked, nailed, ridden, screwed—”
I held my hand up. “Yes, that pretty much covers it.”
Catcher scooted his chair closer up to the table. “Just how long has it been?”
I glanced down at my hands in my lap. “A while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?”
Chewing on my bottom lip, I debated whether to be honest with Catcher. I already dealt with the day-to-day embarrassment of my lack of a love life. I didn’t want him judging me as some kind of frigid weirdo. “Can’t we just leave it at awhile and call it a day?”
“We could. But I’d also like to know what I’m getting into.”
I jerked my gaze up to glare at him. “I can assure you it’s not so bad that you’re going to have to sandblast open my vagina, okay?”
Catcher appeared to be fighting a smile. “That’s not exactly what I was alluding to.”
“Sure it wasn’t.”
He reached over and took my hand. “You’re right that I was somewhat addressing your vagina, but it’s not what you think. If it’s been a long time, then I know I’ll need to take some time with the foreplay. I can’t just go plowing into you like I want unless you’re ready for me.”
I furrowed my brows at him. It had been a long, long time since I’d been in a bar or part of the hook-up scene. The last time a guy spoke this frank to me was in college, and I just assumed his bluntness was part of his immaturity. When it came down to the nitty gritty, did all men talk this way?
“Thanks…I think.”
He dipped his head closer to mine. “Stop thinking so much. Let me and your body make the decisions.”
“I can try.”
Catcher’s closeness, coupled with his sexy smile, ignited a wildfire between my legs. I pressed my thighs together to try to put it out.
“First thing we’re going to do is loosen you up.”
“Considering the conversation we’ve just had, I think I’m loose enough.”
I sucked in a breath at the feel of Cat
cher’s warm hand clenching down on the skin of my exposed thigh. He shook his head. “Talking about something and actually doing it are two separate things. And I’m only talking about one or two drinks. The last thing I want is you plastered.”
“Wouldn’t that make it easier?”
“Hell, no. I want you to enjoy every second of this. After all, you’ve more than earned it.”
“You’re right. I have.”
“Good.” Catcher then took my arm and led me out of my chair. We weaved our way through the crowd over to the bar. Catcher waved the bartender over. After slapping a twenty on the bar, Catcher said, “Give us two shots of tequila, please.”
“You got it.”
“I guess I should’ve checked first to make sure you liked tequila,” Catcher said as the bartender poured our shots.
“I would have let you know.”
Catcher grinned. “Yeah, I thought so. You don’t impress me as the type of girl to suffer in silence about anything.”
I jerked my chin up. “I speak my mind if that’s what you’re alluding to.”
“As well as not taking any shit from anyone.”
I couldn’t help laughing at his summation. “That, too.”
When the bartender set our shots in front of us, Catcher lifted his. “To speaking your mind and not taking anyone’s bullshit.”
I lifted my glass. “Here, here.”
Catcher clinked our glasses together and then motioned for me to drink. “Ladies first,” he insisted.
“Okay.” I licked the salt on my hand before tipping back the shot glass. The golden liquid scorched a trail down my esophagus to my stomach. I sucked the lime into my mouth as my eyes watered. “Done,” I said, my voice hoarse from the tequila.
To my surprise, Catcher didn’t immediately down his shot. Instead, he shocked the hell out of me by taking the salt-shaker and dusting my chest with its contents. “What are you—”
He brought a finger to my lips to silence me. “Just go with it, babe.”