Look Before You Jump by D. A. Bale Read Free Book Online

daisy dukes. In a flash, I dropped the bottle of
rum on the counter and reached behind to grip a handful of jean.
The high-pitched squeak heard ‘round the bar told me I’d nabbed
just the right spot. Bud didn’t so much as breathe.
    “How many times do I have to tell you, this
Bud ain’t for me?” I responded. “So kindly remove your slimy lips
before I do the twist and you shout.”
    That got a chuckle out of Rochelle as she
dropped off a tray of dirty glasses, rinsed them out and started
filling up the dishwasher. See? I don’t just crack myself up. When
Bud’s lips released my neck, I relinquished my claim on his family
jewels.
    “Damn, girl,” Bud said as he rearranged
himself in front of God and the entire club. “You let Grady and any
guy here gnaw on you all night long. What gives?”
    “First,” I said, holding up a single finger,
“it isn’t just any guy here. Second, they’ve all got something you
lack.”
    “You ain’t never heard no complaints from the
girls I’ve been with.”
    I whirled around. Bud flinched. “I’m talking
a little C-L-A-S-S. Emphasis on the C and L and less on the piece
of ASS.”
    The rust on the wheels of Bud’s brain broke
loose as he scrunched up his face and so obviously struggled to
place the letters together to form a word. I think he gave up.
    “So what’s got you all riled up tonight?” he
asked.
    “For starters, how about you dragging your
sorry ass in here over two hours late? Not to mention you still
smell like shit.”
    I poured a little rum into a patron’s drink
and dropped in an umbrella before sloshing it onto the bar and
taking a queen-sized swig for myself. The hooting and hollering
near the stage reached epic proportions as Grady hosed down a
particularly busty brunette. Talk about fake. The girl could use
those puppies as floatation devices instead of the seat cushion in
an airplane water landing. Rochelle and I exchanged knowing eye
rolls. I poured her a shot then tossed back another swig of rum. It
was setting up to be one of those nights where I’d need all the
libations I could swallow.
    “I have other obligations, you know,” Bud
said.
    “Couldn’t get it up?” Rochelle asked.
    That earned her a sideways glare while Bud
scooped ice into a glass. “My other job . Cattle ain’t gonna
herd themselves.”
    “You sure you ain’t talkin’ a blow job?” I slurred and filled up a line of glasses from the tap.
    “Hey, I’m doing you a favor even being here
tonight, what with Wanker out of town. Don’t know why Grady didn’t
get Baby in here with you instead.”
    “Cause she’d be up on stage working the crowd
instead of working the bar,” Rochelle explained, balancing the tray
of freshly dispensed beer and heading back into the wild horde.
    After gulping down my second Long Island iced
tea amid all the other assorted sips and slurps, hell I was
hardly working the bar. By the time the contest whittled down to
the final five contestants, I’d finished lining the front of the
counter with watered-down beer pitchers. I tied my barely-there
t-shirt in a knot just below my boobs, shoved my cell phone
underneath the counter then climbed atop my perch. My high-pitched
whistle rattled through my pickled brain, and the patron fight over
pitchers was on.
    Buy me a drink – or two or three – and I can
come up with some fun ways to create a diversion. The distracting
dousing took all of ten seconds away from the main attraction
before the pitchers were all emptied on little ol’ me. I’m pretty
sure a few got guzzled instead of thrown my direction – some people
will drink anything as long as it comes from the bar. At Grady’s
call, someone swept me off the bar top, and I hefted the trophy to
the stage to present to the champion in all my perky glory.
    Fake Boobs ended up the winner. I was
satisfied knowing mine were God-given instead of
physician-provided. The whistles and appreciative stares redirected
my way said Fake Boobs may have