Slide by Jason Starr Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online

got out of bed and she admired his bod. Then he was uncuffing her and she finally got to have that pee. When she returned, he had two cigs lighted and there was a glint in his eye. If she didn’t know better, she’d have suspected he wanted to burn her. Yeah, like she was going to let that happen. In New York, she’d dated a married Puerto Rican guy for a while. Not one of her better choices in men but, hey, he looked kind of like Ricky Martin. Okay, in the right light, from the right angle, with beer goggles, but she’d been in a slump with the guys. One night he whispered to her in a sexy Latino tone, “You wanna golden shower, baby.” Not as a question, but as if saying, You’re getting a golden shower and now. Christ, she was so innocent then. She thought they’d cover themselves in gold leaf or something, hop in the shower and, like, well, maybe lick it off each other. You know, something romantic. So imagine her shock when he’d started pissing on her. She went along with it—what the hell?—but when he broke the news about his family in San Juan she kicked him right in the nuts, shouted, “You won’t be pissing, golden or otherwise, for a Spanish month, yeh bastard!”
    If Slide tried to burn her, God help him.
    But, no, he let her take one of the cigs. As she took a long drag of it, he said, “Let’s go out, have a jar, I want to run something by you.”
    She thought, The romantic fool, is it marriage ? She knew she’d been good in bed, but was she that good? She’d only known him what, a few hours, but, hell, she wasn’t about to let an opportunity like this slip away. She didn’t want to be one of those single women in their forties who look back at their lives, regretting the one that got away. Though she had some, well, concerns about Slide, she had a gut feeling that he was a good man, and would make a wonderful father. Her gut feelings had rarely been right, but she figured, bad luck didn’t last forever, right?
    The place was called the Touchdown Bar and Grill. As they got out of the car, Angela went, “Jeez, how Irish is that?”
    A huge sign inside proclaimed, KARAOKE TONIGHT , and she wondered, Were they, like, trying to scare business away?
    The place was hopping—three deep at the bar and all shouting for Bud Light, Corona, and Miller.
    On the stage, a middle aged woman, looking like a very poor man’s Desperate Housewife, was massacring “I Will Survive.”
    Angela shouted at the stage, “Not if you don’t stop that singing, you won’t!”
    When the woman got to the part about how she was going to walk out the door, Angela said, “You and me both, lady,” and then she said to Slide, “I need some air. There’s a pub down the road, how about we go there instead?”
    Slide wasn’t keen but she rubbed his crotch, purred, “If staying here is what you want, then, okay.”
    She was wondering, Does he have a ring? If he did, it better be a fookin’ diamond—a big one. And if he was the typical Irishman and tried to propose to her with a Claddagh ring, Lord help him.
    Slide led her through the crowd, going, “Lady coming through.”
    They found a space at the bar, ordered large Bushmills with Guinness chasers.
    She whined, “Don’t I get to choose my own drink?”
    He shoved her glasses at her, said, “You have what I have.”
    Mr. Taking Command, but she liked it.
    A huge painting of—what else?—a baseball player hung on the wall and Slide sneered, “I see your point about this baseball shite, babe. What do we know about American sport?”
    Without thinking, Angela corrected, “ Sports . We say American sports .”
    Slide gave her a look that shouted, Never correct my American again, ever .
    Then he toasted, “Here’s looking at you, kiddo.”
    She was going to correct him, go, It’s kid , but had a feeling she’d better keep her mouth shut.
    They did a few more of The Bush and that sucker slid on down so easy, packed its own potent wallop. Next thing, Slide was on