| General Fiction posted August 16, 2020 |
  |
Oops, wrong choice!
Between Friends (Part-4 of 6)
by Ric Myworld
Previous chapter: After a misunderstanding or disagreement, Brad and Leslie leave each other in an unresolved tizzy.
Brad lounges around all day and night on Thursday, never leaving the house.
Near eleven o’clock Friday night—feeling muddled and out of sorts—he relents to cruise by the Grapevine and check for Leslie’s car. He creeps through every parking-row three times to make sure her Mazda isn’t there, fully aware she could have ridden with friends or went somewhere else. But he can’t go in and let her think he’s stooping to look for her. Although, that’s exactly what he’s doing.
Frustrated, he wheels out of the lot and heads downtown to the Big Blue Martini, Radisson Hotel’s bar. The valet gives him a claim check, jumps in his car, slams it in drive, and squeals the tires as he speeds off.
Inside, the club is a madhouse. Wall-to-wall, a zoo of strange characters who push and shove creating an obstacle-course of confusion. Nevertheless, as luck would have it, two barstools open no sooner than he reaches the bar. He jumps on the closest available and orders a double-shot of Blanton’s on the rocks. Smooth sipping bourbon whiskey that goes down easy. Exactly what he doesn’t need.
On his second drink, what’s supposed to be his last of the evening, in walks the most gorgeous creature he has ever seen. She’s beautiful! Long, dark hair, with glazed-caramel skin glistening and eyes so green they sparkle brighter than a lit showcase of emeralds on black velvet.
She’s attentive to everyone’s gawking eyes. Males and females alike, as she adds a little extra wiggle in her walk. Those full, rounded hips and shapely bubble-butt cheeks doing the rumba, up down, up down. Watchers' peepers jiggle to match, dangling like dice on a rope.
Ms. Universal’s perfect, sexually-charged gyrations command exclusive attention, evidenced by a rubbernecking waiter who slams into the backs of a crowd. Drinks fly everywhere. Glasses burst in a spray and bottles explode. The garçon hits the ground with a thud, and the whole bar erupts in a roar of laughter, all but those doused and sticky.
The enchantress never loses stride and keeps walking straight toward Brad at the bar. She slides into the empty seat beside him with the grace of a gazelle and in a single breath orders a Clix-vodka Martini with extra olives. Clix an expensive Casker’s brand the hotel doesn’t carry, but she settles for their top-shelf Grey Goose, also made by Casker’s.
Brad pretends not to notice her, while his eyes troll the lovely bundle along with everyone else, all wowed by such an incredible package. When his errant gaze levels off, his stare stops even with hers. There they sit, eye-to-eye. Caught red handed, as the old saying goes. His rosy cheeks blossom from embarrassment, and his tense, forced smile rather resembles a self-deprecating defendant facing the death penalty.
Obviously at a loss for words, they both sit and stare for what seems forever, until she finally breaks the ice. “Hi, there . . . are we having fun yet?”
“Hello. Well, things sure are looking up . . . I hope you agree?” Brad’s voice lowers a couple octaves from normal, his accent altered, trying to sound sexy and sophisticated. “How are you this fine evening?”
“Oh, I’m doing well . . . and you?” She scoots back in her seat, pulls down at her skirt that fails to cover much anyway. A tool she brandishes like an LA Laker’s front-row seat.
“I’ve never been better.” Brad wants to kick his own butt for sounding so arrogant and phony.
“I bet.” She responds, making Brad wonder if he really said the wrong thing.
“So, is this the hot-spot in town?” She stares directly into his eyes, boring a hole all the way through his psyche.
“I’m the wrong person to ask about hot spots. I don’t go out that often, and when I do, most of the time it’s to a little country bar close to where I live for dinner. I’m not a big drinker or hillbilly music fan, and more than a cocktail or two push my limit.”
“Well, then pardon me for saying but, you don’t sound like much fun.” She gives a barely audible deep-throaty chuckle, but his lack of expression causes her to cut the snigger short. “I mean, are there any big boys around here who like to party?”
Now Brad must be thinking that horns are just about to pop-out of this chick’s head any second. That is if she doesn’t float through the wall and disappear or whip out her pitchfork and jab him in the you know what. Anyone watching among the joint’s innocent observers would likely give even-money odds she isn’t real.
She bats eagle-wing eyelashes as her slickened tongue caresses and moistens her red, luscious lips to a shine. Looking at her dimpled smile, all Brad probably sees are her hips doing the hula during her grand entrance.
A gentle whiff of her perfume lingers as he inhales deeply, his head swims and legs weaken, mesmerized to putty in her hands. His only thoughts are “Beam me on down, Scotty” and tell Satan to make room for another sucker. Then, he can’t help but inquire, “Your perfume is magnificent, may I ask the name?”
"It’s Clive Christian #1.” Her full, pouty-lips drive Brad wild on every syllable. “Thank you for noticing,” then, she, the perfect, unavoidable trap blows him a kiss.
Oh, it’s doubtful “beam me down” are his only true thoughts. But to anyone watching, they must be expecting her to snatch him up in the clutches of her talons and soar off into the clouds.
“What kind of place is it you’re looking to find?” He tries to gain control and corral his senses, and still show scrutiny toward her interests.
“Doesn’t really matter, cutie pie . . . I sort of had my hopes set on getting to know you. But, our priorities and libidos don’t seem to be in sync.” Her eyelashes flutter. Brad clinches his teeth and struggles to catch his breath. Oblivious to everything else around him, he’s embroiled in a vampire’s spell of long-range hypnosis.
At the vixen’s mercy, onlookers stare and wait for whatever happens next. Fully expecting his eyes to roll back into this head, his tongue to flop out of his mouth and dangle on his chin.
“Why would you think I’m not interested?” Brad asks. Resembling a puppy about to beg, if he doesn’t lose control and pee on her leg. “It’s just so loud in here that I can hardly hear myself think, much less carry on a conversation.”
“Well, you, handsome brute . . . why don’t you throw your arm around me and whisk me away to ecstasy? “'Fly me to the moon,' or maybe, ‘Never Never Land,’ where you can be my Peter Pan . . . and, perchance you’ll let me be your Tinkerbelle.” She hesitates and lets out a low growl. “Then, let me use my fairy skills to grant your every wish.”
Remembering his daddy’s strictest rule, Brad knows that when he can’t spot the fish in thirty-seconds, then he’s about to be filleted. Yet those butterflies in his tummy confirm he’s well past slipping the bait.
Although, every man knows—when something looks and feels too good to be true—you can bet your blundering-butt it is.
He full-well realizes he would have better luck finding that pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow than coming out of this mess unscathed.
Too late to run, he clasps her hand, places it around his arm, and leads her toward the door. “So, tell me, please . . . what kind of place would suit you best?” Figuring, if she hasn’t walked out before now, she has no plans to go anywhere but with him.
“Come on sugar . . . I can see this will be a teaching encounter and you'll need some directions . . . those untrained eyes and nose aren’t going to help you find anything on your own.” Hand in hand she yanks him through the crowd and out the door.
“Lead the way,” is all Brad can say, trying to keep up.
She hands her ticket to the valet. He picks her keys off the numbered hook in the guard shack and runs into the parking garage to retrieve her car.
“You know what I just realized . . .” She leans her ample bosom against his chest, raises one leg, and reaches her arms around his waist to squeeze his butt with both hands. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Brad.”
“Well, Bradley baby, my name is Olivia, and it’s nice to feel you.”
“And, to meet you.” Brad counters. “It’s my pleasure, Olivia . . . on either count.”
“Oh, here he comes with my car, I hope you don’t mind if I drive?”
“I would rather not leave my car, if you don’t mind.” Brad doesn’t want to appear too nervous, sweat-beads already popped-out his forehead. Panicky, he realizes the trap is set, without an exit strategy.
“Oh, don’t be silly, I can always bring you back to pick it up later . . . please?”
“Okay,” he says. Like he has a choice. Then, laughs to himself, figuring it better than crying . . . already well into making this catastrophic mistake.
Previous chapter: After a misunderstanding or disagreement, Brad and Leslie leave each other in an unresolved tizzy.
Brad lounges around all day and night on Thursday, never leaving the house.
Near eleven o’clock Friday night—feeling muddled and out of sorts—he relents to cruise by the Grapevine and check for Leslie’s car. He creeps through every parking-row three times to make sure her Mazda isn’t there, fully aware she could have ridden with friends or went somewhere else. But he can’t go in and let her think he’s stooping to look for her. Although, that’s exactly what he’s doing.
Frustrated, he wheels out of the lot and heads downtown to the Big Blue Martini, Radisson Hotel’s bar. The valet gives him a claim check, jumps in his car, slams it in drive, and squeals the tires as he speeds off.
Inside, the club is a madhouse. Wall-to-wall, a zoo of strange characters who push and shove creating an obstacle-course of confusion. Nevertheless, as luck would have it, two barstools open no sooner than he reaches the bar. He jumps on the closest available and orders a double-shot of Blanton’s on the rocks. Smooth sipping bourbon whiskey that goes down easy. Exactly what he doesn’t need.
On his second drink, what’s supposed to be his last of the evening, in walks the most gorgeous creature he has ever seen. She’s beautiful! Long, dark hair, with glazed-caramel skin glistening and eyes so green they sparkle brighter than a lit showcase of emeralds on black velvet.
She’s attentive to everyone’s gawking eyes. Males and females alike, as she adds a little extra wiggle in her walk. Those full, rounded hips and shapely bubble-butt cheeks doing the rumba, up down, up down. Watchers' peepers jiggle to match, dangling like dice on a rope.
Ms. Universal’s perfect, sexually-charged gyrations command exclusive attention, evidenced by a rubbernecking waiter who slams into the backs of a crowd. Drinks fly everywhere. Glasses burst in a spray and bottles explode. The garçon hits the ground with a thud, and the whole bar erupts in a roar of laughter, all but those doused and sticky.
The enchantress never loses stride and keeps walking straight toward Brad at the bar. She slides into the empty seat beside him with the grace of a gazelle and in a single breath orders a Clix-vodka Martini with extra olives. Clix an expensive Casker’s brand the hotel doesn’t carry, but she settles for their top-shelf Grey Goose, also made by Casker’s.
Brad pretends not to notice her, while his eyes troll the lovely bundle along with everyone else, all wowed by such an incredible package. When his errant gaze levels off, his stare stops even with hers. There they sit, eye-to-eye. Caught red handed, as the old saying goes. His rosy cheeks blossom from embarrassment, and his tense, forced smile rather resembles a self-deprecating defendant facing the death penalty.
Obviously at a loss for words, they both sit and stare for what seems forever, until she finally breaks the ice. “Hi, there . . . are we having fun yet?”
“Hello. Well, things sure are looking up . . . I hope you agree?” Brad’s voice lowers a couple octaves from normal, his accent altered, trying to sound sexy and sophisticated. “How are you this fine evening?”
“Oh, I’m doing well . . . and you?” She scoots back in her seat, pulls down at her skirt that fails to cover much anyway. A tool she brandishes like an LA Laker’s front-row seat.
“I’ve never been better.” Brad wants to kick his own butt for sounding so arrogant and phony.
“I bet.” She responds, making Brad wonder if he really said the wrong thing.
“So, is this the hot-spot in town?” She stares directly into his eyes, boring a hole all the way through his psyche.
“I’m the wrong person to ask about hot spots. I don’t go out that often, and when I do, most of the time it’s to a little country bar close to where I live for dinner. I’m not a big drinker or hillbilly music fan, and more than a cocktail or two push my limit.”
“Well, then pardon me for saying but, you don’t sound like much fun.” She gives a barely audible deep-throaty chuckle, but his lack of expression causes her to cut the snigger short. “I mean, are there any big boys around here who like to party?”
Now Brad must be thinking that horns are just about to pop-out of this chick’s head any second. That is if she doesn’t float through the wall and disappear or whip out her pitchfork and jab him in the you know what. Anyone watching among the joint’s innocent observers would likely give even-money odds she isn’t real.
She bats eagle-wing eyelashes as her slickened tongue caresses and moistens her red, luscious lips to a shine. Looking at her dimpled smile, all Brad probably sees are her hips doing the hula during her grand entrance.
A gentle whiff of her perfume lingers as he inhales deeply, his head swims and legs weaken, mesmerized to putty in her hands. His only thoughts are “Beam me on down, Scotty” and tell Satan to make room for another sucker. Then, he can’t help but inquire, “Your perfume is magnificent, may I ask the name?”
"It’s Clive Christian #1.” Her full, pouty-lips drive Brad wild on every syllable. “Thank you for noticing,” then, she, the perfect, unavoidable trap blows him a kiss.
Oh, it’s doubtful “beam me down” are his only true thoughts. But to anyone watching, they must be expecting her to snatch him up in the clutches of her talons and soar off into the clouds.
“What kind of place is it you’re looking to find?” He tries to gain control and corral his senses, and still show scrutiny toward her interests.
“Doesn’t really matter, cutie pie . . . I sort of had my hopes set on getting to know you. But, our priorities and libidos don’t seem to be in sync.” Her eyelashes flutter. Brad clinches his teeth and struggles to catch his breath. Oblivious to everything else around him, he’s embroiled in a vampire’s spell of long-range hypnosis.
At the vixen’s mercy, onlookers stare and wait for whatever happens next. Fully expecting his eyes to roll back into this head, his tongue to flop out of his mouth and dangle on his chin.
“Why would you think I’m not interested?” Brad asks. Resembling a puppy about to beg, if he doesn’t lose control and pee on her leg. “It’s just so loud in here that I can hardly hear myself think, much less carry on a conversation.”
“Well, you, handsome brute . . . why don’t you throw your arm around me and whisk me away to ecstasy? “'Fly me to the moon,' or maybe, ‘Never Never Land,’ where you can be my Peter Pan . . . and, perchance you’ll let me be your Tinkerbelle.” She hesitates and lets out a low growl. “Then, let me use my fairy skills to grant your every wish.”
Remembering his daddy’s strictest rule, Brad knows that when he can’t spot the fish in thirty-seconds, then he’s about to be filleted. Yet those butterflies in his tummy confirm he’s well past slipping the bait.
Although, every man knows—when something looks and feels too good to be true—you can bet your blundering-butt it is.
He full-well realizes he would have better luck finding that pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow than coming out of this mess unscathed.
Too late to run, he clasps her hand, places it around his arm, and leads her toward the door. “So, tell me, please . . . what kind of place would suit you best?” Figuring, if she hasn’t walked out before now, she has no plans to go anywhere but with him.
“Come on sugar . . . I can see this will be a teaching encounter and you'll need some directions . . . those untrained eyes and nose aren’t going to help you find anything on your own.” Hand in hand she yanks him through the crowd and out the door.
“Lead the way,” is all Brad can say, trying to keep up.
She hands her ticket to the valet. He picks her keys off the numbered hook in the guard shack and runs into the parking garage to retrieve her car.
“You know what I just realized . . .” She leans her ample bosom against his chest, raises one leg, and reaches her arms around his waist to squeeze his butt with both hands. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Brad.”
“Well, Bradley baby, my name is Olivia, and it’s nice to feel you.”
“And, to meet you.” Brad counters. “It’s my pleasure, Olivia . . . on either count.”
“Oh, here he comes with my car, I hope you don’t mind if I drive?”
“I would rather not leave my car, if you don’t mind.” Brad doesn’t want to appear too nervous, sweat-beads already popped-out his forehead. Panicky, he realizes the trap is set, without an exit strategy.
“Oh, don’t be silly, I can always bring you back to pick it up later . . . please?”
“Okay,” he says. Like he has a choice. Then, laughs to himself, figuring it better than crying . . . already well into making this catastrophic mistake.
Brad lounges around all day and night on Thursday, never leaving the house.
Near eleven o’clock Friday night—feeling muddled and out of sorts—he relents to cruise by the Grapevine and check for Leslie’s car. He creeps through every parking-row three times to make sure her Mazda isn’t there, fully aware she could have ridden with friends or went somewhere else. But he can’t go in and let her think he’s stooping to look for her. Although, that’s exactly what he’s doing.
Frustrated, he wheels out of the lot and heads downtown to the Big Blue Martini, Radisson Hotel’s bar. The valet gives him a claim check, jumps in his car, slams it in drive, and squeals the tires as he speeds off.
Inside, the club is a madhouse. Wall-to-wall, a zoo of strange characters who push and shove creating an obstacle-course of confusion. Nevertheless, as luck would have it, two barstools open no sooner than he reaches the bar. He jumps on the closest available and orders a double-shot of Blanton’s on the rocks. Smooth sipping bourbon whiskey that goes down easy. Exactly what he doesn’t need.
On his second drink, what’s supposed to be his last of the evening, in walks the most gorgeous creature he has ever seen. She’s beautiful! Long, dark hair, with glazed-caramel skin glistening and eyes so green they sparkle brighter than a lit showcase of emeralds on black velvet.
She’s attentive to everyone’s gawking eyes. Males and females alike, as she adds a little extra wiggle in her walk. Those full, rounded hips and shapely bubble-butt cheeks doing the rumba, up down, up down. Watchers' peepers jiggle to match, dangling like dice on a rope.
Ms. Universal’s perfect, sexually-charged gyrations command exclusive attention, evidenced by a rubbernecking waiter who slams into the backs of a crowd. Drinks fly everywhere. Glasses burst in a spray and bottles explode. The garçon hits the ground with a thud, and the whole bar erupts in a roar of laughter, all but those doused and sticky.
The enchantress never loses stride and keeps walking straight toward Brad at the bar. She slides into the empty seat beside him with the grace of a gazelle and in a single breath orders a Clix-vodka Martini with extra olives. Clix an expensive Casker’s brand the hotel doesn’t carry, but she settles for their top-shelf Grey Goose, also made by Casker’s.
Brad pretends not to notice her, while his eyes troll the lovely bundle along with everyone else, all wowed by such an incredible package. When his errant gaze levels off, his stare stops even with hers. There they sit, eye-to-eye. Caught red handed, as the old saying goes. His rosy cheeks blossom from embarrassment, and his tense, forced smile rather resembles a self-deprecating defendant facing the death penalty.
Obviously at a loss for words, they both sit and stare for what seems forever, until she finally breaks the ice. “Hi, there . . . are we having fun yet?”
“Hello. Well, things sure are looking up . . . I hope you agree?” Brad’s voice lowers a couple octaves from normal, his accent altered, trying to sound sexy and sophisticated. “How are you this fine evening?”
“Oh, I’m doing well . . . and you?” She scoots back in her seat, pulls down at her skirt that fails to cover much anyway. A tool she brandishes like an LA Laker’s front-row seat.
“I’ve never been better.” Brad wants to kick his own butt for sounding so arrogant and phony.
“I bet.” She responds, making Brad wonder if he really said the wrong thing.
“So, is this the hot-spot in town?” She stares directly into his eyes, boring a hole all the way through his psyche.
“I’m the wrong person to ask about hot spots. I don’t go out that often, and when I do, most of the time it’s to a little country bar close to where I live for dinner. I’m not a big drinker or hillbilly music fan, and more than a cocktail or two push my limit.”
“Well, then pardon me for saying but, you don’t sound like much fun.” She gives a barely audible deep-throaty chuckle, but his lack of expression causes her to cut the snigger short. “I mean, are there any big boys around here who like to party?”
Now Brad must be thinking that horns are just about to pop-out of this chick’s head any second. That is if she doesn’t float through the wall and disappear or whip out her pitchfork and jab him in the you know what. Anyone watching among the joint’s innocent observers would likely give even-money odds she isn’t real.
She bats eagle-wing eyelashes as her slickened tongue caresses and moistens her red, luscious lips to a shine. Looking at her dimpled smile, all Brad probably sees are her hips doing the hula during her grand entrance.
A gentle whiff of her perfume lingers as he inhales deeply, his head swims and legs weaken, mesmerized to putty in her hands. His only thoughts are “Beam me on down, Scotty” and tell Satan to make room for another sucker. Then, he can’t help but inquire, “Your perfume is magnificent, may I ask the name?”
"It’s Clive Christian #1.” Her full, pouty-lips drive Brad wild on every syllable. “Thank you for noticing,” then, she, the perfect, unavoidable trap blows him a kiss.
Oh, it’s doubtful “beam me down” are his only true thoughts. But to anyone watching, they must be expecting her to snatch him up in the clutches of her talons and soar off into the clouds.
“What kind of place is it you’re looking to find?” He tries to gain control and corral his senses, and still show scrutiny toward her interests.
“Doesn’t really matter, cutie pie . . . I sort of had my hopes set on getting to know you. But, our priorities and libidos don’t seem to be in sync.” Her eyelashes flutter. Brad clinches his teeth and struggles to catch his breath. Oblivious to everything else around him, he’s embroiled in a vampire’s spell of long-range hypnosis.
At the vixen’s mercy, onlookers stare and wait for whatever happens next. Fully expecting his eyes to roll back into this head, his tongue to flop out of his mouth and dangle on his chin.
“Why would you think I’m not interested?” Brad asks. Resembling a puppy about to beg, if he doesn’t lose control and pee on her leg. “It’s just so loud in here that I can hardly hear myself think, much less carry on a conversation.”
“Well, you, handsome brute . . . why don’t you throw your arm around me and whisk me away to ecstasy? “'Fly me to the moon,' or maybe, ‘Never Never Land,’ where you can be my Peter Pan . . . and, perchance you’ll let me be your Tinkerbelle.” She hesitates and lets out a low growl. “Then, let me use my fairy skills to grant your every wish.”
Remembering his daddy’s strictest rule, Brad knows that when he can’t spot the fish in thirty-seconds, then he’s about to be filleted. Yet those butterflies in his tummy confirm he’s well past slipping the bait.
Although, every man knows—when something looks and feels too good to be true—you can bet your blundering-butt it is.
He full-well realizes he would have better luck finding that pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow than coming out of this mess unscathed.
Too late to run, he clasps her hand, places it around his arm, and leads her toward the door. “So, tell me, please . . . what kind of place would suit you best?” Figuring, if she hasn’t walked out before now, she has no plans to go anywhere but with him.
“Come on sugar . . . I can see this will be a teaching encounter and you'll need some directions . . . those untrained eyes and nose aren’t going to help you find anything on your own.” Hand in hand she yanks him through the crowd and out the door.
“Lead the way,” is all Brad can say, trying to keep up.
She hands her ticket to the valet. He picks her keys off the numbered hook in the guard shack and runs into the parking garage to retrieve her car.
“You know what I just realized . . .” She leans her ample bosom against his chest, raises one leg, and reaches her arms around his waist to squeeze his butt with both hands. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Brad.”
“Well, Bradley baby, my name is Olivia, and it’s nice to feel you.”
“And, to meet you.” Brad counters. “It’s my pleasure, Olivia . . . on either count.”
“Oh, here he comes with my car, I hope you don’t mind if I drive?”
“I would rather not leave my car, if you don’t mind.” Brad doesn’t want to appear too nervous, sweat-beads already popped-out his forehead. Panicky, he realizes the trap is set, without an exit strategy.
“Oh, don’t be silly, I can always bring you back to pick it up later . . . please?”
“Okay,” he says. Like he has a choice. Then, laughs to himself, figuring it better than crying . . . already well into making this catastrophic mistake.
 Recognized |
Characters:
Brad - Aaron's lifetime friend.
Aaron - Brad's lifetime friend.
Olivia - girl Brad pics up in a bar.
Leslie - girl Brad meets in a bar.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Brad - Aaron's lifetime friend.
Aaron - Brad's lifetime friend.
Olivia - girl Brad pics up in a bar.
Leslie - girl Brad meets in a bar.
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