Wildcard

His brains were going to dribble out of his ears. Michael scowled at the drink in his hand. He loathed country music. Loathed it with a passion matched only by the heat of a thousand fiery suns. What he’d done to deserve being trapped in a bar playing the damn stuff while the rest of his squad made friends with the locals, he didn’t know. Lifting his long island ice tea, he took a dragging sip of it. The taste of the mixed liquor hit his tongue sharp and slid down his throat with a bittersweet taste.

“Dude, Thrivener. C’mon man. Parra just scored a group of chicks, we need our marksman.”

Polanco, his battle buddy, appeared out of nowhere and slapped Michael’s shoulder. He sighed and put his drink down, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He was tired, grouchy, and it was hard to get into the mood in this dive. Especially when places like Cagney’s down the road were jumping on Thursdays. Ladies’ night was always a big hit there.

“Fine… But you owe me a shot.”

“OK. Name your poison, bro.”

Michael thought for a moment. Pursing his lips, he checked out the top shelf. “Get me a Four Horsemen.”

Polanco whistled lowly, then laughed and left for the bar. Easily locating the squad the other side of the bar, Michael made his way to Parra’s side. Nudging the Ecuadorian in the side, he nodded toward the group of women the gang was talking to.

“Who’re the ladies?” Michael pitched his voice just loud to carry over the Boot Scootin’ Boogie. Parra shrugged and flashed his trademark grin.

“Does it matter?”

“Nah, guess not. Another day, another chick.” Michael glanced down. His drink was dangerously low, but before he could say anything, Polanco arrived fresh from the bar with a round.

“Thanks.” Michael lifted the shot glass to his friends and downed it in one swallow. It hit the back of his throat like a fireball and burned all the way down. He sucked a quick breath in, his eyes threatening to water. Blinking quickly, he lowered the glass and swept an assessing glance over the group of women.

All chattering, vapid bimbos, they weren’t his type; they were all too damn skinny. He liked a little padding on his women. Proper curves rather than the half-starved boyish figure which had become fashionable recently. There was nothing exciting about cuddling up to a washboard.

Losing interest, he turned toward the bar. If he wasn’t out to pull tonight, then at least he could get rip-roaring drunk and forget the horror of the last two weeks that way instead of between the thighs of a hot and willing woman. He grimaced. Second best, but at the moment, he wasn’t in the mood to deal with a troll looking for an easy ride on a soldier’s benefits package.

Saddling up to the bar, he slid the empty glass across the counter and gave it a nod. The bartender gave it a look then glanced back to him. “Long island, right?”

Michael nodded and rubbed his ears with a groan. This music was just killing him. He was going to strangle whoever came up with the brilliant idea of showing up here tonight.

“Impossible…”

He bitched under his breath as he scanned the place again. How was he supposed to score in this place? He scoffed, took the now revitalized long island, and pounded half the glass. The mix poured over his tongue like a blitzkrieg of rampaging razor blades and lemon juice before it slid down his throat in one sour movement.

Putting the glass down on the table just this side of a slam, he wondered how many long islands he could manage before he either passed out, or more likely, drank the bar dry. Frustration simmered in his chest as he looked over his shoulder. The guys were busy working up to their “divide and conquer” routine. Tried and tested, it meant all of them would get laid tonight, and they were laying the charm on thick to make sure it happened.

Michael sighed and turned around to lean back against the bar. The movement pulled his faded t-shirt tight across his chest, which got the attention of the local trolls. He ignored them. They’d get excited if someone stuck a cardboard cutout of Eisenhower in here. All they were interested in was a military benefits package. As long as their prey was wearing a uniform, they didn’t really care.

Fortunately, they were easy to deal with. Standard operating procedure was to head off to a hotel room to “handle business,” give them the number to a pay-as-you-go cell, then spend the next morning bleeding the minutes dry texting your squad about the night prior. After a couple of years, he was pretty practiced at it. He just didn’t feel like dealing with it tonight.

Casually, his gaze rolled back to the boys. They were just ramping up to decide who got who. He sighed and gestured for a refill.

“Third one of the night. You’re on a roll,” the bartender said with a sassy grin.

“Darlin’, you ain’t seen anything yet.” He gave her a wink and took the full glass with him. Sliding in beside Rod and Parra, he gestured to his drink. “Sorry, had to burn a few off before I was good n’ ready. So…who are we?” he asked the ladies with a practiced smile and a shitload of false sincerity.

“I’m Diana…”

“Stephanie…”

By the third name, Michael had stopped listening and just smiled in the appropriate places. Already he could see the sparkle of calculation in their eyes as they tried to work out who was the highest ranked in the group and thus earned the most money.

“Oh, and Jasmine just went to powder her nose,” one of them announced, waving in the vague direction of the ladies’ room before she leaned forward and gave them all a good view of her cleavage. Like balloons stuck on a twig. Michael stuck his nose in his glass again.

He took a long, hard drag of his drink and suppressed the sigh that wanted to inflate his chest. He was starting to feel pretty buzzed and his apathy was in full gear. He leaned over to Parra and gave him a soft nudge of the elbow.

“They’re all yours. I’ll take the wildcard.”

Parra glanced at him like he was sick in the head. “You never take the wildcard.”

Michael shrugged. “Eh, just not feeling this bunch. You guys have your pick. I’ll take the leftovers.”

Parra didn’t argue. No one wanted to be saddled with the wildcard, the unknown in any bunch, much less asked for it. He took the busty one dead center, saddling up on the couch next to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The rest descended like vultures on a fresh kill.

Without a lady to cozy up to, Michael sat in a tall chair just off the dance floor with his glass. Idly he scanned the female populace, just in case there was anyone who either caught his eye or who he felt the need to tear the clothes off for a night of hot and sweaty sex.

His gaze had just swept the dance floor and dismissed all possibilities when the door to the ladies’ room opened. The wildcard.

Michael looked up and the glass paused halfway to his lips.

It was the hair that drew him in at first. Dark as obsidian, it was soft and wavy, not fancy. Simple, and Michael was in the mood for simple. Just one look at her and his cock stirred with interest. She was a blend of drop-dead-sexy with slightly sophisticated, and a dash of innocence all tossed into one tightly sealed packaged he wanted to rip into.

He smothered an amused chuckle. The wildcard was hot, rather than the dog they all assumed her to be. This was going to set Parra right off.