Beer Goggles Anthology

by Anthology

  “You’re probably used to scenes like that, aren’t you?”

  She nods. “Different, but the same. I haven’t been back here much since I left. Only for Christmas, I think.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Sometimes.”

  I get up and stand behind her. “So what stops you from coming back more?”

  “I spent so much time dying to get away from here. Seems hypocritical to want to come back.”

  “No, it doesn’t. People change. Perspectives change.”

  “My family did. I’m just not sure I did.” She pauses, her body relaxing, and I can see the walls start to crumble. “I’m still the same girl who tries to outsmart everyone. Only hangs out with my dad, because we have science in common. Tells my great aunt with dementia that I’m not Francine, I didn’t win an Olympic gold medal, I don’t like meatloaf and leave her more confused than before.” She twists to look at me. “I dumped wine in your lap.”

  “I deserved it.”

  The corner of her mouth tips up before she swings her attention back outside. I want to touch her. Slide my palms down her arms and breathe in the scent of her hair. This is the reserved, thoughtful Quinn that I met after her second round of alcohol. She’s the exact opposite of the uptight, sassy Quinn I first saw at the wedding rehearsal. I’m pretty sure there was another version of her too, and I’d give anything to remember that one. My guess is she was crazy fun.

  “Hey.” She points out the window. “What is that?”

  “Grass.”

  “No, there. Behind the grass.”

  I squint. Lean into her until my body is flush against hers. “Litter?”

  “Does that look like a strap to you? A belt or a purse handle?”

  I inhale the aroma of soap from her neck. “Could be.” I wonder what she’d do if I gently led her to the bed.

  “Grayson!” She spins to face me. “Our clothes. Those are our clothes!”

  I peek around her. “Why would our clothes be outside?”

  “Because they aren’t anywhere else.”

  I step closer to the window, but I still don’t see what she sees. “Okay, so let’s say you’re right. How are we going to get them?”

  Chapter Eight

  Quinn

  “I’m wearing a sheet!”

  He throws his hands down at his sides. “Um, towel. Plus, when I went out to look for my truck, I got scolded by the hotel staff for being inappropriately dressed. At least you’re fully covered. It’ll be like that one Disney princess chick—what’s her name? The redhead.”

  “I guarantee this sheet is transparent in the sun.”

  He smirks. “If that’s the case, you’d better get out there. I’ll watch from up here.”

  I open my mouth to return that with snark, but nothing comes out. So I grin and walk away. Total flirt move.

  I feel his gaze on my back as I make my way to the door. He’s gawking, his jaw probably on the floor. I’ve never had this effect on a man before, nor have I wanted it. But now? I don’t know. It’s kinda nice.

  Poking my head out, I look down the hallway. It’s past regular check out time, so the only people here are those staying another night. I zone in on a door across from us, the gold latch keeping it ajar. Bingo.

  I close our door. “There’s a couple staying in room two nineteen. Just go knock on the door, and see if you can borrow something.”

  “I’m not wearing another man’s underwear.”

  “Then don’t ask for his underwear.”

  “I’m also not free-balling in another man’s pants.”

  “Fine. What do you suggest? Flashing the hotel guests?”

  He peers out the window again. Puts his hands on his hips and groans. “Are you sure those are our clothes?”

  I mimic his pose. “No. But how else are we going to find out?”

  “I could pay someone…”

  “Yes, you can. With the money you don’t have, because your wallet is missing.”

  “The front desk!” He rounds the bed to the nightstand. “We’ll call the front desk people and have them go outside and check.”

  “I’ll save you the time: ‘Hello? I think I may have left all of my belongings out on the beach…Yes, ma’am, including my clothing…That is correct. I am completely naked…I have no idea what you might find out there, because we were too drunk to have anything resembling common sense…Oh, please don’t call the cops…’”

  I glare at him, telepathically telling him to not be stupid. He lowers the phone back to the cradle. His jaw clenches as he finally comes to the only workable conclusion.

  “Fine,” he grumbles. “But you owe me for this.”

  “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  “Again.”

  “What?”

  “You mean you’re not sleeping with me again. Because you already did it last night.”

  “Just because you think it happened doesn’t mean it actually happened.”

  He perks his eyebrows. “And just because you don’t believe it happened doesn’t mean it didn’t. Aren’t you supposed to be smart or something?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be getting our clothes?” I smile back at him. The left side of his mouth stays curved up as he leaves, and I watch the door click shut behind him.

  There’s power in this flirting thing, and I think I’m getting good at it. At least I am with Grayson.

  I stand by the window, keeping my eye on our stuff in case someone sees it before he does. Not sure what I’d be able to do from here outside of giving a description of the thief.

  A flash goes off in my mind: it’s dark. There’s sand.

  Another: me clinging to Grayson’s arm. I slip off my shoes, holding onto him for balance. It doesn’t work, and we fall over each other onto the sand. We’re laughing.

  I close my eyes and rewind the pieces. Clip after clip falls into place and the full memory emerges.

  “Tequila is made from worm intestines.” Grayson takes a drink then hands it to me. “They add grapes and agave, and BAM! Tequila.”

  We’re in our hotel room, and the tequila tastes like gasoline, but I take another swig, because it’s in my hand and the label is shiny and pretty. Grayson is pretty too. And the room is pretty. And the picture of streetlamps over the bed is pretty. And the carpet is pretty. And oh!

  I throw open the curtains. The ocean is very pretty.

  My thoughts are all running together and not making any sense. It’s wonderful!

  “Grapes are for wine.” I say it slow, considering each word. I don’t want to be wrong.

  Grayson tips my face up and kisses me. “Smart-ass woman.”

  “You know what we should do?”

  He grabs my ass. “I have a few ideas, actually. One involves the bed. Another, that chair over there. The shower. And how do you feel about sinks?”

  “I like water. Ocean water.”

  He follows my gaze. “That, baby, sounds kinky.”

  “Let’s do it.” I grab my purse.

  “Do you need that?”

  “They might have cocktails down there. I like cocktails. Yellow cocktails with one of those pink umbrellas.”

  He pockets his wallet. “Then I’ll buy you a pink umbrella drink. One with a pink umbrella.”

  “Yes!” I head for the door, but turn around. “Don’t forget the tequila.”

  He holds it up. “Got it.”

  I slip the lock-latch out so we don’t get locked out of our room. That would be so embarrassing.

  We skip down the stairs and out the back door. The sand seeps into my shoes. I pull Grayson to the side.

  “What are you doing?”

  I clutch his forearm. “My shoes. Hold still.”

  He wobbles. I wobble. And soon we’re both lying in the sand.

  Grayson laughs and passes me the tequila. “You be the shoe woman with all the kids, and I’ll be the guy at the ball with the pumpkin.”

  He removes both of my shoes an
d tosses them into a swath of grass. He prowls over me, fingers working their way over my legs. Up, up until he has a hold of the hemline of my shirt.

  “Got a swimming suit under this?” he asks.

  “Take it off and find out.” I giggle, because he’s touching me. His hands are so warm, his eyes blazing. I kinda like being drunk.

  Grayson’s grin widens, and he slips the shirt over my head. Of course, I’m not wearing a swimming suit. It’s a bra. A plain white one from Target. Inexpensive and supportive. Why am I thinking about my bra?

  Grayson definitely isn’t. He’s thinking about what the bra is covering.

  “Breasts,” I say as if he doesn’t know.

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Two of them.”

  “Neat. Can I see?”

  I lift up on my elbows so he can reach under me and unhook it. Two seconds later, my bra is gone, and Grayson’s mouth slams into mine. Thoughts are for the sober, so I don’t think. I’m no longer me. I’m needy, all desire and no trepidation.

  I have Grayson’s shirt yanked off, and I’m working on his pants when the tequila falls over. Alcohol pours out over my hair. Laughing, Grayson rescues the bottle and takes a swig.

  “We should take this somewhere a little more private.” He passes me the bottle and digs his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. He takes out a foil package, flashing it at me before he removes his pants.

  Not to be outdone, I strip down too. Then I grab his hand and run toward the water.

  The scene dissolves, and my first thought is how well our bodies fit together. How easy it was to let go with him. Alcohol does a lot of things, but it didn’t create the feeling that’s still fluttering around in my stomach.

  My second thought is how the hell the wrapper ended up in the bathroom garbage.

  Grayson

  Quinn owes me big. A-second-night-together big.

  Good thing no one takes the back stairwell out to the beach. I make it to the first floor unnoticed and look outside. The back deck is swimming with vacationers—men, women, children, freaking dogs. Who brings their pets on vacation?

  I scan my path to our alleged clothes. I can’t see from there, of course, but they’re approximately two hundred feet from the edge of the patio. Hey, at least we had enough sense to hide our belongings instead of toss them flippantly. Can’t say that about most drunk people.

  I tighten the top of my towel, making sure the open slit is halfway between my ass and the family jewels. No way am I flashing a six-year-old and her mother. The cops will be called for sure.

  A bulldog on a leash stops in front of the door. Tongue hanging out, he peers up at me and barks. I wave at the kid on the other side of the leash. Now I can’t just stand here like a creeper.

  I push the door open, and the dog barks again.

  “Why’re you wearing a towel?” the kid asks.

  “Going to the beach.”

  “Are you wearing a Speedo under there?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, kid.”

  He shrugs. “It’s my job.”

  “All right, buddy. Yeah, I’m wearing a Speedo. Now don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay. Enjoy your stay here.” I side-step him, and the dog growls. “Good dog. Good work.”

  I walk casually, acting like I belong out here. Just me, tourists, and a tiny hotel bath towel. It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.

  I veer off the path, and there they are. Our clothes, my wallet, Quinn’s purse. Score! How has no one noticed? Quickly, I gather everything up, including an empty tequila bottle that’s probably ours too.

  “Are you stealing someone’s stuff?”

  The kid. And is his dog glaring at me?

  “No, this is my stuff.”

  “You carry a purse?”

  I glance down. “I prefer to call it a satchel.”

  “That isn’t a satchel, mister. I have a satchel. That’s a woman’s purse.”

  Quinn owes me an additional two nights.

  “It’s my girlfriend’s purse.”

  “Where’s your girlfriend?”

  “In our room. Do you have parents?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Duh.”

  “Shouldn’t you be with them?”

  “I am. They’re right over there.” He nods toward the beach, which is swarming with people. “Why didn’t your girlfriend come get her own stuff?”

  Ah, the question of the ages.

  “Because she’s a woman, and I’m a man, and she asked me to. End of story.”

  “Because you’re whipped.”

  “I am not whipped.”

  “Do you like her, your girlfriend?”

  “Yes, she’s my girlfriend.”

  “Why are your clothes out here anyway?”

  I scratch my head. This round of Twenty Questions is over. I unzip Quinn’s purse. I’m no expert on woman’s handbags, but damn! It’s like a freaking filing cabinet. A wallet, pockets for chap stick, lip gloss, and her cell phone. There are even little envelope things with tags, labeling what’s inside. I open the one that says $5 and pull out a bill.

  “Five bucks to go back to your parents.”

  “Fifty.”

  “Fifty? What are you, a real estate agent?”

  “No, but my dad is. Fifty and I take a hike.”

  I leaf through the envelopes until I have the right amount. “Here, fifty bucks. Now scram.”

  He counts the bills and nods. “Nice doing business with you.” He turns to leave, the dog shooting me one last glare.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  The kid spins around. “Oh, one more thing, and this is free. If you’re willing to come out here naked for a girl, you probably more than like her.”

  Chapter Nine

  Quinn

  Grayson dumps the pile of belongings on the bed. His towel slips a little, and my gaze darts to his hips. My thoughts go back to the ocean with my legs wrapped around him.

  I shake the memory away. “Who was that kid, and what did you give him?”

  Grayson sets the empty tequila bottle with the others. That makes a dozen bottles.

  “The next Frank Abagnale.”

  “Swindler!”

  “He was good. I’m glad you carry cash.”

  “I paid him?”

  “Fifty.”

  “Did you haggle? Please tell me you haggled.”

  “And spend more time out there with him? Kid would have suckered me out of twice that.”

  I snatch my purse and count what’s left. Twenty-three dollars. Huh. That’s three more dollars than when I left dinner last night. Did I win money at a casino?

  I grab the rest of my stuff and start toward the bathroom. We’re running out of time. “I’m going to get dressed. Travis will be here in half an hour.”

  “You still owe me.”

  “I just gave you fifty bucks.”

  “Down payment.”

  I back up toward the door, my attention pinned on him. His is on me, and I’m not thinking about how much I want to hate him. “We can negotiate terms once we’re dressed.”

  “Are you afraid of negotiating naked?”

  My skin warms. “Just get dressed.”

  Once I have the door locked behind me, I breathe. I know more about what happened last night than he does, and my body is responding to the memory. My cheeks are red, my breasts fuller, and I have the sudden urge to cross my legs. Whatever terms Grayson comes up with, I’m in danger of agreeing to them.

  He makes me weak, defenseless, and exposed. He’s pulling me out of hiding, and what’s worse, I don’t remember giving him permission. It just…happened.

  Grayson is sitting on the bed when I exit. Fully dressed, his skin might even be more tempting, because now it’s covered.

  I settle into the desk chair. I no longer trust myself. “Your terms?”

  “Tonight, I want you. No alcohol, no casinos, no bars, no road trip.” He’s seri
ous, not even smirking.

  My heart pounds. “If I agree, then what?”

  He saunters over to me, thumbs tucked into the front pockets of his jeans. He stands in front of me, gaze trapping me in place. I exhale slowly.

  Grayson places two fingers under my chin, and some non-scientific force has me rising to my feet. It’s so warm in here.

  His thumb roams over my lips. “We just see where the night takes us.”

  I already know where the night will take us. I’m willing, ready. I feel myself nod before the word comes out. “Okay.”

  His fingers comb through my hair, stopping at the back of my head. Gingerly, he tilts my face up. Desire in his gaze cuts through me, and part of me doesn’t want to wait until tonight. He leans down, and—

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Again?

  “Dude, it’s me.”

  Travis. Asshole.

  “Hurry the hell up, man.”

  Disappointment floods Grayson’s eyes, and he lets go. “I’ll make up for it later.”

  Pound, pound, pound.

  “Grayson!”

  “Chill out,” Grayson says, throwing the door open.

  “I’m getting married today, and I have to come pick up your sorry asses.” He holds up a bag. “You asked for these.”

  “We found our clothes.”

  “I see that. You ready then?”

  I breeze past them, not wanting Travis to come inside and see the collection of bottles. Nor do I want him to see the red that’s still flushing my cheeks. “Let’s go.”

  Travis brought Emma’s car, parking it in a no parking zone alongside the curb. It’s even running.

  I grab the handle, but the door doesn’t open.

  “I’m not as stupid as you think.” Travis unlocks the doors. “You want shot gun?”

  “No, I’m good.” If I have the opportunity to be alone in the backseat, I’ll take it. Besides, they can guy-talk up there, and I can think back here.

  I agreed to Grayson’s terms for tonight. Now that there’s some room between us, I’m debating on whether this is a good idea. Then I tell myself to not be stupid. Of course it’s a bad idea. Right? I mean, it’s me. It’s Grayson. Two ridiculously different people who barely know each other. Even if there’s a possibility that we’re married.