Free Birthday Bride by Marie Pinkerton Page A

learnin’ to know her husband would switch from his bare
hand to his thick leather belt at any hint of sass.
    “You
will when I’m done with you!” The gorgeous man –looking
suspiciously like one of the men staring at me from the next table over– proclaimed. 
The gleaming brass rod on the wooden bar elevated Abigail’s buttocks, which was
framed perfectly by her garter straps, putting her  sit-spot directly in the
path of her husband’s outstretched arm.  The arm came back, drawing up steam
for a hefty whallop–
     
    “Sorry,”
the guy next to me apologized as he jostled my shoulder trying to reach the bar
through the crowd.
    My
eyes closed and I took a deep breath, bringing myself back out of my erotic
daydream.  If I kept this up, I would be just like Glennys!
    “Thirsty?”
I laughed on opening my eyes, looking at the two empty beer pitchers he clunked
on to the bar.
    He
shot me a glance and chuckled.  “Five soldiers.  One pitcher goes too quick.” I
recognized him from the next table over, and forced myself to keep breathing.  It
was the husband from my daydream! Forget being a cowboy, military was so much
better.
    The
bartender returned with my margaritas and I handed over my credit card.  “ID,
please?” he asked.  “Sorry, we’ve had a rash of identity theft.  It’s not that
I’m carding you.”
    “I’d
rather you lie and say I look twenty-one,” I responded with a smile, giving him
my driver’s license.
    He
didn’t comment on my appearance, darn him.  “Hey, happy birthday,” he said,
handing the cards back.
    “It’s
your birthday?” Glennys squealed, reaching over me for the pitcher. 
    Great,
just great.  I disappear into a daydream and Glennys walks up behind me looking
for alcohol.
    “Happy
birthday,” military man whispered in my ear as I walked by, his husky voice
sending shivers down my spine straight to my butt, which started tingling.  I
imagined his hands were as rough as his voice.  Surely, since he was a soldier,
he was used to working with his hands.  Those nice, big hands, with long,
slender fingers, that could probably palm even my larger rear end.  I saw their
size when he dropped the pitchers off.  Then I watched him heft the full ones
like they were feathers.  Oooh, I wonder what he could do with feathers, just
tickling my bum lightly with them.  Just the thought rekindled the tinglies.
    Glennys
beat me back to the table.  With my luck, they would greet me back with a
rousing verse of “Happy Birthday.”  
    However,
the skeevy waiter who sucked at serving our table (the other reason I went to
get my own refill), now perched in my chair.
    “Come
here,” he ordered with a leer, patting his lap.
    “No
thanks, I’ll stand.” I started to reach for the pitcher Glennys had put on the
table, but changed my mind.  With the way the evening was going, my two glasses
would be enough.  I might fantasize about the soldier in current times, and not
throw us back to the Old West.  That would be dangerous.
    Skeevy
Waiter took advantage of my outstretched arm, and grabbed it in a grip tight
enough to bruise.  “No!” I shouted over the crowd noise, loud enough to catch
the attention of nearby tables.  Loud enough to get the attention of Military
Man and his buddies, just in time for them to look over to see me pulled over
Skeevy Waiter’s lap unceremoniously.  Now I fully knew how embarrassed the Saloon-Girl
me should have felt! My skirt was knee length, but the force of Skeevy Waiter’s
pull had flipped it up, showing my Victoria’s Secret cotton panties caught on
one cheek.
    Damn
it.  I should have picked that wedgie.
    The
waiter let go of my arm to try to keep me from wiggling off.  I brought my left
arm down alongside my body and a sharp jab in his junk did the trick.  He
pushed me off onto the floor.  A hand barely made it to slide between my head
and the very hard, and much stickier than I wanted to think about, floor.  Military
Man