A Cowboy for the CEO

Chapter 7: Brown Eyed Girl

"Wow, it's like Top Gun in here." Ali had to yell above the music in the roadside bar to have any chance at being heard. The place was packed with uniformed servicemen and women singing karaoke, reminding her of that iconic serenade scene. It was one of her favorite movies.

"Shhh. Don't say that," Wylda hushed, playfully covering Ali's mouth with one hand. "Are you trying to get our arses kicked?"

Ali looked at her with a blank expression, so Wylda explained. "Top Gun . . . that movie was Navy. This is Air Force. Totally different."

Ali wanted to ask how her new English friend was more of an expert on American military branches than a native New Yorker, but Pete pushed them forward. "Move along, ladies. I'm going to need a drink real quick to handle all this eye candy," he said before finding a spot at the bar and placing an order for three shots and beer chasers.

"I wasn't really planning on drinking," Ali protested as the bartender poured the tequila.

Wylda nudged her shoulder. "Ya think you can handle him sober?" She nodded to Dave the pasty broker, approaching in ill-fitting khakis and a button-down shirt more suitable for church than a country watering hole.

Ali reached for the liquor and downed it in one shot, slamming the empty glass onto the counter. "Dave! Great to see you," she said with a forced grin as the liquid warmed her from the inside out.

Poor Dave. He didn't have to know she was only using him to try to make Hank jealous. It was hard enough keeping a straight face while trying to convince Wylda—who probably saw through the lie, but was nice enough not to prod—of her sudden change of heart.

Driven by guilt and a second drink, they hit the dance floor. Apart from amateur singers brave enough to take the microphone, the eclectic playlist ranged from country line dancing to techno hip-hop and everything in between. The alcohol lowered Ali's inhibitions, but letting loose felt right. And thanks to Wylda and Pete, the drinks kept coming. They danced and laughed until her sides hurt. When three young airmen took to the stage and began singing a classic rock ballad, Ali decided she needed a break and excused herself back to the bar.

"Hot damn," Pete said as he eyed the performance from atop a stool, fanning himself before finishing his beer. "This is my kind of place."

"Why aren't you out there?" she asked, wiping the sweat from her brow. "I bet you have some serious moves."

"Oh, I do, sweet pea. I'm just doing y'all a favor by not shaming your lame-ass white-girl dancing." He laughed before giving her a high five. "What'll you have?"

"Just water," she breathlessly answered, glancing behind her to look for her date. "Dave?"

He wasn't there, but Wylda—who'd been chatting up a rugged cowboy—stared in horror as the first chords of "Brown Eyed Girl" began to play. "Oh. My. God," she stammered.

Ali followed her line of sight just in time to witness her recent dance partner getting on the platform to awkwardly sing the words off the nearby screen. When he caught her looking, Dave increased his enthusiasm and—unfortunately—volume. The entire bar collectively cringed before a few charitable onlookers joined in to help Dave carry a tune.

With his confidence boosted, he headed for Ali. The spectacle unfolded like a slow-motion train wreck as Dave sang directly to her, but hopefully it wasn't as evident to everyone else. By the way he was gradually approaching, though, it soon would be.

"Water. I need water," she said to Pete, doubling-down on her request without taking her eyes off the action.

Unscrewing the bottle, Ali frantically drank half in practically one gulp. The water hit her stomach all at once, forming a knot in her gut, which was made worse by the sweaty man pathetically spewing the inappropriate lyrics in her direction.