Summoning his energy, he willed himself forward, pushing among those sweaty bodies until he was safely on the other side of the dance floor.
By then he realized he needed more than just the standard drink to get his energy up and pumping again. Again, he cursed himself for not eating beforehand. Dancing was a strenuous exercise in itself.
When Logan reached the bar, he eyed the bartender, slamming his hand down on the counter and shouting for a pint of Speight's, but the bartender was blind to his request, as he was currently in an argument with a couple of women. Inching closer, he heard them speak. "She's thirty," one of the women said to the bartender.
"Thank you, Rosa, for clarifying," the other one said, smiling. And turning to the bartender, she shouted, "I'm thirsty. My friend just confirmed that fact." "No," the bartender said, looking a bit flustered.
Who in their right mind wouldn't be flustered when faced with two gorgeous women demanding his attention like that? Somehow, for that split second, he envied the bartender. "Can't you see? I'm not a twenty-year-old kid," the woman whined.
This must have had something to do with fake IDs. Kids these days wanted to drink alcohol way before their time. Even though he considered himself a kid still, he was way over twenty-one and looked well over twenty-five, so there was no need for a fake ID. "Don't show me that face," the girl yelled at the bartender.
"You want to see my ID? Fine, I'll show you my ID." The scene played out before he was starting to become humorous, and Logan couldn't help but continue to tune in as the drama unfolded before him.
It wasn't every day he got to see a beautiful young girl, looking not a minute older than nineteen, claiming to be thirty just so she could get a sip of alcohol into that gorgeous body of hers. Logan chuckled and shook his head. He could only recall one other time when his life was this amusing.
It happened about a week ago, when a girl gave him a bouquet of roses the day before Valentine's Day and then ran off after yanking his towel, exposing his naked state.
He could still remember standing there, butt naked and all, gazing at her as she scrambled away in fright, oblivious to the sound of what's her name, the girl he'd just had sex with, screaming, making threatening remarks about wanting to kill that girl if she were to see her again.
He could still remember the exact image of her black hair fluttering about in the breeze, tossing, turning, and gliding through the hands of the wind. He so damn wanted to be the wind that day, to feel those strands through his fingers, to see if they were soft to the touch.
He was mesmerized by that beautiful girl, at the nerve she imparted upon him when she dared to tear off his towel and at the fading image of her escape.
At that moment he was tempted to follow her. Dear Lord, he would have followed her if he weren't butt naked. He would have run after her and made love to her right there against the next available tree.
But Lorddamn if it weren't for his neighbor Macy, always hanging about on her front porch, looking to catch a glimpse of him with his next woman, then he would have been off after her already. Hearing ruffling, his eyes danced back to the scene in front of him.