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He flips the bottle in his hand and pours the shot with practiced ease. “Found yourself a girl who doesn’t already know your reputation?” he asks as he pushes the glass across the wood surface.

Oh, that voice. It’s like silk sliding over naked skin.

Despite feeling outraged that he called Marietta a girl, I’m mesmerized.

He wears the same black T-shirt as the other guy, but his is filled out with a chest that could break brick.

Arm muscles bulge as he sets down the bottle.

Tattoos don’t just peek out from the sleeve, but they are sleeves, full ones, snakes and roses and an elaborate iron cross.

Now I’m the one wanting to ask about tattoos. And maybe trail my fingertips over those.

He looks at me and catches me watching. His eyes are smoky gray as we lock gazes. He takes in my red dress, and I brace myself for a flicker of disappointment that I’m not some sexy waif. But he lingers. Cleavage, waist, hips.

My heart speeds up. He didn’t hate what he saw.

In fact, he keeps looking longer than he should. Then, one heavy eyebrow lifts for a second.

What was that? Interest? Or amusement?

I want to know.

But Marietta’s reaching for the shot.

I can’t let her do that.

I snatch it up and down it, too. God, that’s four already.

“Symphony!” Marietta cries. “Stop drinking my shots!”

The bartender’s eyebrow lifts another inch. “How many of those can you do?” he asks.

It sounds like a challenge. I like the idea of showing off to this man. I can hold my liquor.

I lean on the bar. “As many as you can dish out.”

He pours a fresh one and clinks it onto the counter in front of me.

I pick up the shot and down it. “That’s five,” I tell him.

He whistles, and the sight of his lips puckering makes my pulse race. He pours another.

“Isn’t your boss going to wonder where all his Fireball went with no receipts to back it up?” I ask.

He pushes the glass my way. “It’s my bar. I can do what I want.”

The owner. That’s something.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Diesel.”

Damn. Now, that’s a name for a man in a biker bar.

“I’m Symphony.”

“Sounds like music someone could spend all night listening to.”

Holy shit. I’ve been made fun of all my life for this name. But now, I love it.

Despite three yards of skin-tight spandex holding in my lady bits, I feel them yawning. Open for this one , they say. He’s a hot one.

God, I sound like Marietta.

His gaze drops to the glass.

I pick up the sixth shot. I’m feeling the first one. The others will be close to follow. But I don’t back down from a dare, so I lift the glass and down it.

“Symphony, what’s going on?” Bailey comes up behind me. “And why is Marietta hanging onto two old men?”

I turn to look. She’s right. Marietta stands between the stools, one arm on each man’s shoulder.

“We better get her,” Jenna says.

I look back at Diesel. “Six good enough for you?”

He gives a slow grin. “I’m pretty damn impressed.”

His words slide over me like warm water. “Good.”

“Hey!” Marietta cries out. “What are you doing?”

Jenna pulls on her arm. “I called a ride. It’ll be here in five minutes.”

Diesel meets my gaze. “My bar isn’t good enough for ladies like yourself?”

Jenna looks up from where she’s trying to extricate Marietta from her suitors. Yeah, that drink is hitting. Marietta looks like she’s suddenly made of bread dough.

Bailey watches me, a gleam in her eye. She doesn’t seem the worse for her puking. “Jenna, cancel that ride. The gentleman is right. This is as good a place as any to spend the bachelorette.”

Diesel lifts that eyebrow again. “Bachelorette? Who’s getting married?” I don’t miss that his gaze shifts to me for a split second.

Is he hoping it’s not me?

“I am,” Bailey says, scooting between stools to put her elbows up on the bar. “Can I get a glass of water? I had a little too much booze earlier.”

“Certainly.” He fills a glass for her, then a second one, passing it to me. “I recommend one-to-one booze for water.”

That’s practical for a place like this.

I plan to take a sip, but realize I’m parched and down half the glass in one go.

The spandex tightens down, and suddenly, I have to pee. Urgently.

I’d rather stay and flirt with Diesel, but I might be one sneeze away from a tsunami wave in my Spanx. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Bailey.

I hurry along the bar stools to the outhouse, assuming I’ll enter a big room with stalls.

But no, it’s just one tiny space with a toilet and sink.

That can’t be up to code for a bar this size. Maybe there’s another one somewhere else.

I slam the door and slide a hook into a metal loop. That doesn’t seem secure.

But my bladder has sensed the proximity to relief and is ready to blow. I have to get out of this contraption holding me together.

I shimmy the red dress up my hips, revealing the long expanse of white. There’s no zipper or snaps. I’m held in by the power of microfibers and my sheer will when I dragged this size-small torture device over a size-large body.

I manage to get my thumbs under my bra and into the top elastic.

But as soon as the band realizes it’s got somewhere else to go, it rolls into the tightest coil I’ve ever felt around my waist.

I shove my thumbs inside to move it down. I push. I grunt. I tug. I sweat.

But the spandex vise is stronger than me. I shove my entire hand in there, hoping to get it to budge.

Then I can’t get it out. I’m stuck in the elastic up to my elbow.

Holy hell.

I’m trapped.