A/N: OMG! OMG! OMG! We've made it to 100 reviews by Chapter 20! Muchas smoochas to all you guys for all the love you've sent. Because two people, Caritas1979 and deceptivecadence, pushed me over the top with their multiple reviews, I'll do their words in thanks. First up, Caritas. Her word, her scenario.

Drastic

"One more."

She shook her head sloppily and laughed. "Nope. I'm done."

"Come on. This is part of your initiation. You've never made out with anyone while completely smashed. This is Phase One: Tequila." Rigsby smiled warmly at her over his row of empty shot glasses. Spilled salt and mauled lime wedges littered the bar in front of them. The Friday night crowds jostled around them as the bar filled with downtown business people kicking off the weekend in drunken style. After Rigsby had wheedled for an entire day, Grace caved and admitted something personal that no one else knew. She'd never allowed herself to get completely hammered on a date.

Rigsby gallantly insisted they correct that social rite of passage the moment they got off work. So here she was. Plastered.

Grace hiccupped, listing to one side in her suddenly very high bar stool as she tried to stay upright. "Any more smashed and…and…I'd be potatoes." It made total sense in her head.

He chuckled kindly. "That's mashed, pretty girl. And maybe you have had enough."

Her eyes widened and she nodded sagely. "Told ya."

She swiveled her head in both directions, gripping the bar as she did to make sure she didn't fall over. "Before I…Phase Two…before that, I need the bathroom. Does this bar have one?" She looked back at him. "Or do we have to make out right away?"

Tipsy, but not loaded, Rigsby giggled louder than he should have. "I think you're allowed to pee." He paused, giving her an exaggerated once-over. "Unless you're going to throw up. If that's the case, Phase Two is off."

So loaded that 'tipsy' was a weigh station fifty miles back, Grace giggled even louder. "Nope, not going to throw up. Promise. But I do need to pee." She wagged her finger at him as she made this very important clarification.

He nodded, wide eyes equaling hers, and pointed towards the back. "You want help?"

"I can walk," she huffed indignantly, wobbling off the chair and standing up unsteadily. "I think." She turned and headed towards the back, her hands splayed inconspicuously at her sides, maintaining her balance.

Rigsby chuckled as he watched her go. She was just so damn adorable. As she picked her way with exaggerated care through the crowd, he couldn't decide what tickled him more: that's she'd never shown this side of herself to anyone before, or that she felt safe enough to show it to him. As he'd suspected, drunk Grace was just as lovable as professional Grace, serious Grace, laughing Grace, and every other Grace. Half-turned in his stool and gazing sappily at her retreating form, he didn't notice he had company until he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned in his seat and was greeted with the startling sight of five young women looking at him with five identical Fuck Me pouts.

"Excuse me," the girl who tapped him giggled. She was wearing a pretend bridal veil and was dressed to kill every man in the room. Her slinky legs met a micro-mini skirt that barely covered her ass and her cleavage spilled out of a halter top, begging for appraisal. Her entourage was dressed similarly, trashy and ready for action.

A bachelorette party.

Rigsby blinked innocently and nodded. "Yes?"

The bride dipped her chin and looked up at him in little girl embarrassment. "Um, my girlfriends and I are wondering if you could settle a bet for us. See, I told them that you were every bit as strong as you looked, but my friends," she turned to them slightly and all four started giggling shrilly, nudging each other before she turned back, "they need convincing."

Rigsby squinted in liquored-up incomprehension as the bevy continued to giggle and edge closer to his seat. The bride misread his silence as an invitation to continue.

"See," she trailed her finger down his upper arm, "we just walked in and saw you sitting here. My girlfriends dared me to ask the strongest guy in the room for a demonstration." She leaned forward into his space despite his bewildered expression. Her sickly perfume and heavy makeup made him slightly dizzy. "So here I am."

He leaned back slightly to escape the sugary smell and looks. "I'm sorry," he shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

The bride's smile slipped. She gave a slight huff of exasperation as her finger continued to slide up and down his arm without eliciting any response except confusion. Apparently she was unused to working this hard for a man's interest. She decided to up her game and boldly slid one of her bare legs between his. She leaned all the way into his chest, obliterating the precious space he'd created to avoid her saccharine, overpowering perfume, and whispered directly against his ear.

"I'm talking about being picked up and given a nice, deep kiss so everyone can see how big and strong you are."

Rigsby was terrified. The bar was at his back, he couldn't push away from this pretty, demanding crazy girl as she rubbed herself overtly on his knee and chest and purred bizarre nonsense in his ear. God, the scent of her. It was making him feel claustrophobic. It reminded him of when he'd been eleven years old and had eaten an entire ball of cotton candy before getting onto the spinniest, fastest rollercoaster at the fair. It had made him so sick, the bile at the back of his throat had a cloying, sugary taste of doom. The cloud that this chick enveloped him in had the same effect. He put his hands on her shoulders with the hope of easing her off of him.

"Look," he began, trying not to push her slim body too forcefully. "I'm sure you're lovely and all, but—,"

"But what, baby?" A smoky voice caught everyone's attention, the girls and Rigsby turning around to see its owner.

Rigsby saw divine intervention. The bachelorette party saw a disgustingly pretty redhead who called their prey 'baby' and eyed them all with cool indifference.

Her gaze, no longer glassy with booze, sized each girl up individually before dismissing them in turn. Each girl felt it. It was like being passed over by a livestock judge; each cow measured and found wanting. No blue ribbons for them.

She turned her eyes back to the dark hottie at the bar, their odd color sparkling with humor. "What are you waiting for? Pick me up and kiss me so these nice girls can see how strong you are."

Rigsby grinned and lunged off his seat, scooping her up in his arms and claiming her lips with his own. His inhaled deeply and groaned, deepening their kiss. Christ, she smelled like wildflowers in wide, open spaces. She smelled like river water. She smelled like walks in the snow. And she tasted sweeter than a tequila sunrise. He growled possessively and clutched her tighter. She purred into his mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck, teasing his hair between her fingers and pulling him impossibly closer.

Their embrace was loud and clear: We'd make love right here on this bar if we could, everyone else can beat it.

The bride, after watching the couple attack each other avidly, turned to her friends and snorted. "Let's get out of here. I'm bored."

The other girls took one moment too long as they watched Grace with envy, deep in the arms of a very strong man, before they turned and followed their leader out into the night.

Grace, still wasted despite her momentary appearance of cool, moaned loudly against his lips and tugged at him impatiently, the girls already forgotten.

Rigsby finally broke the kiss and stared at her in awe. "That was so awesome," he whispered hotly, his fingers spreading out across her back and under her thighs.

Thinking he meant the kiss, Grace nodded impatiently and whimpered. "More," she demanded, not caring that they were in a crowded bar. Right now, her lowered inhibitions were informing her that his clothes needed to be torn off and his body ravished.

"No, I mean those girls," he jutted his chin towards the door before bringing his face down to hers again. "You were so freakin' hot!"

Grace squinted. Why were they still talking? "Fuck them," she spat with uncharacteristic venom. She pinned him with a look of half-crazed possession.

"You're mine."

She crashed her lips into his again, wordlessly preaching to the converted that he did indeed belong to her.