AN: Here we are, another chapter here.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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"What the fuck are you doing, Andrea?" Andrea mumbled to herself as she looked around Salty's. She laughed to herself, drank down some of her beer, and pulled the menu down from its perch on the metal rings of the napkin holder to look at food that she didn't dare to eat at nine at night.

Just because Carol came to Salty's on a Friday night and left with something worth daydreaming about, it didn't mean that Andrea was going to do the same. There were fundamental differences between Carol and Andrea and, besides that, it was entirely likely that Carol plucked the last remaining decent guy out of the proverbial pond—a fucking unicorn of good guys—when she'd been here.

She was on a date with him right now, and Andrea kept her phone close by. She turned it over every three to five minutes to check and make sure she hadn't missed a call. She was afraid that the music—Jimmy Buffett, for at least a while, which was not at all objectionable—was too loud for her to hear the tinny ringtone. She was Carol's backup. If she needed an out, she was just supposed to call Andrea, and Andrea would call back with an emergency—something that had to be addressed immediately—so that Carol could leave without trying to fabricate something on her own. Andrea was fully prepared to be put on speaker phone and to wail and cry enough to convince even the most discerning audiences.

But, in the meantime, she figured she might as well entertain herself down at Salty's. She could pretend that she hadn't come down there to drop a proverbial hook in the water, but it wasn't every day she bothered with a pushup bra.

Andrea typed out a quick message to Carol—a regular request for some kind of update. She wanted to know how the date was going. She hoped it was going well, but you never could tell about that kind of thing. Carol, like most people, and Andrea would often include herself in the lineup, had a way of shooting herself in the foot sometimes. Carol hadn't been on a date, really, since Ed. She usually managed to run off any man that was even remotely interested in her before he'd really even settled in good on the possibility of a date.

Andrea sighed after she sent the message, determined that no news was good news, and took in her surroundings.

Andrea wouldn't mind finding a man, for herself, that was at least a little like the man that Carol had found. The man that Carol had met was ruggedly good looking. Andrea liked that, too. She liked a little rough around the edges on a man. He'd had a crooked smile. Andrea liked those, too. A crooked smile, in Andrea's experience, usually came with a wicked sense of humor.

There were four things that made up the base of Andrea's dream man – rugged enough to make her feel like he was a real man's man, kind in an unexpected gestures kind of way, good in bed, and a wickedly good sense of humor.

At the moment, in life, Andrea was batting about a .5 out of 4. Shane was decent in bed. The biggest problem with Shane was that Shane was more impressed with his sexual abilities than Andrea was and, most of the time, Andrea got the feeling that Shane would have had a better time if he was able to simply fuck himself.

Shane was also—and had always been—in love with Lori Grimes. She was somewhat unhappily married to Shane's partner on the police force, and she dragged Shane around like a dog on a leash. She liked keeping him on a string. She liked the security of having somewhere to go in case she ever got tired of bossing around her whipped dog of a husband.

And Andrea had never been under the impression that she was anything more than "good enough" for Shane in the absence of Lori. Still, the reality around Living Springs, Georgia, at least for Andrea Harrison, was that Shane was the only man who was both interested in Andrea, and interested in staying for more than one night—even if he was half out the bed the whole time.

The crew at Salty's didn't seem too much different than the last time that Andrea had been there. She'd found nothing that night, either, and she felt foolish for thinking that tonight would somehow be magical because Carol had come home talking about the unicorn she'd found hanging around a week ago.

Andrea checked her phone again and frowned at her drink. She had beer, but if they were going to play Jimmy Buffett all night, she wished she'd ordered something fruity. She considered something fruity as a second drink, and checked her phone, once more, to make sure that she hadn't forgotten to look at it the last time she'd looked at it. Carol must be having a decent enough time. She hadn't responded to Andrea's message. Andrea picked the menu up again, and lusted after the cheesy foods that she didn't dare to eat when Shane would just compare her fat ass to the bony one that belonged to the practically skeletal woman that had held his attention for nearly two decades.

"What's your pleasure, Sugar?"

Andrea looked up, hearing the voice near her, and looked around. It took her a moment, once her eyes settled on the man standing next to her table, to realize that he was talking to her. She decided to check, just to be sure.

"You're talking to me?"

He laughed to himself.

"Unless you got a ghost at this here table," the man said. "Merle."

"Andrea," Andrea offered.

"Anybody ever tell you that you look like Farrah Fawcett?" Merle asked.

Andrea smiled in spite of herself. It was such an odd thing to say, and it wasn't at all true, but it was strangely flattering the way the man said it.

"No," Andrea said. "Is that…what is that? A pickup line?"

"You call it what you want," Merle said with a shrug. "I just considered it a question. Look—I don't beat around the fuckin' bush too much, unless you like that kinda thing. I been watchin' you—on account of you look like Farrah Fawcett to me—and I can't help but notice you keep lookin' at your phone."

Andrea picked up her phone strictly out of the power of suggestion. She looked at it, but there was still no message from Carol and no missed call.

"I don't mean to burst your bubble," Merle continued, "but I don't think he's comin'."

"It's not a man," Andrea said, still caught off guard by the bizarre nature of the exchange that was taking place.

Merle sat down, and he smiled to himself.

He had a crooked smile. He had blue eyes and close-cropped curly hair. And there was something oddly rough and rugged about his features—he was a man who hadn't spent most of his life protected from the elements by an office or, for that matter, by a squad car.

And he'd invited himself into the seat across from Andrea.

"So if it ain't no man," Merle mused, holding Andrea's eyes with his own in a way that was almost unnerving, "and I ain't seen you talkin' to no man here, Sugar, then tell me this: what exactly is a sweet lil' thing like you doin' here on a Friday night, alone?"

Andrea bit the inside of her mouth to lessen the smile that naturally crept across her lips. She didn't want to appear too flattered by the mystery man named Merle that had invited himself to sit across from her.

"Having a drink" she said. "Listening to Buffett."

He laughed to himself. Smirked. Looked upward like he might actually see the music being piped in through the speakers.

"They're playin' your song," Merle said. Andrea raised her eyebrows at him in question. He winked at her, quickly. "Hey, Good Lookin'," he mused.

Andrea felt her face grow warm. She was almost ashamed of herself. She could count on one hand, though, the number of compliments a man had given her in the past five or so years, and she was pretty sure that it didn't come out to one a year—not even for her birthday. She cleared her throat.

"Not my favorite song," she said.

"Mind if I smoke?" Merle asked, dragging the black plastic ashtray near him. Andrea shook her head. He shook out a cigarette and offered one to her.

"I shouldn't," she said.

"It's Friday night, Sugar," Merle offered.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Andrea asked, laughing to herself.

"There ain't no should or shouldn't bullshit on Friday night," Merle said. "It's all about—what the hell feels good. What'cha drinkin' Miss Andrea?"

"I have beer," she said.

"But that ain't what you want," Merle said. "Because your eyes say you ain't happy with your choice. If you don't mind me sayin', you got beautiful eyes, Sugar, but they say you ain't been happy about a lotta things. Take the cigarette when you want it. I'ma put the pack between us. And tell ole Merle what'cha'd rather be drinkin'."

Andrea's heart was pounding in her chest and she felt more lightheaded than a half a beer ever should have made her feel. She felt ridiculous, but she couldn't help it. She glanced around, half-expecting to see someone there, watching her and elbowing someone else, as they let it be known that they'd put Merle up to this. Nobody was paying them any attention, though, except for the waiter that was rushing toward them in his Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and boat shoes—the uniform of Salty's—to answer Merle's request, made by raising his hand, to come take an order.

"What can I get you?" He asked. He was an eager young man, probably in his early-twenties.

"I want a beer," Merle said. "Light. To chase the shot of whiskey you're gonna bring me, too. And for the beautiful fuckin' lady I got sittin' across from me…tell him, Sugar, what'cha want."

Andrea almost wanted to scream at the thundering of her own heart and the fact that her body was reacting entirely without her permission.

"A Tipsy Tuesday," Andrea said. "Extra grenadine and extra cherries."

"Yes ma'am," the boy said, writing down their order. "Can I get you something to snack on?"

"All that booze," Merle mused, "gotta have some shit to dry it up. What's good to you, Sugar?"

"I can't," Andrea said, shaking her head at him.

"You allergic to the whole damn menu?" Merle asked.

Andrea shook her head.

"It's so fattening," Andrea said.

"That's the whole damn point, Sweetheart," Merle said. "Soaks up the booze. Good for ya. Nachos. Loaded. An' don't'cha skimp on the toppings, neither. Put that green stuff on there, too. You can add the fifty cent to my tab."

"Yes, sir," the waiter said. He practically skipped away to put in the order, obviously deciding that Merle was going to tip him more than Andrea would have when she'd been by herself, nursing a beer for the better part of the evening.

"I shouldn't be eating that kind of thing," Andrea said. "It's late and it's all going to go straight to my hips and ass. I'll gain five pounds before morning."

Merle laughed to himself and drained what was left of his beer before he reached for Andrea's sweating and mostly forgotten beer. Without asking, he set in to finish it, leaving her open to the fruity drink that would be arriving within minutes. He winked at Andrea when he caught her looking at him.

"Sounds to me like you plannin' on sendin' it all to the right place, Sugar," Merle drawled. "Calories don't count on Friday night no damn way."

"That might be true for you," Andrea mused.

"You got a real hang up about it, don't you?" Merle mused sincerely.

"Forget it," Andrea said.

Merle hummed at her.

"I might drop it," Merle said. "But I ain't gonna forget it. I got a mind like an elephant. If it matters to me…"

Andrea flipped her phone over.

"And why would it matter to you, Merle?" Andrea asked.

"You wanna snatch them claws back in?" Merle asked. "Or I done somethin' to piss you off?"

Andrea realized she'd tensed considerably. She willed herself to relax.

"I'm sorry," she breathed out, sitting back in the booth. She took the cigarette from the pack that Merle had left in the middle of the table for her, like he'd said he would, and he offered her a light the moment she touched it to her lips. "Thank you," she said. "That wasn't—about you."

"You wanna talk about it?" Merle asked.

"Not particularly," Andrea offered. She looked at her phone again.

"Suits me fine," Merle said. "Ain't no need to fuck with the ambiance. Pardon me for askin', Sugar, but you got some place you'd rather be or…you wishin' I'd fuck off?" Andrea raised an eyebrow in question. "It's just that you keep lookin' at your phone like you're seekin' better company. Startin' to hurt the like three feelin's I got left."

Andrea smiled to herself, both at Merle's concern and the message that popped up telling her that all was well. She sent back a quick emoji and put her phone back on the table.

"No," Andrea said. "I've got a friend. She's on a date with a new guy and…"

"She might need you to bail her out," Merle said. "Don't look so surprised. Hell—every man knows about them messages and phone calls. You lookin' for one of your own?"

The waiter interrupted them. He put down food and drinks, cleared away the empty bottles, and disappeared. Merle pushed the nacho plate toward Andrea, and she smiled to herself.

"I think everything's going all right," she offered. "Do you need a rescue?"

"I'm doin' just fine. Just fuckin' fine. Don't you worry about me," Merle offered. "Eat these nachos, now. I done told your ass that calories don't count on Friday night. I got a certain kinda magic that makes it so."

Andrea smiled to herself.

"I think you've got a load of horse shit is what I think you've got," Andrea mused.

Merle found that funny. He clearly wasn't overly sensitive or easily offended. He could dish out shit—that much was obvious—but he seemed able to take it, and to be called on it, without resulting to a show of extreme anger.

"What's your favorite?" Merle asked. Andrea hummed in question. "Jimmy Buffett song."

"Do you really care?" Andrea asked.

"No offense, Sugar, but I ain't in the fuckin' habit of askin' questions I don't care to have answered."

"Come Monday," Andrea said.

"Why?" Merle asked. Andrea scoffed at him and he laughed to himself. "Fuck it, then. I was makin' what the hell us civilized people call polite conversation, but if you ain't interested in that…"

"It's romantic," Andrea said. "Sweet. I don't know. I like how it's all—light and wavy, kind of dreamy—but it's like…it would be nice to have someone feel that way about you."

Merle was looking at her with a serious expression on his face. It was unnerving because she'd already come to regard the man as a not very serious person. He seemed to notice his own seriousness, because he laughed to himself to wipe away the expression.

"That's just beautiful," he said around a mouthful of nachos. Andrea laughed to herself.

"Asshole," she said. "Alright then, what's your favorite song?"

Merle snorted. He caught Andrea's eyes again, held them, and then raised his eyebrows at her in a way that made something crawl down her back and send a shiver rolling back up her spine.

"Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw?" Merle offered. "You asked."

"I did ask," Andrea agreed. She chewed through a few chips loaded with everything that nachos were supposed to have on them. She hadn't had nachos in a long time, and certainly not past nine at night. She licked sour cream and guacamole off her lips, washed it down with a swig of the fruity drink, and helped herself to another of Merle's cigarettes without a single objection from the man who sat, almost comfortably reclined in the booth across from her, and simply watched her intently as she helped herself. "Is that—just your favorite song?" Andrea asked, when she'd screwed up enough cheese and vodka fueled courage. "Or an invitation?"

"It's whatever you want it to be, Sugar," Merle said. He smiled at her—that crooked smile, but a little softer this time. "Lady's choice."

"Does that extend beyond this booth?" Andrea asked, her heart fluttering in her chest, and her face unable to hold back the smile.

"I got a little blue pill that says it goes however long an' however fuckin' far you want it to, Sweetheart," Merle said. "You just tell ole Merle what'cha want."

Andrea smiled to herself. She pulled her eyes away from him a moment. She felt her face burn warm, and she didn't try to keep from smiling. She looked back at him. He was still watching her—just watching her—as he reclined across from her like there was nothing in the whole wide world that had ever so much as bothered him.

"I want to—eat these nachos," Andrea said. "And drink this drink. And then—I'd like to see…what your private bar looks like."

Merle smiled to himself. He sat up a little and pushed the nachos closer to Andrea. He winked at her.

"It's all stocked up," he said. "And I even got a couple Jimmy Buffett CDs. You gonna like it, Sugar."

"Yeah," Andrea mused. "I've—I've got a feeling I am."