On the road to find out

Correction--need a reader, not editor.

Here's sample: the 19 year old protagonist ends up in a bar in Santa Fe, beguiled by a lovely senorita.

 Sonny was enthralled at the scene before him. A bearded buck skinned cowboy was stomping the floor in a continuous circle all by himself. Svelte Spanish couples gyrated to the horns and guitars of the mariachi music. A tall dark woman was doing some kind of flamenco as if she were possessed, showing the whites of her eyes as she arched her body right beside Sonny.
He heard a commotion. Miguel strode into the bar with a striking woman on his arm. Sonny locked onto her face: deep black smoldering eyes, dark glistening hair, full to bursting lips, the color of ripe strawberries. She wore jeans, very snugly, and a white tank top painted over her torso. Sonny downed another shot of tequila without the salt or lime. He wiped his mouth and quickly resumed his gaze across the room.
Suddenly, they were all four of them standing in front of him. He shook his head, felt dizzy. Serge was laughing and sweating. “Hey, man, wake up. This is Yolanda.”
“Hola, Sonny. Welcome to Santa Fe, mehito.” She embraced him as if she had known him for years. The push of her breasts against his chest rendered him breathless.
She winked at Marlo. “Muy guapo, no?” and giggled.
“Si, he‘s pretty cute.”
Miguel looked at Sonny, who now seemed to be in a daze. “You taking shots now, kid? How many you had, huh?”
Sonny held up two, then five, then three fingers.
“Make up your mind, bro.” He turned to Serge. “I gotta go to work. He caught Yolanda’s face in his hand. “You stay outta trouble, chica, you here.”
She pulled his hand off her face, somewhat annoyed, and Miguel laughed. Serge grabbed Marlo for another dance. Yolanda stood with her hands on her hips smirking at Sonny. “C’mon, Sonny. You need to dance and get your head clear.” She pulled him up with one arm. That impressed him.
“I’ve never done this,” he confided as she took his hand and wrapped her other behind his neck.
“It’s easy, hombre. Just feel the music. God gave you a sense of rhythm. Hey, you’re a drummer. Use your feet and not your hands. Simple, no?”
Her smile disarmed him, her easy going manner relaxed him, though he was pretty damned relaxed anyway.
“Okay,” he said, as they glided round the floor“, I’m gonna just let go and feel it. Yeah.”
They did a slow kind of cha-cha. Yolanda gyrated her hips, licked her lips and stared into Sonny’s eyes the whole time. They were locked in a moving trance of music, Sonny’s senses were flooded with delicious sensations with every turn, but Yolanda’s gaze, those deep black eyes, kept him focused. He breathed in the sweet perfume that floated off her dark skin. Her breasts heaved as she turned her body this way and that. Yells and screams, profanities, broken glasses. A distant siren, came from all directions, but now he was completely into the dance with this woman, held her firmly and guided her with confidence and he felt her respond, flinging her head back, then pressing in close, whispering something Spanish into his ear that he hoped was erotic.
The song ended and they joined Serge and Marlo at the table. “You two were looking pretty good out there. Sonny, you were in another dimension.”
Sonny sat there, wiped sweat from his forehead, smiled, snuck another shot of tequila. He was sitting with this gorgeous older Spanish babe and she was digging him, in every way he decided. “I think I’m turning her on,” he thought. He was dimly aware that Miguel might be watching, but it seemed of little consequence. Everyone was happy, a little drunk and having an outstanding time. No problem. “If only the guys could see this. Damn! Damn!”
Suddenly the blare of trumpets erupted out of the jukebox, so loud it hurt Sonny’s ears. “Ay, caramba!” yelled Yolanda, jumping up, “a pasadoble. Let’s go!” She grabbed him by his shirt and they merged into the now considerable crowd on the floor.
“Who you wanna be, baby? The matador or the bull?”
“Yeah, I get it. We’re in the bullring. I heard this music in a movie, with Anthony Quinn, I think. I’m the matador, baby.” Sonny leered at her, wanted to throw on that couch back at the house and make love.
Yolanda made funny little jerks with her head as if she were the bull, Sonny executing some nonsensical move with an invisible cape. Her coal black hair would eclipse one of her eyes for a few seconds, then it would reappear with a flash, her mouth partly open, the wet lips brushing his face, her earthy scent, the nipples protruding through the white tank top. That last shot of tequila obliterated any inhibitions he might have left. He suddenly pulled her toward him and planted a kiss on her mouth. He caught her off guard, but she just wagged her finger and laughed. “Naughty boy.”
He leaned close and whispered”, Let’s go somewhere and make out. I want you.”
“You’re pretty smooth, huh gringo. I think you have a little too much tequila, is what I think. Anyway,” grabbing his collar”, I would eat you up.”
Sonny was about to laugh, but was lifted up and flung out into the chilly night, landing hard on the dusty parking lot before he knew what had happened.
Miguel glowered over him. He clutched a Bowie knife that caught the streetlight in its smooth blade. “What the fuck you think you’re doing with my woman, you skinny Texas honky! I oughta cut your ear off!”
Yolanda pushed him away. “What, are you loco. He’s just a kid, he just had too many shots.”
Serge rushed over. “Whoa, buddy. He didn’t mean anything. Like Yolanda said, too much tequila. He never drank tequila before. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, okay? Put the damn knife away.”
Miguel stared at Sonny, who was still on the ground. “Jesus,” he muttered. He stuffed the knife in his belt and went back in the bar.