by Cora Carmack
And I’d tell him the set list for the gig, since it looked like we’d be deciding that without him. I splashed some water on my face and pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes until the black behind my eyes was as black as it would go.
Then I went back outside.
Spencer had already packed up our things and returned them to the storage closet that Sam let us use. I didn’t have to say anything. Spencer had probably heard it all. Sound carried in this place. It was why I’d begged Sam to let us use it in the mornings before the bar opened. Great acoustics. Good for music, not so good for arguments.
“You okay?” Spencer asked.
I rolled my eyes and said, “What do you think?”
“I think you’re fine.”
“And you’d be right.”
Boys were boys. I had enough other things tying me into knots without worrying every single time Mace blew a gasket.
Spencer said, “Because you’ve got balls of steel.”
I hated when people said that, like it assumed strength and being a male were synonymous. There was strength in being a woman. “Spence, I don’t have balls. Good thing, too, because they’d look terrible in the lingerie I’m wearing.”
Spence adjusted his bow tie and put on a goofy smile. He said, “Lingerie, huh? Poor Mace is going to be sad he stormed out.” He sidled closer and placed his hands on my hips. He wasn’t hitting on me, not with that Zoolander-style Blue Steel face. We weren’t like that anymore. Spence might be the only guy I’d ever slept with and managed to maintain a friendship with afterward. As such, we were a little more touchy-feely than most friends.
I slid out of his reach. “He wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near it today anyway, and neither will you.”
He crossed a hand over his heart, and looked pained.
“You’re cruel. Vagina-of-steel.”
I laughed so hard I had to steady myself on the table next to me.
“That’s even worse. Let’s just say my private parts are made of the usual private part bits. In fact, let’s just never talk about my bits, okay Spence?”
He smirked. “Fine, but I make no promises when I’m drunk.”
I sighed and started gathering my things. “Deal. You coming in tonight?”
“I think so. I’ve got a new song I’m working on. So I might come in and grab food and work on it, maybe run it by you on your break.”
“Sounds good.”
“You want to hear what I have so far? It’s a work in progress, but it goes ‘Your boyfriend’s a dick, a prick, take your pick. But you should take his drumstick and—’ ”
“—Point proven, Spence.”
He fit a fedora over his head. “I’ll believe that when you do something about it. See you tonight.”
I said, “I’ll save you your usual table,” but he was already out the door and on his way.
I used the spare key Sam gave me to lock up, and put Mace out of my mind. I had just enough time to make some ramen and catch a nap before coming back for work tonight. I pulled the hood of my jacket up over my head, and it helped to block some of the wind from my face and ears. I set off walking toward my apartment, quietly singing one of the songs by the Smiths from our set.
There is a better world
Well, there must be . . .
7
Cade
Milo’s apartment was the quintessential bachelor pad, complete with two weeks’ worth of takeout scattered all over the counters. He shoved aside an empty box from a Chinese restaurant and said, “You overthink things, hermano. So, I’m going to help you out.” Milo opened his freezer and slammed a bottle of tequila on the counter space he’d just “cleaned.”
I was beginning to get a clearer picture of how this night was going to go.
“You’re going to help me stop thinking completely?”
He unscrewed the cap and said, “Exactly.”
I picked up the bottle, and the glass was freezing against my fingertips.
“You could have at least gotten decent tequila. What is this? There’s a freaking pony on the bottle.”
He snatched the bottle out of my hand and said, “I’ll buy more expensive tequila when you get over this Bliss girl.”
I never should have mentioned her name to him. He had this tendency to drop her name into casual conversation as a way to numb me to it. So far, it was a bit like becoming numb to shock treatments. It got more bearable, but I wasn’t going to line up and ask for more anytime soon.
He pulled a few shot glasses out of a cabinet, and I said, “So this is therapy, Milo-style?”
“Yep. If you’re not wasted, it’s not working.”
He filled two shot glasses, and slid one over to me. The other he held back for himself. I gestured to his glass and said, “What are you drinking to get over?”
“You’re not getting it, hermano. We drink so that we don’t have to talk.” I nodded and took my filled shot glass. I started to lift it to my lips, and he stopped me. “These aren’t ordinary shots.”
“Oh, are they magic shots? If I pour one out on the busted concrete outside will a beanstalk grow?”
“Oh, they’re magic, all right,” Milo said. “They’re supposed to make you grow a pair.”
In true Milo-fashion, he laughed at his joke before I could, and did a celebratory dance. I shook my head and said blandly, “You’re hilarious.”
“I know, I know. But seriously, these shots are special.”
I eyed the tequila that I was sure to regret in the morning and said, “Especially bad.”
He picked up his shot and said, “Each one you take is a commitment. If you break that commitment, the gods of alcohol will punish you with a hangover so bad you’ll think Satan himself took a dump on you.”
“And if I don’t take them?”
“You can spend the night being a depressed white boy while I go get laid. Your choice.”
It was pretty depressing when you put it that way. I sighed and gestured for him to continue.
“Cade Winston, by drinking this shot, you hereby swear to get a girl’s phone number tonight. If you fail, may the alcohol gods curse you with the lowest alcohol tolerance known to man—so low that an anorexic baby could drink you under the table.”
I laughed, but picked up my shot. “I don’t think anorexic babies are a thing.”
“How do you know? I’m sure they don’t like being called chubby and having their fat pinched more than anyone else does.”
I took the shot just to get him to shut up. It tasted like rubber mixed with lighter fluid mixed with death. When my throat no longer felt like the burning inferno of hell itself I said, “Okay. A number. I can do that.”
He smiled and poured the second shot.
I eyed him. “If you say my punishment for this one is herpes, I’m out.”
He handed me the glass, laughing. “Relax, Winston. I’ll leave that between you and your giving tree.”
And now I could never read that book to my kids at the after-school program again.
“You should never have children,” I said.
“What makes you think there aren’t a few little Milos running around out there already?”
“Because Armageddon hasn’t happened yet.”
Milo punched me in the shoulder, spilling half the shot. He topped off the glass and said, “Cade Winston, by drinking this shot, you hereby swear to do something out of character tonight. Should you fail, you’ll be cursed to a lifetime filled with premature ejaculation.”
“Seriously, man?”
He held up his hands and laughed, “Hey, the alcohol gods giveth and they taketh away.”
I glared at him but took the shot without comment. I’d thought it might taste a little less heinous the second time around, but it was still the most offensive thing to ever assault my taste buds.
Milo finished his own shot with no issue.
“How often do you drink this stuff?” I asked.
“Pretty often. One of m
y uncles works at the factory in Mexico. He sends me coupons. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”
“If I ever get used to it . . . shoot me.”
Milo ignored me and said, “Numero tres! For this one, amigo, I want you to get pissed off. You’ve been too damn nice about this whole thing. I don’t care if it’s over a spilled drink or just how ugly some dude’s face is—but by taking this shot, you promise to let yourself get angry tonight.”
“What if I get pissed at you?”
He shrugged. “You probably will, but I guarantee it won’t be because I’ve got an ugly face.”
“Right, just that ugly shirt you’re wearing.”
“This shirt is awesome. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I laughed and said, “Okay, I’ll get angry. That shouldn’t be too hard.”
He clinked his shot with mine and said, “And none of that holding-it-in shit.”
I took the shot. This time it didn’t burn at all, which was worrisome. Maybe it had already corroded my esophagus. I watched him fill the final glasses and I said, “Last one.”
“Hmm . . .” Milo paused, thinking. “You’ve not been with anyone since Bliss right?”
I shook my head, and didn’t bother telling him I was never really with her either. He poured the last shot and said, “Cade Winston, by drinking this shot, you hereby swear to hook up with a girl at this bar.”
“Hook up?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of what qualifies as a hookup. As long as there is some kind of action involved, I’m sure the alcohol gods will be appeased. If you succeed, may you be blessed with extraordinary game and the best sex of your life.”
A reward. That was new.
“And if I don’t?”
He shrugged and said matter-of-factly, “You’ll be cursed to a lifetime of getting hard-ons at the most inappropriate times.”
That sounded more like Milo. I wondered if he’d spent time thinking this all up, or if it was just another day in the depraved state of his mind. I wiped a hand over my face. I had to give him one thing . . . he was good at getting my mind off my troubles. Maybe he was right. I had spent months chasing after the relationship that wasn’t, and then even more time mourning it. Who said I needed to be in a relationship? I’d done my fair share of partying and casual dating during my first three years of college. But when graduation started looming, I had thought I needed to take life more seriously, start building a foundation for my future. Look at all the good that had done me.
I was twenty-two years old. Why the hell was I in such a hurry?
I picked up the glass, my chest still warm from the last shot.
“A hookup it is.” I put the glass to my lips and tipped it back. Damn it . . . the stuff really did grow on you.
Milo cheered and slapped me on the back.
“And now, we party!”
Bliss barely crossed my mind as we made our way to a bar called Trestle. Maybe enough time had finally passed.
More likely it was the tequila.
Milo had brought the bottle with us just in case I sobered up during the journey. By the time we arrived outside Trestle, my liver was probably permanently damaged, but at least my mind was clear.
The bar sat at the crossing of two smaller streets, almost directly under a bridge decorated with graffiti. It was the kind of place that just screamed mugging . . . or hepatitis.
From the outside, the bar looked like an old abandoned brick building. The sign was even missing the r in Trestle.
The inside was a totally different story. There were old black-and-white movies projected onto the wall. Bright colored lights gave the dim bar a retro feel. Then there were the dancers. I saw Milo’s friend Sasha on the far side of the room. She stood up on a platform behind one end of the bar, dancing several feet above the crowd. Her movements were hypnotic, her long hair bouncing around her as she moved. Between the run-down exterior, the projections, and Sasha’s dancing, the bar felt like some kind of secret, underground venue.
If we had places like this back home in Texas, I’d certainly never been there.
Milo clapped a hand on my shoulder and said, “When I told you to hook up with a girl, I did not mean Sasha, hermano. She’s off-limits.”
I laughed and looked away from her. “Is she yours?”
He watched her for a moment, his eyes following her movements. “Nah, man. She’s too good for me. I meant she’s not available to be your rebound girl. She’s been run over by enough guys for this lifetime.”
I eyed him, knowing there was more that he wasn’t saying, but I let him keep his secrets. I certainly had mine.
“Stop looking at me like that, Winston. I’m not going to be your rebound either.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not drunk enough for those kinds of jokes.”
“Well, that’s something we should remedy!”
We moved toward the bar, but a blond girl stepped in my way. She was pretty—light curls, pink cheeks, and a low-cut top. She appeared to have had way too much to drink. She leaned forward to say something, but stumbled into me instead. I caught her around the waist and steadied her. One of her hands went around my bicep, and she giggled.
“I’m so sorry!”
She didn’t let go of my arm even once I’d righted her. She looked up at me through long lashes.
She was attractive for sure, but I kept waiting for something more to hit me. I waited for the electric zing of attraction, the pull in my chest, the pump of blood.
Nothing. Nada.
She asked me the usual questions, and I made small talk, but I could have been talking to a wall for all the impression it made on me. I could make a move on a girl like her. I could forget about serious relationships and just spend the night with a pretty blonde, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t make me feel any better. It certainly wouldn’t fix anything. Plus, talking to this girl felt like work, and tonight I wanted something effortless.
I kept looking toward the bar, wishing I could take another drink. Maybe if I was drunker, I would loosen up and get out of my head.
The girl, Cammie, was saying something about how funny I was. I didn’t even remember what I’d said to her.
I felt an elbow in my back and Milo said, “Here’s your chance to avoid a lifetime of premature ejaculation”
I threw a glare over my shoulder. “Can you not say that in public please?”
“Don’t be ashamed, hermano. It happens to lots of guys.”
I shoved him, but we were both laughing.
When I looked back at Cammie, she seemed to know that my attention was waning. She leaned closer and reached a bold hand into the pocket of my jeans, and came back with my cell phone. Her smoky eyes met mine before she entered her number into my phone’s memory. I marked one thing off the night’s checklist without even really trying. I smiled politely at the blonde and said good-bye. I turned to Milo, preparing to brag about how easily I’d gotten her number.
My eyes caught on something else entirely.
One of the colored lights illuminated the pale, bare skin of another dancer’s stomach. She was wearing far less clothing than Sasha. She had on sheer, black tights and a short skirt. Her shirt was lacy and short, revealing a toned stomach inked with black lines. It took me a few moments to piece together the picture that the lines made, but when I did the electricity that had been missing with Cammie started rushing through my veins.
The lines were the roots of a tree.
And the girl was Max.
8
Max
Even though smoking was allowed only outside Trestle, there always seemed to be clouds of it inside the bar. Amber light fractured through the haze. That, combined with the drinking, laughing patrons below me made the whole night feel surreal. The music vibrated everything. I could feel the pulse of it in the platform below me, up through my heels, and into my legs.
As I danced I kept my eyes focused upward and away from the patrons. It wasn’t
that I was ashamed. I wasn’t a stripper or anything. The dancers at Trestle were just for atmosphere. We stayed clothed. I think I wore less clothing than anyone, but that was because I split my shift between dancing and bartending, and the less clothing, the more tip.
But there was nothing more awkward than making eye contact with someone below. Sam was careful to keep the bar as pervert-free as possible, but the way we were framed up here on pedestals with soft glowing light could turn just about any guy into a creeper.
Normally I tried to lose myself in the music and just dance for me. It made the time go by faster. But tonight, my mind was so full of the day’s events that I just couldn’t seem to turn my brain off. I took two shots before my shift started to try to remedy the problem, but so far nothing had changed.
I took turns staring at various places on the wall and ceiling to pass the time. I caught Spencer’s eye over at his table in the corner. He smirked at me, waggled his eyebrows, and licked his lips.
I pretended to gag.
He shook his head and went back to scratching away at the lyrics in his journal.
This afternoon was forgotten . . . for now at least.
I smiled, swished my frilly skirt, and glanced at the front entrance as the door swung open. Another cloud of smoke rolled in through the door. Like he was stepping out of the fog, Cade appeared. My twenty-four-hour, pretend-we-met-in-a-library, mom-hugging, golden-boy-boyfriend.
He looked good.
Too good.
He laughed, and people stopped midconversation just to stare, like he was a celebrity. Dark hair tumbled down into his eyes, and he pushed it back. He had the kind of hair that just begged to be touched. He was with someone, a Hispanic guy, and he was smiling so big that his teeth were like little pearls in the dark room. He’d seemed like a pretty smiley guy when we met this morning, but only by seeing this smile in comparison did I realize how faked it had all been. He had these perfect dimples that softened the hard line of his jaw, and his eyes crinkled slightly. He laughed again, and I saw at least three girls maneuver closer to him.
