by Meg Watson
“Melita--”
“Say it,” she commanded.
I sighed and made a face. “Because my boyfriend is a weenie,” I repeated glumly as some kind of country pop song started, just like the other one.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “That really does feel pretty good. Tell you what. We can call Operation Harden Carl’s Flaccid Manhood a failure and go catch a movie or something if you do me one favor…”
“OK, what?”
“Drop your titties--”
“MELITA!”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest, rolling her eyes to the conspicuously wood-panelled ceiling like she was having a conversation with the angels about how stubborn I was being.
I paused to consider my options: Was I going to be able to get her out of the bar without a theatrical monologue about either my boobs or Carl’s manhood? I couldn’t be sure. She certainly seemed to be enjoying herself, and I had a suspicion the three Long Island Iced Teas were egging her on.
“Fine,” I sighed resolutely. “You did loan me this dress… after all…”
“And it looks a-mah-zing on you, did I mention?”
I nodded. “You did. And thank you. You’re a good friend. And it’s totally not your fault that Carl is not here to see your handiwork and throw himself at me.”
“Pssht,” she agreed. “Exactly.”
“So tell me,” I said sweetly, reaching out to stroke her arm, “what do I need to do to get us out of this fucked up hillbilly outpost of a bar?”
She cocked her head at me, her lips pursed in a thin line.
“Melita, dear? Just clue me in?”
Her breath came out in a puff through her flared nostrils. “Brienne, I just want you to try it. Just flex your girl muscles a little bit. Show me you can.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. The joke seemed to be over and I could see her grandma’s face coming through, all serious and intense behind her thickly made-up features. This was the expression she reserved for her most grave moments. She was Making A Point, and I realized she wasn’t going to give up.
“You seriously want me to, like, hit on somebody.”
“Yes,” she nodded once, her curls flashing forward in agreement.
“Which is totally unlike me. Because I have a boyfriend.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m just… not that kind of girl.”
“Agreed,” she nodded. “You’re not that kind of girl. You’re a goddamn country song in a borrowed dress and everything. And you are going to flirt with a man….”
“Melita, why?” I whined. On the one hand, it was probably harmless and I should just do it so we could leave. On the other, it seemed gut-churningly disloyal.
“Because I want you to prove it.”
“Prove what? What are you talking about?”
“Prove that Carl didn’t trade in your vagina for, like, a travel-sized packet of Kleenex or something.”
“Stop it.”
“Or a bag of wavy Ruffles.”
“Oh, I do love potato chips.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Great, now I’m hungry.”
“Me too,” she snapped. “Now I want tacos. So do it. Show me you’re not really letting some chucklehead turn your cootch into dust. Prove you still have your V card, and then let’s go get us some barba-freakin-coa.”
“But seriously whyyyyy?” I whined again, now full-on freaking out. I felt cornered, and I didn’t like it one bit. She leaned forward and glared at me.
“Because you keep telling me how unhappy you are, how lonely you are, how sad you are that your weenie boyfriend acts like you’re invisible, and yet you won’t do a damn thing about it. It’s like you think you are a passenger on this train and you are not. This is your life. You’re the goddamn conductor, Bree, so act like it. Be a woman. Go.”
She pointed toward the door and glared at me while she sucked the last couple slurps from the bottom of her glass.
“OK give that to me,” I said with my hand out, figuring that another drink would buy me a few minutes to get a plan straight in my head. She held it out with a vigorous nod, and I wondered briefly if I was going to have to give her a piggyback ride up the stairs to her front door later. Again.
CHAPTER 2
I picked my way carefully toward the bar, avoiding the artfully placed piles of sawdust on the floor. This bar had gone through so many personality changes it was downright schizophrenic. The honky-tonk thing was recent (we had assumed it was still Asian fusion when we planned for the evening) and I could only pray it wouldn’t last long. Bits of grit and peanut shells sawed at the sole of my foot inside my shoe.
Another song started and some of the drinkers let out a simultaneous whoop, followed by the sound of bar stool legs dragging on the floor. Apparently it was a known line-dancing song, if you were the sort of person who knew that kind of thing, and a shiny-faced group of women who looked like bridal-shower-partiers lined right up and started pantomiming a hoe down to the delight of the other drinkers.
Holding the empty glasses straight out in front of me, I swerved for a vacant spot at the bar and leaned gratefully against it. I raised a finger for the bartender as the group behind me swayed back and forth all together, picking up new bar patrons to join in everywhere it went like a Swiffer pad picking up dust.
The bartender rolled up one plaid sleeve and leaned his ear toward me.
“What can I get you?” he hollered over the music.
I pushed the glasses toward him.
“A Long Island, tall, and a gin and Diet Sprite?” I hollered back, shoving myself over the bar as close as I could get.
Behind me, the line dancers trundled rhythmically from one side of the room to the other, slapping at their imaginary cowboy boots. Everyone else scattered to the perimeter and crushed me back to the bar to make room.
“Long Island tall and gin and juice?” he repeated.
“No, wait!” I objected, stepping up on rail and heaving my top half closer to him. “Gin and diet. DIET SPRITE!”
“Yeah, OK,” he said with a scowl like I was stupid or something and walked away shaking his head.
I tried to climb down from the brass boot rail below the bar but the dancers were on their way back, now waving their imaginary cowboy hats. My hooker heel slipped on the shiny metal and I tipped the wrong way, my ankle shooting out from underneath me like it had been greased. I threw out an arm to catch myself as my head dipped below bar height and everything went dark.
Something caught me just as the line dancers came up to me like an ocean wave and then receded again. I fumbled for the bar and pulled myself up, gingerly checking to make sure I hadn’t rolled my ankle or anything.
I didn’t even feel his hand until he moved it, releasing his fingers where they circled my upper arm, leaving a bright ring of awareness in my mind. Gasping, looking up, my jaw opened like a puppet as I willed myself to apologize or something.
“Brienne?” he said softly, his voice so near and familiar that I whirled in my mind, trying to place him.
I know you? I know your voice?
“Oh, I’m-- Owen?” I stammered, hearing the words as I said them. I looked into his bright blue eyes like I knew him and tried to make sense of it.
He’s too close!
“God, excuse me, I’m sorry--”
“No it’s OK, are you OK? Oh here they come again--”
Just like that, another wave crashed into me and me into him. His arms came right up under mine as I fell, sliding under my forearms and supporting me smoothly. I arched my back to avoid slamming completely into him and as I did, my nipples dragged along the front of his shirt from his belt line to his sternum, pebbling into hard stones as they went.
I mouthed an apology of some sort, I think, as his lips parted in surprise. His fingers closed possessively around the flesh behind my elbow. I pushed back, trying to find my feet under me, trying to disengage.
“Owen, hello!” I chok
ed out politely as though none of this was happening: I wasn’t bouncing my boobs along the ridges of his abs, I couldn’t feel his fingers pulling me closer, I wasn’t blushing and sweating like a prom date. I flattened my palms against his (oh my god, rock-hard!) pecs and pushed myself back to standing.
And then, wham, another body fell into me from behind, forcing me fully onto Owen and knocking the breath from my lungs which came out in a porn-star-quality heaving sigh. I bit my lips together and prayed no more sounds would come out but the body behind me was crushing the air from me.
I felt a hand slide across the front of my hip and fingers digging briefly into the valley at the top of my thigh. Hot breath swept across the back of my neck and I had to command myself not to arch into it, not to just pretend for just a second to be pinned between two hard, throbbing cocks and the plank-like bodies of the men they belonged to.
Oh my god but I totally am…
Whoa…
“Mr. Jack!” I squeaked out as the crowd stopped all at once and broke out into congratulatory applause. I gasped and looked over at them but they were all staring at each other, nodding and clapping. Apparently the song was over and the line dancing had gone super well.
“Don’t call me that,” he chuckled, still far too close as he politely removed his pelvis from my belly, leaving a ghostly outline of his cock that I could clearly see in my head. He set me sturdily on my feet and paused to make sure I would remain upright.
“Owen, yes right. Sorry,” I mumbled, straightening and pushing my hair out of my face. I had a distinct feeling of vertigo, like at any second I could just tip right back onto him.
“Have you met Lyle?” he said with a shy, curious smile.
The body behind me shifted sideways, disengaging from a position that felt surprisingly natural. It was like having a puzzle piece uncoupled from my ridges.
A man pivoted to my side, pushing his dark blonde hair back with one hand and offering me the other to shake. He gave a wry smile. Not as apologetic as Owen, but not offensively douchey either. Confident, maybe.
“Lyle?” I repeated, trying to sound casual, trying to sound like I hadn’t just been pinned… no, crushed between their bodies. Like I hadn’t loved it. Like I wasn’t vibrating like a plucked string.
“Lyle Jack,” the blonde said, holding my hand as he shook it. Just a second too long? Yes, maybe.
“Oh, Jack!” I repeated, putting it all together. “Owen Jack… Lyle Jack… You’re brothers?”
“Yes,” Owen nodded patiently, a playful smile dimpling his beautiful, perfectly stubbled cheeks.
“That’s um… Wow. That’s great,” I yammered, my cleavage feeling suddenly hot and obvious. “Owen comes into the coffee shop every day or so. Where I work. That’s how, um, we know each other or whatever.”
“Oh does he?” Lyle said with a smirk, shooting Owen a look that I didn’t understand.
“Yeah,” I nodded, looking between them, trying to hear their secret communication.
Well, I guess they really are brothers. Go, psychic wonder-twin powers!
Owen crossed his arms in front of his chest, opening the collar of his thick, sumptuous shirt and exposing a furrow between his chiseled pecs. He shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly.
Just leave now, Brienne. Back away.
Lyle dipped his head to catch my eye, his expression playful and determined.
“I didn’t get your name?” he said. My breath caught in my throat.
“Drinks, miss?” the bartender said, sliding them toward me as the music began to swell again.
Lyle’s eyes darted to the drinks and then back to Owen, who dropped a fifty dollar bill behind them.
“Oh thank you, you don’t have to do that,” I gushed.
“Are you here with someone?” Lyle asked, subtly pivoting to stay attached to my front plane. I desperately wanted him to look away or back away or something just… away. It was like I couldn’t get a full breath as long as he was standing there.
“Are you?” Owen asked suddenly. I looked up at him in surprise. Meeting his eyes this close was intense. Usually we had a counter full of baked goods between us. Now, he felt substantially more real.
“Well yes, I mean Melita… You know her. We’re together. I mean not together. But yes. We are here.”
Oh. My. God. I am an idiot.
“Oh, OK,” Owen said agreeably, his body shifting just slightly backward.
“Well why don’t you have a drink with us,” Lyle said, shifting slightly forward. It seemed like Lyle wasn’t as willing to back off as easily as Owen was. He smiled with one half of his mouth, exposing a row of perfect teeth and a cheek dimple that matched Owen’s.
Really? This is too much.
“You know what… Actually I should get Melita her drink,” I stammered, hoping I sounded casual and firm. “But thank you, really. For the offer I mean.”
“Anytime,” Owen nodded. Was that a sigh? It sounded like a sigh.
“Yeah,” Lyle nodded with an impish grin, “maybe I’ll have to start coming to the coffee shop too. Check it out.”
“It was nice to meet you, Lyle,” I mumbled and turned away, holding the drinks carefully in front of me.
Concentrating on not stumbling as I picked my way back to the table, I didn’t even notice Melita until I was almost on top of her. Her eyes were as wide open as they could go, the dark black irises ringed with white. Her mouth hung open and tiny drops of sweat beaded her upper lip.
“What? What is it - are you OK?” I asked urgently, checking her up and down for injuries. “Did the line dancers get you too?”
“Hoh. Lee. Shit.”
“What? Melita are you OK?”
“HOH. LEE. SHIT.” she said again.
I collapsed onto the barstool, my heart pounding in my head.
“Oh, OK, you’re hilarious, Mel.”
“I bow to you. You are my new hero.”
I slid her drink across the table and rolled my eyes. She grabbed it like she’d been waiting for weeks and sucked eagerly at the straw.
With my eyes down, I sipped at my drink as slowly as I could. My skin was all on fire, pulsing, sending out some kind of beacon. Were they still looking at me? I hoped so. I imagined I could feel their eyes on the back of my neck as I sat there nursing my drink, waiting for my heart to stop trying to leap from my chest.
“What was that like?”
I shook my head.
“Brienne, seriously! What was that like? You just got double-teamed in a public place, girl. I am… Wow. Mad respect. That’s all I can say. Mad. Respect.”
She shook her head and looked at the ceiling, palms out as though helpless in the face of this information.
For good measure, I looked up too but there was nothing there. My throat was as dry as toast and my heartbeat clanged hard in my ears.
Right? That was crazy?
CHAPTER 3
I smiled tightly and said, “Hi, can I help you?” just as brightly as I could.
The lady with the expensive dye job pursed her lips at the menu.
Come on, lady, I thought. Coffee menus are the same everywhere.
“Ummmmmmmm,” she drawled as the steam wand roared into the steel carafe of milk to my right. Melita winced at the sound, backing away from it like that was going to help her hangover.
“I think…” the woman said vaguely. “You know, I’ll just have the-- No. Yes. I’ll just have the Cup of the Day.”
“Great!” I beamed enthusiastically. “Can I make that a large for you?”
“Oh! Ahhhhhhhhmmmmmmmm,” the lady wrinkled her nose and stared at the menu again.
Lady. It’s coffee. Get a grip, I scolded her silently.
“Yeah, OK, a large is good,” she agreed, nodding. “With room for cream!” she added.
“Can I get you a scone with that? Today is caramel apple,” I added innocently.
Three people behind the overly made-up professional whatever-she-was groaned im
patiently. Melita ducked her head behind the espresso bar and pantomimed horror and awe at me. I smiled sweetly. She had earned her hangover, and I wanted to help her enjoy every blessed minute.
“No, no. No scone for me. Carbs.”
“OK! One large Cup of the Day and no carbs. $2.02, please.”
The woman swiped her debit card, moving politely aside as the next in line took her spot.
“Hi! Can I help you?” I asked.
“Hi! Welcome to AmpedUp,” came a voice as a body edged me over. “Can I get a drink started for you?”
My mouth fell open a little bit and I looked up at Dave, Assistant Manager in Training. I kept a subservient grin plastered on my face and stepped half to the right so he could take over, ignoring Melita’s triumphantly pursed lips.
“Great!” he finished, and the small, bookish older lady moved on to the order pickup counter. Then he turned to me, his big pregnant belly nearly pushing me out of my official station. “Like that. Like we talked about, OK?”
I looked up at him and nodded politely. “Sure, Dave,” I said, smiling through my gritted teeth. “Thanks for the reminder.”
Dave hiked up his trousers under his beer gut and ambled away, and I finished the rest of the line without a hitch, even remembering my script.
When the line was gone, Melita folded her arms on the counter and sighed dramatically.
“Another morning rush, done and done,” she groaned. “I feel like death. Let’s quit.”
“OK,” I agreed as I filled up the metal tin with hot water.
“No, I mean it this time,” she groaned into her folded arms.
“I know you do, sweetie,” I said, dropping the stainless steel pieces into the scalding water.
I edged behind her, walking back and forth and working mechanically through the list of things that had to be cleaned every morning.
“Hey why do you let Dave get all up in your face like that?” she sighed, her voice barely audible.
I shook my head and blew my bangs off my forehead. “You know,” I said wistfully, “I am not sure why I tolerate the Wisdom Of Dave. I have these daydreams where I tell him off in a spectacular, life-changing fashion. He slinks off, sniffling into his ugly-ass tie, and I’m promoted to coffee diva of the universe. And angels sing.”
