by Alex Gates
She smirked. “You here alone?”
I nearly said no, thinking of Xander. “I am.”
She finished her red wine in a single gulp and pushed it forward on the bar. “Well, should I leave you alone?”
My mind turned to static. As soon as a coherent thought entered that soft noodle I called a brain, it broke apart into a million, incomprehensible pieces. Was talking to women really this hard? Or was I just a jackass for no reason at all?
I cleared my throat again, then asked, “What’re you drinking?” Good start. Simple, but not intrusive. It’s like learning to walk again. Baby steps.
“Red wine,” she said, smirking at me like a downright asshole.
Usually, a comment like that would fire me up. Now, it sent me retreating into a shell I didn’t know I had. I wiped a finger across my nose. “The vintage?” I’m pretty sure I used it right this time.
She glanced at her empty glass, then back at me. “The ’15 Mettler Syrah.”
“Sounds expensive,” I said, just allowing my stupid thoughts to vomit from my stupid mouth. I should have told her I worked demolition for minimum wage and lived in a trailer that had just burned down, but I couldn’t afford insurance—so, I was technically homeless, which I hadn’t really considered until that moment.
Communicating with strange, beautiful women was exhilarating.
“It’s not,” she said.
I nearly laughed in her face, convinced that the word expensive had a sliding-scale definition between the two of us. “You here alone?” I asked.
“I was with a couple friends. One of the girls drank too much, started vomiting before she reached the bathroom. She was asked to leave. My other friend, her roommate, said she should take care of her. I still had a glass of wine in my hand.” She smirked again, tossing my stomach upside-down.
“Well,” I said, clearing my throat yet again. I was very aware of the obtrusive noise of my nervous tic, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. I pulled out my wallet and counted seven dollars. Xander and I hadn’t really considered the idea of buying drinks for the women we spoke to… or maybe he had considered it. But his employer offered him a generous salary, and he could probably afford to buy a drink or two. I had seven dollars in greenbacks and not a credit card to my name—it’s easier to disappear that way. I pinched the money from my wallet and threw the bills on the bar. “Go crazy. Top shelf liquor, if you want.”
She giggled, and I realized I still didn’t know her name. How had I not asked for her name yet? If I asked now, would it be weird? Was it too late?
“Well, lucky for you,” No-Name said, “I’m a sucker for their house tequila. I’ll buy your shot, if you buy mine.”
“Deal,” I agreed, searching for the bartender and signaling her over. To hell with Xander’s rules. I needed a shot if I planned to have any kind of normal communication with a woman.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. She had a shaved head and tattoos scrawled over her scrawny arms.
“Two shots of the house tequila,” I said. Then I glanced at the woman beside me. “Separate tabs.”
She widened her eyes and giggled, biting her lower lip in a way that drove me batty.
The bartender went right to work at pouring the drinks, placing them in front of us a few seconds later. “Keep the tabs open?” she asked.
“How much were the shots?” I asked.
“Ten bucks each.” She placed her hands on her hips.
I glanced at the unknown blonde beside me and frowned. “She say ten bucks each?”
“She did,” the woman said, grinning. I hated that devilish grin. It made me think of sinful deeds.
“Well, I only have seven dollars, as we established earlier.”
“Lucky for you, I have some extra cash.” She cleared my tab, then held her shot in the air. I mirrored her. “To friends that get too drunk,” she said.
“And good roommates.”
We tapped the bar with the shot glass, then threw back the tequila.
“Wow,” I said, instantly feeling more confident. “That’s so much better than the house tequila I’m used to gagging down.” I glanced back at Xander, who was speaking to another woman. That guy was not distracted from his objective. Hi, I’m Xander, he probably said like a nerd. What’s your name? Elizabeth? No? Well, get to getting, then.
“What’s your name?” my new friend asked.
“Joseph,” I said, feeling relieved she had broken that ice instead of me. “You?”
“Dakota,” she said, not saying Elizabeth.
Did I shove her off like Xander would have done, then approach the next woman, who statistically wouldn’t be Elizabeth? I had to do something, otherwise Mel would be lost to me forever.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I extended my hand to shake hers. I realized, much too late, that they hadn’t warmed completely.
She gripped my palm though, wrapping her nimble, warm fingers around the cold, meaty part of my hand. “A pleasure,” she said. “Are you cold?”
If I had snuck a gun into the lounge, I would have pulled it from my waistband and blown out my brains right then and there. But I didn’t have a gun. So, I cleared my throat again, really hammering home the fact that I had a strong build-up of phlegm. “I have a strange question,” I said, ignoring hers. “As you probably figured out, this place isn’t really my scene.”
“Not a question,” she said, holding up a finger. “And I couldn’t tell.”
I scratched my chin, unsure how she meant that comment, and I focused on not clearing my throat. “I’m looking for a woman named Elizabeth. My idiotic friend set me up on a blind date, said this girl would be here, at this lounge, tonight.”
Dakota adjusted a small hoop earring dangling from her lobe, then ran her hair behind her ear with a finger. “What’s she look like?”
“That’s the thing,” I said, feeling more like a moron than ever. “He only allowed me her first name. He didn’t say what she looks like, where she’d be sitting, what she’d be drinking. Nothing. I could ask the bartenders, but imagine how many women named Elizabeth walk through here. What would they know without actually seeing a picture of the girl?”
Dakota frowned, then perked and called, “Bartender, ma’am!”
“Bartender, ma’am?” I asked, baffled.
She shrugged. The bartender shuffled over. “Yes?” she asked, not looking too excited.
“Another two shots of the house tequila,” Dakota said. She turned to me. “I have a plan.”
The bartender shook her head. “As long as your plan doesn’t include hacking on my bar or breaking something.”
Dakota ticked her head side to side. “We should be fine on those two fronts.” She looked at me. “You’re not going to hack after another shot, are you? No offense, but you kind of look like a lightweight.”
“I’m not going to hack,” I said, face burning. From the alcohol, though, not from embarrassment of her assessment of me.
“On the card?” the bartender asked, after sliding us two more shots.
“Por favor. Under Clark,” Dakota said, grabbing her miniature glass and raising it above her head. Again, I mirrored her. “To Elizabeth.”
“May she be found,” I toasted. We threw back the liquor, chasing it this time with a lime.
“Watch this,” she said with an excited grin. She climbed onto her stool and stepped onto the bar. “Elizabeth!” she screamed over the music and the conversations running through the lounge. “Any Elizabeths in this place, I need your immediate attention in this area!”
“Get the fuck down from there!” the bartender said.
“Last call for any Elizabeths! You won a thousand dollars! Come and collect your prize!” Dakota leapt off the bar and bowed before me. In a much more inside voice, she said, “Now, we wait.”
I stared at her, my mouth agape. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Xander looking at me, brows furrowed. He shrugged at me. I shrugged back and shook my h
ead, signaling that I had no idea what had happened and was just as baffled as everyone else.
“Ma’am,” said a hefty voice.
I turned away from Xander and saw a large bald man, sans a neck, wearing a black security shirt, standing beside Dakota.
“I’m sorry,” Dakota said to him, batting her eyes. “I was just trying to help a friend.” She poked out her tongue and pouted, as if elementary flirting might help her case. Who the fuck knew? Maybe it would. I would have given her a pass.
“Well,” the bouncer said, “you and your friend both need to leave, then. The bar isn’t a jungle gym for your amusement. Let’s go.” He sidestepped to create our exit path and gestured for the both of us to hightail it on out.
“Uh,” I said to the bartender, not really opting to jump out of my seat. “I’m not leaving this place until closing time. So, go ahead and focus that sour glower on someone else.”
Old almond head sniffled, ignoring me completely. He asked Dakota, “You’re together?”
I glanced at her. No, we’re not, I meant to say. I needed to remain in the lounge and speak to every Elizabeth there, to find the one who knew about Hecate’s whereabouts, and threaten imminent death upon her if she didn’t release that information to me. “We are,” I said, standing in Dakota’s corner like an idiot about to lose his daughter.
She smirked, poking her tongue at me and winking.
“Listen, sir,” Dakota said, touching the bouncer’s anaconda forearms with her light, warm fingers. “He didn’t know what I was going to do. He didn’t stand on the bar. That was all me. Let him stay. I’ll leave without further incident.” She stretched on her tiptoes and leaned close to him and whispered in his ear.
After a second of consideration, the behemoth said, “Fine.” He relaxed a tad—though, I don’t understand how. If Dakota had put her lips that close to me, I would have stiffened like Xander’s scotch. “But if he makes any more trouble—”
“Then I’m out on my ass,” I finished for him. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Rent-a-Cop.” I spit on my palm and extended my hand to him to seal our verbal contract.
He glared at me, obviously not amused.
As my mouth worked much faster than my brain, its sometimes helped me get out of bad situations, but most of the time, I found it just drowned me further in the black waters of trouble.
“Sorry,” I said, squinting at his barrel chest. “I thought your name tag read Rent-a-Cop, but it obviously reads Douchebag. I mean Dougan.”
He glanced at his black shirt, at the spot where I studied a nameplate that didn’t exist. Dakota giggled, the joyous sound of a gun spitting.
“No more trouble from you,” the bouncer said. “And you,” he glanced at Dakota, “time to go.”
“My tab isn’t closed,” she said. “Could Joseph close out for me and bring me my card?” She met my eyes and winked. I wasn’t much for picking up on relational cues, but she made that about as easy as hitting a ball off a tee.
The bouncer looked at me too, obviously annoyed that neither of us had left yet.
“I can do that for her,” I said.
“Fine,” he said. “Elizabeth, you hear that?”
Holy flying frittata. Mr. Doucher had pointed his question toward the bartender. My stomach flurried. I glanced at Dakota, and her face lit like a candle at the mention of the name. Had I found her?
The bartender didn’t bat an eye at the bouncer’s potential mistake. “Noted,” she said, shaking a cocktail.
“Holy shit,” Dakota said, standing from her stool. “Holy shit.” She bowed to me one more time, as if she had just performed the greatest stage show in history. “You know where to find me?” she asked, turning to follow the bouncer out of the bar.
“Not at all,” I said as she walked away. I don’t know if she didn’t hear me, or if she decided not to respond, but she disappeared out of the lounge without another word.
After watching Dakota leave, which I could have suffered through a little longer, I turned my attention back to the bartender. I hadn’t really noticed her before hearing the name. She had short—like, buzz-cut short—brunette hair and dark eyes and oval cheeks. Tattoos were scribbled over her exposed arms in mystical shapes. I recognized a few as Nephilim, and I wondered if she had a pact with a Fallen. Hecate? I mused. I was also curious if she had recognized me, old J-dawg Hunter, and had relayed my whereabouts to her Nephil or a few Empousa.
A crowd had gathered to watch the Dakota Clark show. Instead of lingering after her exit, most had taken the opportunity to sidle up to the the bar and flag over Elizabeth for another round.
As closing time drew near and the lounge had emptied, I remained at the bar. Xander still sat at a high table, sipping the same scotch he had ordered when we first arrived. Since he had run out of women to speak to, he drank alone. I wondered how on par this was for a normal night in the life of Xander Shells. I almost felt sorry for him—except I didn’t really care—you know, with Mel being kidnapped and all.
A couple other stragglers remained seated around the bar as the night drew to a close. After mixing a cocktail for one of them, Elizabeth leaned against the counter near the register. Finding a lull in the night, she pulled her phone from her apron and scrolled against the screen.
“Hey,” I said, “could I get another shot of tequila? Two, if you’re up for a drink.”
Elizabeth peered over her phone at me. “You’re talking to me?”
I bit my tongue from barking a smart comment. There wasn’t another bartender behind the counter at the moment, nor did anyone sit within a few chairs of me, so I didn’t know who else I would be inquiring for a drink. Instead of saying that to her, though, I said, “I am.”
“Do you plan to pay for it with your seven dollars? Or are you going to put these drinks on that random girl’s tab?”
“Hey,” I said, raising my arms to ward off her judgment, “she left me in charge of that magical card. You think I’d let an opportunity like that go to waste?”
“I can’t allow that to happen,” Elizabeth said, returning her attention back to the small screen in her hands. “You may return her card to her, as she requested, but I won’t allow you to buy more drinks on it without her permission.”
“Okay,” I said. “How about this. You see that funky-looking guy over there?” I pointed at Xander. “The bald one… looks like he has an elephant tusk shoved up his ass… sitting all alone like a sad, pathetic mess.” These are things I would have said to his face, by the way, so, they’re not that mean.
“You know he can’t hear your insults?”
“I know,” I said. “That’s the worst part about insulting him—he never listens. Don’t worry, I’ll inform him later about my observations.”
Elizabeth sighed. “What about him?”
“If I convinced him to lend me some cash, would you let me buy you a drink?”
“Why did that woman stand on the counter and call for all Elizabeths?”
I sucked on my teeth for a second, practicing the idea of thinking before speaking. “I’m looking for an Elizabeth. It’s a personal matter, completely eliminating all the neutrality of business. Since no other women approached me to claim their thousand-dollar prize, you’re the lucky girl. Except, I don’t have a thousand dollars. But my friend over there, he might have enough cash to buy us each a drink and celebrate my find.”
“I’m your find?”
I shrugged. “Would you prefer to be something else?”
“Yes. I’d prefer to be about anything else that doesn’t sound like I’m an animal you’re hunting or a treasure you’re seeking. Something that doesn’t demean me to a mere object of infatuation.”
I yawned. “Oh, sorry,” I said, nodding awake. “Are you done? I could barely hear anything over your droning.” Lizzie frowned at me. Actually… “Is it Lizzie, like with an i-e at the end? Or Lizzy with a y?”
She smirked, but not the amused kind of smirk. More the one that says i
f you don’t stop talking to me, I’ll kill you. “You literally just told me I was boring you.”
“See,” I said, rubbing an eye, “that’s a medical condition I have. It’s called foot-in-mouth-itis. It’s very embarrassing at times, such as now.” I grimaced, making sure she noticed how painful this next part was for me. “Listen, I’m sorry. I really am. I have a hard time when people shove their opinions down my throat. I sensed the feminist train coming around the mountain, and my tongue outran my better judgment. It’s not that I’m anti-feminist, I just don’t really care what you are, and I don’t want to hear what you think.” It’s funny how my lips never stopped moving, even when there wasn’t a singular thought in my mind.
“I think I’ll pass on the drink.”
I groaned. “Don’t make me do it.”
Peering up from her phone, she asked, “Do what?”
I rocked back in my stool, and then quoted Margaret Thatcher like a complete tool. “‘If you want something said, ask a man. If you want something done, ask a woman.’ Or something like that.” I showed her my teeth. “See, I’m good at saying shit. But that’s not my favorite quote. That belongs to the great Jane Austen, and I butcher it every time. ‘I hate hearing you talk about women as if they were fine ladies instead of rational creatures. None of us want to live in calm waters our entire lives.’” I shrugged. “Or something stupid like that.”
“You did butcher it,” she said, almost reverently. She put her phone in her back pocket and stepped toward me, and then leaned over the counter that separated us, providing me an optimal vantage point to see down her shirt. A trap? I thought so. I kept my eyes on the prize… her face, that is.
“You learn those quotes for feminist debates like this?”
I snickered. “I learned them because I believe in them,” I said. “But I don’t give two shits about what you believe. Your thoughts won’t change my mind, nor will they even make me listen to you. So, there’s no need to jump into overdrive when I use a word I would use for literally anything else in the same situation.” I took a deep breath. “Now, i-e or y?”
