Shoot Your Shot

Chapter One

One

Lucy

I don’t need an online personality test to tell me I’m a bitch when there are plenty of men who do that for me without the hassle of entering my email address. Just my luck, because tonight the club is filled to the brim with willing and able potential.

“Turn that hockey crap off. The Emeralds are playing tonight,” I say, ordering the bartender to change the station on the TVs mounted behind the bar. I don’t necessarily follow sports, but my boss is obsessed with the National Women’s Soccer League and maybe if Seattle wins, she’ll be in a good mood for once. The Emeralds are down two goals in the final seconds of the game. With my optimism and the Emeralds’ shot at a spot in the playoffs shattered, I scoop up my three beer bottles by the necks and brace myself for the crowd.

I push my way through the overstuffed club with my hands full, desperate to reach the booth at the back of the bar where my friends promised to save me a seat. I’m late, but at least I’m not empty-handed. Wiggling my way through unmovable bodies, I gasp for air that doesn’t smell like cheap cologne. I try to shout, “Excuse me,” but it’s a waste of breath. Eventually, after being elbowed a few too many times for my liking, I bear down and push my way through the wall of people, a technique I perfected in the punk rock mosh pits that raised me.

The crowd opens up as I near the back corner, but before I can reach my friends, a giant behemoth slides in my way. I slam right into its rock-hard exterior and the impact practically knocks the wind out of me, and along with it, the beers out of my hands. They spill all over my shirt and fall to the floor; there goes an hour of pay. I look up to see what I’ve hit. It isn’t a behemoth; it’s just some guy. He flies forward onto a tabletop, catching himself before he topples over and falls on the floor.

“What the fuck!?” He stands and turns around with fists clenched and cocked up near his chest. He takes a step, but the crunch of broken glass prevents him from getting any closer. He looks around for the perpetrator until his gaze finally drops down onto me.

My look has always scared off guys like him: I’m covered in tattoos, and have recently cut, bluntly chopped bangs and box-dyed hair—a blue black that says all anyone needs to know about my current mental state. I’m only five foot something, but my tone is obvious: Don’t fuck with me; I’m not the one .

Despite the fact that he stands at least a foot taller than me, my arms are tightly crossed over my chest as I proudly show off my long-serving resting bitch face, determined to scare him out of my way without a hassle. If looks could kill, I would be a wanted woman.

With his freshly ironed shirt, a professional haircut, and unpainted fingernails, I know exactly how he’s going to react. I could hiss at him, and he would run off with his tail between his legs just as quickly as he had appeared.

“Whoa,” he says at the sight of me, recoiling like he’s touched a hot burner.

This is not an endearing whoa , rather the type of whoa you hear after trauma-dumping your life’s story to a stranger you just met on the bus.

It’s the reaction I was hoping for.

“Excuse me,” I say, snapping at him, still trying to get past my annoying roadblock.

His mouth is slightly agape as he stares me down. Maybe the impact has left him incapable of stringing together a coherent sentence, or maybe he’s always this dumbfounded. I don’t care to stick around and find out.

“Nice hit,” he says, followed by something so muffled by the loud bass that I don’t catch it.

Before I get a chance to have the last word, a guy as broad as a door frame drags him back into the crowd. A sight that only irritates me more because I never got to officially tell him to fuck off for knocking my drinks out of my hands and getting my shirt wet.

“Lucy!”

I hear Cooper call out for me and make a run for it before any other giants can stand in my way. I’m not looking to get kicked out of Club Purple Haze tonight for causing trouble and miss Cooper’s half-birthday celebration. It’s a ridiculous tradition but fitting for an over-the-top guy like him.

I spot my friends Cooper and Maya at the back of the club waiting for me. Cooper waves me down, though he’s hard to miss in his bright pink button-up shirt and white sash that says Birthday Bitch; apparently, the party supply shop was fresh out of Half Birthday Bitch sashes.

“We got shots!” Cooper says, slurring his words a bit. He stands up from the small booth tucked in the back corner of the club, but stumbles over a chair. Although he plays it off as intentional, it’s obvious that he is well on his way to posting regrettable Instagram stories.

Judging by the empty glasses littering the tabletop, I am very late to the party. While I have earned a reputation of being late, half birthdays only happen once a year, and I feel bad that I have already missed so much of the celebration.

A look of concern replaces his toothy smile as he looks my wet shirt up and down. “Is it raining?”

“Just another thing making me even later to the party. I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.” I squeeze into the booth.

“Let me guess, the dictator boss strikes again?” Maya scoots over so I can cram into the booth beside her.

I nod. “Sam kept me super late at the shop, and then there was this whole thing with Kit. I’ve got to stop getting involved with women named after American Girl dolls,” I say as I greet them both with hugs and kisses on their cheeks.

I am desperate to break into the tattoo scene in Seattle. So desperate, in fact, that I work a job I hate as the shop assistant for the world’s most ruthless tattoo artist—one who still times my bathroom breaks and makes me cover the tip on her daily lunch orders. I’m hopeful that if I continue to pay my dues (and her gratuities), Sam will offer me a tattoo apprenticeship. Until then, I’m stuck answering the phone, replying to emails, and taking out the trash.

Just as I settle into my seat, I get a text. The sweat on my brow from deep cleaning the shop hasn’t even dried and I’m already getting a text from my boss.

SAM:

I give her a digital thumbs-up and tuck my phone away, wishing I could also temporarily tuck all my problems away for the night along with it. Surviving her unruly tyranny is a small price to pay on the journey of achieving my dream job.

“Oh no,” Cooper whines. “I like Kit. She always lets me into the museum for free.”

“Yeah, well, her boyfriend really likes her too.” Kit was a promising partner until I found out on our six-month anniversary that she was celebrating her third anniversary with her boyfriend. At the very least I expect to be made aware when I’m the side chick. Chivalry is as dead as our relationship. She came by the shop at the end of my shift tonight to pick up her stuff, making me even later to this party.

“Again?” Maya says.

“Enough about my cursed love life. You guys look great!” I lean back to admire my stunning friends.

Cooper is glowing, gleaming ear to ear with a wide smile. His high cheekbones shimmer when the strobe lights catch his face. Gone is the responsible demeanor of a business owner, and in its place is the Cooper I met freshman year of college who convinced me to pierce my conch with a sewing needle. He is wild and free and half a year older.

Maya looks comfortable in her white flowy maxi skirt and worn vintage T-shirt. Her voluminous coiled curls add a couple of inches to her already poised stature. A collage of social justice movement pins she’s collected from work decorate the tote tucked by her side.

I didn’t have time to stop at my apartment and change my outfit before getting to the club. My skirt has ink stains on the front and my baby tee—which was chosen for comfort earlier today—is now practically transparent. I look like I lost a wet T-shirt contest.

Unfortunately, it’s not that kind of event. Every twentysomething-year-old in Seattle is packed into this club to see some DJ I’ve never heard of. The crowd is a real mixed bag. I haven’t seen the gays and the straights this united since “Call Me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepsen dropped. I don’t care much for the music or the venue, but I do love my friends.

“Here, catch up. Cooper’s lit and has been very active on Grindr,” Maya says, handing me a tiny glass of something.

I bring it up to my face and take a whiff—tequila. I toss it back and hope it makes my migraine disappear, or at least loosens me up enough to brave the mass of people for some requisite dancing. I will need at least two more shots before I am stress-free enough to wave my arms overhead as I sway my hips off beat to the rhythm. If I’m really lucky, Cooper will find a far cuter dance partner and I will be off the hook altogether.

“What else have I missed?” I ask, sucking on a lime to ease the burn.

“We’ve already seen like a hundred of your exes here tonight,” Cooper shouts across the table.

“I swear I can’t go anywhere in this city without bumping into an ex-partner.” I survey the room. For a big city, it really starts to narrow in on you as your twenties pass by.

“I spotted Nina, but don’t worry, she’s gone now.” Maya grimaces.

Nina is an ex-girlfriend Maya and I share in common. Horrible girlfriend, but excellent taste in women. When we broke up, Nina took my favorite sweater, pots and pans, and crystal collection with her when she left, and left me more commitment issues and Maya. In the end, I think I made out better than Nina did.

“Glad I came late then.” I shudder, taking another sip of Maya’s beer, which I have stealthily stolen.

Cooper’s phone buzzes against the tabletop, illuminating his home screen of the three of us from his real birthday party six months ago. “Speaking of exes, looks like my future ex just walked in,” he says giddily.

It should take this new guy a good fifteen minutes to wiggle his way through the crowd and steal Cooper away from our group.

As Cooper taps away at his phone feverishly, Maya waves across the club into the throng. “She came,” she says, her eyes growing wide. “You guys remember Arlo, right?” Maya waves her over.

“The girl who lives in her car?” I squint, trying to get a better view of her face.

“She lives in a van-dwelling,” Maya says defensively.

“I guess in elementary school when everyone used to tease me for being trailer trash, I should have told them we were living the carefree nomad lifestyle,” I half-heartedly joke. I search through the crowd hoping to spot my latest mistake, but I can’t get a good view of the potential suitors in attendance tonight.

“I’m going to go get us another round of shots.” I excuse myself from the booth before Maya’s new girlfriend and Cooper’s fling can join us. I owe them that much for being so late, but selfishly I am also trying to give myself some air; I don’t want to be a fifth wheel. I tried that once and I am way too selfish a lover.

“Tequila!” Cooper says.

“Water for you,” I shout back to him. He rolls his eyes and swats me away.