The Love Wager

1. Indie

ONE

Indie

T he horn blares obnoxiously as my foot crashes onto the brake pedal. My body launches forward, crushing me into the seatbelt. Fuck! How is there traffic? I didn’t think there were enough people in this tiny town to create a standstill on their two-way main street. I crane my neck to see around the vehicle stopped two inches in front of me, but I can’t see a damn thing around his dually pickup.

“Come on. Come on. Come on,” I chant, glancing down at the time on the radio.

I’m already ten minutes late to the party I planned.

Some Maid of Honor I am.

I shouldn’t have waited so long to get ready, but the work emails wouldn’t stop coming through. When you’ve been grinding away trying to get your new event planning business rolling, it’s hard to step away and let go of the reins entirely. I prepared everything for Madi, so all she had to do was show up on the day of the few events I had on the calendar. She’s my marketing manager, not an event coordinator, and I was lucky she didn’t walk out the door when I asked her for this favor. But the promise of double her weekly salary was the perfect sweetener to the deal. How I would afford it was a problem to figure out next week when I was back in California.

“Come on, dude. Let’s go!” I yell again at the truck in front of me.

The GPS displays the route on my phone—one minute until arrival. I scan the road and spot a parking space on the opposite side of the street. Checking the rearview, I slip the compact rental in reverse and flip a bitch into the non-existent oncoming traffic. I whip the car into a parallel parking spot, and throw it in park.

Snatching my purse and the bag of goodies for the group, I high-tail it toward the only bar in town. Salt crunches under the thud of my booties, and I’m glad I changed from the heels I originally had planned for this outfit. I expected Georgia to be as warm as it was back home in California, but of course, an unexpected cold front had to blow in, leaving me wholly unprepared in the wardrobe department.

A weather-worn plank sign that reads The Place swings back and forth from the overhang as the wind whips through. An older gentleman steps aside, holding the door open for me to enter and get out of this damn cold. I let out a rushed “Thank you” while my bags crash against my sides and skid to a halt on the threshold.

When I asked Taylor what kind of bachelorette party she saw herself having, I expected endless mimosas and a spa day with the entire bridal party. The words dive bar and too drunk to walk did not come to mind. I assumed she’d thrown out our college partying ways in exchange for lunching with the wives of her fiancé’s business partners. Then again, this is her last single girl hurrah. I can’t deny her one final night on the wild side.

“There you are!” the woman of the hour yells over the chatter and music pumping in from unseen speakers.

“I know. I’m late.” I huff, dropping the bag with our night’s essentials into the booth.

“Oh, hush. You’re not even the last to arrive. I just got here early because I know how busy it gets on a Friday night.” She throws her arm out, gesturing to the already raucous crowd.

This is why I love her.

Four years of college together as roommates and three years apart on opposite sides of the country, she still expects me to be late and doesn’t judge me for it.

The tabletop is empty, and I get to work pulling out the obnoxiously pink and glittery decorations I snagged from the party store. Shaking out the plastic table cover, I throw the penis-shaped confetti across the table to make what we’re celebrating obvious.

I grab Taylor’s shoulder and spin her back toward me, breaking her conversation with one of her local friends I’m not familiar with. I help her into the white and gold sash, labeling her as the Bride to Be before crowning her with the matching plastic tiara.

Throwing on my own Maid of Dishonor sash, I hand the rest of the stack off to the only one of us who will know best how to hand them out. I wasn’t about to try and label the rest of the women when they say things like Hot Mess and Trophy Wife.

As entertaining as it would be to watch them learn what Taylor thinks of them, I break away from the growing group to the bar for our first round of shots. It’s eight o’clock, and I hope everyone had the foresight to eat a carb-loaded dinner before coming out tonight.

The bar front is filled with people waiting shoulder to shoulder, trying to place their drink orders. With a place this busy, I’m shocked to see a single bartender slinging drinks from one end to the other. I wait patiently, taking in the crowd. It’s the biggest hodgepodge group. Some are in slacks and button- downs, looking like they’re coming home from their nine-to-five at the bank, while others are in dusty jeans and cowboy boots fresh off the farm. I guess when you’re the only bar in town, it’s everyone’s watering hole.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks a few minutes later.

“Twenty shots of tequila with limes!” I shout.

His eyes bug at my request, but when they fall to my chest, he shakes his head instead. He grabs a round tray from beneath the counter, quickly lining up the shot glasses. The alcohol pours from two bottles, rapidly filling all twenty. He adds a bowl of limes and a saltshaker, completing my order. When I try to hand over my card, he shakes his head.

“A tab’s already been opened for your table.”

I try to hide my relief, but the sigh still comes out. Thankfully, he’s too busy moving on to the next customer to notice. After working nonstop over the last year on a struggling business, I saved a meager amount of money to make this trip happen. That sum is nothing compared to what Taylor would have needed if the roles were reversed. She comes from the kind of wealth accumulated over generations, and she’s used to certain travel standards. I have no such limitations. Thankfully, her fiancé, Spencer, was born into the same elite class, so she won’t have to give up her ways any time soon.

Using my skills from years in the service industry, I balance the tray of sloshing liquid without losing a drop.

“Shots are here!” I announce, setting them in the center of the table. Everyone grabs a glass, or, in Taylor’s case, two.

“To the bride.” I cheers and throw it back. My phone vibrates in my back pocket but I ignore the annoying thing. What ever it is can wait. The tequila burns down my throat; I immediately want to gag at the ashtray-like taste coating my tongue. It’s not my preferred alcohol by any means, but the lime is my saving grace for keeping it down.

I reach for another shot, but my phone starts up again. Taylor’s occupied with the girl she assigned the Hot Mess sash too, so I spin and walk around the corner, pulling my phone free. Shit, three missed calls from Madi.

Ringing her back, she answers immediately. “Indie, oh my god, I’m so sorry to bother you but the florist for the Park’s birthday is refusing to deliver until our outstanding invoices are paid. She said she’s sent reminders.”

Fuck, that’s right. I was so busy making sure I got everything together for tonight I forgot to reach out and talk to her. If she’s refusing delivery, the only option I have is to pay the invoice and pray the payment goes through.

Taking a deep breath, I hide the panic from my tone. “Not a problem. I meant to take care of that, but it got away from me. Can you give her the business credit card over the phone bring our account up to date, and don’t forget to confirm she’ll get those flowers to the event tomorrow?”

“Of course! Have a good night, Indie.”

“You too, Madi. Thanks again. You’re doing great.”

I hang up and sag against the wall. My business is such a mess and I’m drowning in unpaid bills. I need this week to relax, so I can go back, put on my big girl panties, and fix things. I shake off the impending sour mood and get back to the party.

We let the first hour flow by, filling it with conversation and getting a grip on who’s who. We purposefully kept the gathering small, not inviting any of Tay’s older family members or soon-to-be in-laws. The bar made it easy to exclude those too young to come in. As it creeps up on nine thirty, we’re another double round of shots down, and everyone seems relaxed as they sit around the large booth nursing cocktails.

“Alright. I think it’s time we get to the fun part of the night.”

“Strippers?” Taylor yells out, bouncing up in her seat across from me.

“No. No strippers, Tay.”

She flops back and pouts against the lip of her mojito glass. “Fineeee,” she whines, the alcohol taking its hold. “Game time?” she asks, her eyes lighting up with mischief.

Two weeks ago, while we were planning tonight over video chat, Taylor had the grand idea for a game. She devised a list of random challenges for us to complete individually before the night ended. She split them by difficulty, created a point system, and wrote each on a note card with the point amount on the envelope. We each pick a card and bring the proof to Taylor, and she keeps track of who’s ahead. The more points it’s worth, the harder the challenge. At the night's end, whoever gets the most points wins the prize.

I didn’t exactly factor Taylor's intoxication in to playing scorekeeper, but we’re all equally as buzzed, and it’s all in good fun. She kept the challenges and prizes from me so I could play along.

Clearing the table of all the shot glasses onto the tray, Jennie, one of Tay’s co-chairwomen of some philanthropic society, sets it elsewhere to give us more space. I dig into my bag under the table and grab the thick stack of tiny envelopes and a notepad. Organizing them into piles by points, I explain the game's rules. Everyone’s on board, and we make our first-round picks.

It's interesting to watch who grabs from what stack. The quiet Maureen, Tay’s closest cousin, grabs a five-pointer. Meanwhile, Sharon, the oversharer, went for an easy one. I wait until everyone has a card in hand and reach for a fiver myself.

“I knew you’d pick that one,” Taylor tells me over the table.

“You know me. What good’s a night out drinking if it doesn’t land me in a bit of trouble tomorrow morning?”

“Alright, ladies.” Taylor claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Open your cards, one by one, and read your challenge out loud. Then I’ll dismiss you to get started.”

“Wait!” Missy squeaks. She’s the only one from our college days here tonight. “You never told us what the prize is!”

“Hmm, you know, you’re right. I almost forgot.” She takes a long sip, emptying her drink. “The person with the highest number of points by the time last call comes will get...” She puts her glass down and pounds on the table, and the penis confetti flies all over the place. “Ten thousand dollars.”

The entire bar fades away as my brain processes what she’s just said. I look around at the other women. Some match my shock with their wide eyes, but a few seem disinterested, as if ten thousand dollars isn’t worth the energy of traipsing around the bar to complete what’s written on their card. I finally shake it off and snatch Taylor’s arm across the table.

“Are you sure?” I shout louder than necessary, with this whomping in my ears. Taylor has offered, time and time again, to give me money for Indie’s Event Co., but I’ve never been able to take it from her. It feels wrong. Crossing that line in friendship just never seemed worth the risk. But this, this would be fair and square. The money is on the table for anyone to take.

“Yes! I can’t wait to see who wins,” she answers back and nods to the envelope in my hands.

We take turns reading the cards out loud for everyone to hear. The ones are simple, order the most disgusting drink of the bartender’s choice. Meanwhile, I almost choke when I peel open my envelope and read Tay’s very distinct, bubbly handwriting.

“And if I get arrested for public indecency?”

“Oh my god, you won’t. It’s not like it says, get completely naked.”

She’s right; it doesn’t specify how much stripping down I have to accomplish. If she’s leaving interpretations open for the challenges, I’m going to take full advantage.

We’re the last two at the table, and she follows me up to the bar. I may be three shots and two drinks deep, but I’m not remotely drunk enough to forget this tomorrow morning. I wave down the bartender, who’s drying glasses and watching the crowd.

“Can I get double Jameson?” I’m going to regret the combination of liquor tomorrow, but at least this time, I’ll enjoy the burn.

“The old Indie wouldn’t need liquid courage to get up there,” Tay teases in my ear.

“The old Indie would have already been shit-faced and banging a frat boy in the bathroom,” I correct, and we both bust up laughing.

Ten thousand dollars , I repeat in my head when I hear the music change to the song Taylor picked on the jukebox. Now’s my chance to shine.

The intro plays out, building my confidence. Swallowing down the rest of my whiskey, I slam the glass down and slide it down the bar out of my way. Clumsily climbing from the swiveling bar stool to the bar top, it takes a minute for the bar’s patrons to realize what’s happening.

But when the iconic lyrics of Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” fill the bar, somehow gaining in volume, everyone erupts in cheers. I dig deep and find that girl I used to be. My hips swing in time to the beat as my arms trace up my curves, locking in my wild red locks that flick from side to side.

It doesn’t take long for me to get lost in the music. I run a couple of feet and slide down the rest of the bar on my knees. The people lift their drinks out of my way. Laughter bubbles from my chest that I made it and didn’t crash off the side. It’s the perfect time to pluck the buttons from my shirt slowly open. It falls open, revealing my lace crop tank. Shimmying out of the only piece of clothing I intend to strip off, I whip it around my head and let it fly off into the crowd. The catcalls and whistles grow deafening. The song ends, taking with it my impromptu performance. Jumping to my feet, I give one last booty shake and an exaggerated bow.

“Get off my bar,” a harsh, deep voice barks.

It breaks my concentration, and my ankle twists, hitting the counter's edge. “Oh shit!” I scream, toppling off the bar toward the floor.