1. Operation a Go #2
On the plus side, I did not hyperventilate at the size of the crowd. I feel flushed, but I’m going to blame that on the heat of the place and not my uncontrollable blush factor.
“Another Captain and Coke, ma’am?”
Startled, I look behind me at a petite waitress in a tight black tank top, cut-off denim skirt and black cowboy boots.
Her blackish-brown hair is piled on top of her head, secured with what looks like an office supply of ballpoint pens.
I rub the toes of my sneakers together as I take in her expertly applied red lipstick.
Sheesh, even the waitress looks cooler than me. And she ma’am-ed me.
“Just a Coke please. And no need for the ma’am.”
The corner of the girl’s mouth quirks up.
“Sorry, a Southern habit. I ‘ma’am’ everyone, even those celebrating their twenty-first birthday.
” She jerks her head to the side and I follow the direction.
There, in the midst of a large, rowdy group that gives me shivers just to look at is a young woman, head back laughing, tiara on her blond hair and a sash across her chest that reads “Legal.”
I smile. “I’ll take being called ma’am if it lumps me with her. She seems to know how to have a good time.”
“I don’t know how much longer you’ll feel that way.” Her Southern drawl is like the slow trajectory of a rocket into space, every one-syllable word stretched to two. “With the way she’s going, it won’t end pretty.”
“Ah, but that’s the joy of turning twenty-one, isn’t it?” Not that I’d know. My twenty-first birthday consisted of studying for exams and a Happy Birthday text from my father.
I look back at the waitress, who doesn’t seem to be looking at the blonde anymore. Once again, following her lead, I turn back to the group and spot him .
Holy crap-o-la.
All rational thoughts leave me. Him being a clichéd tall drink of water. He stands toward the back of the group, beer bottle in hand, leaning against the wall. There must be some sort of technical manual all men read—Chapter One: How to lean against a wall and not look like an idiot.
He has to be over six feet, with hair cut short around the sides but still long enough on top to feel good if I ran my fingers through it. Not like that would happen. But a girl can dream.
There are flashing lights around the bar, so I can’t make out details too well, but I can make out the solid block of muscle beneath a long-sleeved Henley—sleeves pushed up his forearms. Though not tight, his jeans are fitted. And of course, cowboy boots.
Sigh.
He reminds me of one of those twinkling stars that catches your eye at night.
Even now, with all our telescopes and technology, we have no idea how many stars exist. They are uncountable, the universe so vast. And yet, there are always those that twinkle and draw the eye within the sea of zillions. This guy is like one of those stars.
“Dang.”
“You can say that again, ma’am.” The waitress laughs, causing her precarious updo to waver.
I cringe, not realizing I said that out loud.
The waitress is smiling at me, so I decide not to be too embarrassed. Instead, I suck it up and think, What would Jules do?
I straighten my shoulders. “Okay, I take it back, no more ma’am. I’m Jackie.” I thrust out my hand. My dad always stressed the importance of a handshake. The girl looks surprised, but tucks her drink tray under her arm and reaches out with her own.
“Trish.” We shake hands once.
“Nice to meet you, Trish.”
Trish withdraws her hand and tilts her head, looking over my white Converse, jeans and Stanford T-shirt, before looking to the empty stool beside me. “Are you meeting friends or something, sugar?”
“Uh, no.” I look down at my empty glass. “Why do you ask?”
“Just surprised to see a pretty girl by herself. You new here?”
My cheeks get hot. Pretty. I decide I like Trish. “Sort of. I’ve lived here for about a year now, but I haven’t gone out much. Been busy at work. But I guess if I’m going to start Operation Social Life, I best make some changes. Maybe even get some boots.”
“Operation Social Life?” Trish asks, lips twitching.
“Yep.” I nod. “Just made that up. My friend Jules says I’m stuck. Static.” I look at the twirling dancers.
“Static?”
“Static. Unmoving, stationary, a body at rest, if you will.” I turn back to Trish, who now seems to be holding back laughter. “What?” I glance back down at my shirt. “Did I spill something?”
“No, no, sugar. I just like the way you talk.” When she smiles, it isn’t the smile of someone laughing at me (and believe me, I know those), but with me. And that feels good.
“I also like the way you talk. It’s what I imagine a fixed-width binary code would sound like.”
“Uh, thank you?” Trish shifts her weight to accommodate a man with a waist as wide as his hat brim walking by. “Where is this Jules, then? Shouldn’t she be here ushering in your new social plan?”
“In space.”
“I’m sorry?” She looks at me a bit blankly.
“Space. My friend. Jules. She’s in space.
Outer space.” Trish keeps staring, but now her eyebrows are in the middle of her forehead.
God, I suck at small talk. I take a breath, willing myself not to stiffen up and start again.
“Jules is an astronaut at NASA. She’s currently up on the International Space Station. ”
Trish looks a little dumbfounded at this, but recovers quickly.
“Well, hot damn. That’s the best excuse I’ve ever heard for letting your girl out without a wingwoman.
” She looks over her shoulder at the growing crowd.
“I’ve got to go make the rounds, but I’ll be back with that Coke and you can explain Operation Social Life to me in more detail.
” Her smile is large and bright when she says, “I have a feeling you’re gonna be the most interesting customer of the night.
” With a wink, Trish saunters off to her tables.
My eyes drift back over to the birthday girl’s section, but holy crap-o-la is gone.
Flynn
I feel dirty.
And coming from a mechanic, that means something.
All of Rose’s friends are knocking back shots, ordering rounds and preening like a bunch of peacocks in their designer duds in a Western saloon. Like the swarm of cowboy boots really care how much their six-inch heels or Italian loafers cost.
What makes me feel even worse? I used to be just like them.
A few high-rolling twenty-year-olds amble off to the dance floor. I stop one as she stumbles past.
I look down at the blonde in charge of Rose’s birthday gathering. “Pam.” She blinks a few times, like she’s having trouble focusing. “I thought you were the designated driver?”
She wavers on her feet, her head weaving on her shoulders as she looks to my hand around her arm and back to my face. Next thing I know she’s plastered against me, her free hand gliding up my side.
Great. Something else to make me feel dirty.
“It’s okay, big boy. I got us a limo coming in a bit.
” She tries to nod toward the dance floor, but her whole body ends up tilting, my arm the only thing holding her up.
“Let’s go dance off some booze.” She tries to shimmy against me, but when I let go of her arm she stumbles back into one of the guys in their group.
He doesn’t even ask her if she’s okay, just continues flirting with the waitress.
“You go ahead.” Sweating out some of her drinks has got to be better than passing out at the table, which is probably her other option at this point. “I’m heading home in a bit.”
She straightens and runs her hands down her body. “Want some company? Heard you’ve been lonely.”
I scowl in response, but as drunk as she is, Pam doesn’t pick up on it. Instead she tries sidling closer. I step back out of her reach.
She pouts. Like a child. Which I guess is exactly what she is. None of the people in this group ever grew up. They’re too rich and too complacent. And now I’m afraid Rose will become just like them. Same as I did. Frustrated, I shift my gaze beyond the partiers.
“You can’t seriously prefer any of this low-class trash to me?” Pam asks, gesturing to the crowd in general.
Involuntarily, my eyes flick to the dance floor, where the blonde with those thick-framed glasses has been perched all night. I’d caught her glancing over here earlier, and if I hadn’t been so busy comparing my past self to these idiots, I might’ve gone up and said hello.
“I mean, really, Flynn,” Pam continues, following my gaze, “remember who you are, for once.”
That snaps me back to the moment, and the anger that has been simmering all night surfaces.
My anger is more aimed at myself, and I’m aware enough to recognize that, but it doesn’t stop me from being pissed at the world in general right now.
Especially when I come out to wish my little sister a happy birthday, only to find her friends shit-faced and Rose virtually ignored.
The same kind of friends who were decidedly unhelpful after my parents died and then virtually ignored me after one of their own fucked me over.
But I guess I owe them a favor. Without that final kick to the balls, I would’ve never grown up.
“I know who I am, Pam, and I like him a hell of a lot better than the spoiled rich kid with no direction in life.”
“Sheesh. Mr. High and Mighty. Beth was right to dump your ass.” An evil smile curls up her face before she continues. “Too bad Holt turned out to be just as boring. Looks like neither of the West brothers are any fun anymore.”
For a moment I think I’m literally seeing red, until I realize that the flashing red lights from the ceiling are simply mirroring my emotions.
Fuck this.
I shrug my shoulders, knowing the worst thing I could do to her, or any of these posers, is not care.
“Well, this boring guy is heading home. Alone.” I point my finger directly in her face, uncaring how much of a dick move it is.
“You’re supposed to be Rose’s friend, Pam.
So sober the fuck up and get my sister home safe. ”