Chapter 21
21
I like a good time, and a wild night out, but even for me 24bar seems like a bit much. It’s the sort of place where you would go if you wanted to party all night (and all day too), and while it isn’t quite open twenty-four hours a day, it seems as though it stays open as long as it is allowed as far as licence rules go.
It’s trying a bit too hard, if you ask me. The neon lights, the chaotic strobe, the loud thumping music that you can feel rumbling through your body – the kind that feels like it could stop your heart, if you stood on the spot for too long.
Walking up to the bar, to order a drink, I hope that Pat is working this evening.
Oh, and there he is. It doesn’t take me long to spot him, because he matches his Redflags description exactly. Ironically, one of his red flags is that his online dating profile photos doesn’t quite paint a full picture of Pat, but it’s not that he’s shorter than he says, or not as physically fit, or that he’s airbrushed imperceptions or anything like that… it turns out that Pat has a tattoo that he keeps hidden in his photos. Standing here in front of him, I can see why.
‘Oh, hey, can I get a drink, please?’ I ask him.
‘I’m just finishing for the evening,’ he tells me. ‘But Rory will serve…’
His voice trails off as he turns around to look at me. All I can look at is his tattoo.
‘Hi,’ he says with a cheeky grin.
‘Hi,’ I reply.
‘My eyes are up here,’ he jokes.
‘Sorry,’ I say with a laugh, averting my gaze, forcing myself to keep contact with his bright blue eyes instead. ‘It’s not every day you see a man with a tattoo of a… a… erm…’
‘That’s okay,’ he says with a laugh. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Oh, it’s great,’ I reply – well, it’s great to piss people off at a wedding, anyway.
My family hate tattoos. All of them, with no exceptions. They think they are idiotic, and tacky, and a very easy way to tell if someone is bad news. I have a few small ones, in places that are generally hidden, and I genuinely think they would disinherit me (if they haven’t already) if they saw them – not that I care.
So, sure, if it’s true that Pat flirts with every woman he meets, then it might be kind of funny to take him to the wedding, to see him flirting with Bea, or Seph – imagine him flirting with the bride – but I think it’s the tattoo that’s going to really piss them off. I don’t think they would be happy about the tattoo – which takes up most of his neck – no matter what it was of, but what it is… oh, what it is… I’m laughing, just thinking about the looks that will be on their faces. Pat has what I can only describe as a medical diagram of the female genitalia – a worm’s eye view, if you will – complete with labelled parts and artistic pubic hair.
My God, it’s so hard not to just stare into the thing. The detail is just… wow. I have one, and even I feel like I’m learning things, seeing it from a whole new perspective.
‘Can I make you a drink?’ Pat asks.
‘I’d love one,’ I reply. ‘What are we having?’
‘Let’s find out,’ he replies.
Pat places bottles down on the bar before stepping out from behind it and walking around to sit next to me.
I feel weirdly excited, as I watch him get to work, pouring various ingredients into a shaker before mixing them up (with that level of flair only the pros have), and pouring the finished drink between glasses.
It’s thick and bright red, almost like blood, but it smells so fruity and light.
Pat accidentally knocks the cocktail mixer on the floor, as he quickly extends his arms to reveal two straws hiding in his sleeve. Okay, so maybe he doesn’t quite have the routine nailed, but the drinks look good at least.
‘Shit,’ he says with an awkward laugh. ‘Almost cool, eh? Can you grab that for me?’
‘I didn’t see a thing,’ I reassure him as I bend down to pick it up.
It takes me a few seconds to locate it, on the dark floor, but as a disco light homes in on it, the flash of light on the silver metal catches my eye. Got it.
I have no idea what is happening but all of a sudden I see something hurtling towards me. A man – a drunk, probably – crashes into us. He knocks Pat, then the stool I was sitting on, sending it crashing to the floor.
‘Watch where you’re going or I’ll kick you out, you moron,’ Pat yells at him.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ the drunk man replies.
‘Here, let me help you,’ Pat says, crouching down on the floor. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Oh, yeah, I’m fine, he didn’t get me,’ I tell him. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, took a bit of a bump, but all good – and the stool isn’t broken, no harm done,’ he says. ‘It’s sort of an occupational hazard.’
I bet.
‘Are the drinks okay?’ I ask him. ‘That’s the real question.’
Pat laughs, helping me to my feet.
‘Yeah, they’re all good,’ he replies. ‘That one is yours, right there.’
I get back on my stool, pick up my glass and take a sip.
‘Oh, wow, that’s amazing,’ I tell him.
I try to say it to his face but it’s so hard, trying not to stare at his neck tattoo, so I find myself averting my gaze again.
That’s when I see him, the man that bumped into us, walking away with a smirk on his face.
Oh… my… God. It’s Ethan. What the hell is he playing at? I guess I told him I would be here but I didn’t think he would turn up here. And bumping into us? Wow, that’s psychotic. That’s Steve-type behaviour, right there.
He doesn’t seem bothered that I’ve spotted him, that I’ve caught him in the act – instead he looks quite proud of himself. He flashes me a wink before he heads deeper into the dance floor until he’s out of sight.
Okay, right, well, obviously I shouldn’t mention that I know him to Pat, because it’s going to make me seem like a mess.
Yes, Pat, the one with the lady parts permanently inked on his neck. That Pat.