Chapter 11 #2
“Hey, hon,” he calls out, voice rising easily over the layered hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and a butchered rendition of a Lizzo song starts up from the karaoke stage. “Gimme one sec, and I’ll get ya taken care of.”
I offer a polite nod, resting one elbow on the sticky bar top and half-listening to the chaos behind me as he wraps up the current drink he is making.
He garnishes the drink with a dash of Tajin, then hands it off to the guy at the end of the bar before turning back toward me, a grin stretched across his lips.
He leans over the bar, folding his arms atop the counter to get close to me. I can smell his cologne the moment he leans in. A combination of sandalwood, citrus, and coconut hit my senses, overpowering the multitude of scents that waft through the bar.
He flashes me a slightly crooked smile that showcases a chipped front incisor. “Alright, gorgeous,” he says, voice low and playful. “What can I make for ya tonight?”
“What’s the go-to tonight?” I glance at the laminated specials card wedged behind a plastic tiki bobblehead near the tip jar.
Cole chuckles, following my gaze with a smirk that’s one part bartender charm and two parts mischief. Khloe would love this man.
“Blue Hawaiian’s been the favorite so far,” he says, his fingers tapping idly on the counter as I grab the card. “It’s a fruity cocktail made with vodka.” He winks. “But I can whip up whatever your heart’s set on, darlin’.”
I skim the card. On one side is a list of drafts, and on the other side are the cocktails and margaritas. “Blue Hawaiian it is,” I say finally, setting the card back behind the figurine. “And throw in a Blue Kamikaze shot while you’re at it.”
Cole gives me an approving grin and pushes off the counter. “Coming right up.”
He turns toward the wall of liquor with the easy rhythm of someone who knows every bottle by touch.
As he starts pulling ingredients, the girls appear at my side in perfect synchronization.
Khloe wedges herself between me and the whiskey guy and plucks the menu from its spot.
Tessa slides in on my other side, looping an arm around my waist as Marlena lingers just behind them, her focus glued to the open Karafun queue on her phone.
“Song picked yet?” I ask, pulling my wallet from my bag. I slide my ID and debit card onto the bar as Cole tosses ice into a shaker.
“Khloe’s doing ‘Final Girl,’” Tessa says, nudging her shoulder with a grin. “Marlena and I are still debating—either Disney or pop. We’ll see.”
Marlena lifts her gaze, eyes glinting with playful amusement. “What about you?”
I snort. “I need at least two drinks before I even think about a mic.”
Right on cue, Cole reappears, expertly balancing a tall, ocean blue cocktail with a tiny pink umbrella and a neon bendy straw, plus a bright blue shot glass that is filled to the brim.
He places both in front of me with flair, then glances at my cards—but instead of reaching for them, he slides them back toward me with two fingers and that signature crooked grin.
“On the house,” he says with a wink.
I blink. “Oh. Um… thanks.”
“Anytime, gorgeous,” he replies smoothly, already moving down the bar to take another order.
My cheeks flush warm as I snatch my cards off the bar and tuck them into my purse instead of back into my wallet, pretending not to notice the amused glances from the girls flanking me.
“Damn, Rae,” Marlena teases, grinning like she’s already decided this will be brought up again and again. “Got the bartender giving you freebies already?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, laughing despite myself. I knock back the Kamikaze. It burns in a satisfying way, sharp and fruity, and I follow it up with a long sip of the Blue Hawaiian—sweet, boozy, and strong enough to soften my nerves.
While Khloe hangs back at the bar to order, Tessa, Marlena, and I weave through the crowd toward the small table they claimed near the karaoke setup.
I settle into my seat and finally pull out my phone.
I point my camera at the projected karaoke screen and scan the QR code at the bottom, clicking the link that pops up, and opening Karafun to finally scroll through the song list.
I debate for a minute or two, fingers hovering over a few options, before settling on “I Am the Fire” by Halestorm. It’s fierce, bold, and a little angsty—the exact kind of energy I want to project tonight.
By the time I hit Add to Queue, Khloe’s name is being called.
She quickly rushes over from the bar, her drink sloshing over the edge of the glass, and squeals in excitement.
She downs half of her cocktail in one dramatic gulp.
The ice clinks loudly as she slams the glass on the table with a satisfied gasp, then struts over to the DJ.
He hands her the mic, and she steps up onto the stage and tosses us a look over her shoulder—a smirk tugging at her lips, one hand propped sassily on her hip like she was born for the spotlight.
“Let’s go, Khloe!” we cheer in unison.
Tessa and Marlena are practically jumping out of their seats, cheering as the opening notes of “Final Girl” start. I clap along, laughing as Khloe begins to sing—no, perform—like she’s the headliner of a stadium tour and we’re all lucky to be in her presence.
While Khloe commands the mic with her signature sass and zero shame, Tessa grabs Marlena’s hand and tugs her toward the bar.
They disappear into the crowd, giggling like high schoolers sneaking off for something scandalous.
I stay behind, swirling the ice in my half-empty Blue Hawaiian as I soak in everything around me.
Khloe wraps up her performance with a dramatic pose and a wink to the audience, her final note met with a wave of cheers.
As she makes her way back to the table, Tessa and Marlena return too, carrying what can only be described as drink monstrosities.
They were literal fishbowls of booze, vibrant blue, bubbling, and rimmed with a pineapple wedge and an umbrella.
God only knows what was in them, but from the way Tessa nearly trips over her chair trying to sit down, I assume it was jet fuel with a hint of coconut.
“What the fuck is that?” I ask, blinking at the absurdity.
“Monkey Punch, baby!” Tessa announces, holding hers up like a championship trophy.
Marlena takes a sip from her bowl, only to immediately sputter and cough into her arm. “Holy shit, that’s strong,” she rasps between laughs, eyes wide and watering.
I laugh, shaking my head as I lean back in my seat. “That looks like it belongs at a frat party.”
The girls settle in with their cocktails, and we spend the next hour watching other brave (or drunk) souls take their turn in the spotlight. Some are surprisingly good. Most are delightfully terrible. We cheer for all of them anyway.
Then, my name gets called.
My stomach does a little flip, but the kind that’s more thrill than dread. The usual nerves that would have gripped me by the throat are barely a whisper, dulled by booze and the warmth of good company.
“Wish me luck,” I say as I push back from the table.
“You got this!” Marlena beams. Khloe, on her way back from the bar, flashes me a grin and two thumbs up as she passes.
I make my way to the DJ, who hands me the mic with a knowing nod.
As I take the stage, I turn to face my friends and flash them a smile as the opening beat of “I Am the Fire” by Halestorm pulses through the speakers—and that’s it.
That’s all I need. One beat and everything sharpens.
The crowd fades, the lights blur, and I step into something bold inside me that I didn’t realize I’d been holding back.
I let the lyrics rip out of me, fierce and unfiltered. My voice rises, steady and strong, wrapping around every word like it belongs to me. I don’t hold back—not for one damn second. I sing like I’ve got something to prove, and maybe I do, if only to myself.
From the corner of my eye, I catch the girls cheering—Tessa waving her straw like a flag, Khloe standing and clapping along, Marlena recording the whole thing on her phone like a proud mom.
And as the final note rings out, the room erupts into applause and cheers.
I step off that tiny stage with my pulse racing, breath shallow, and a grin so wide it actually hurts my face. I make my way back toward the bar, still riding the high, still buzzing from the rush.
“You killed it up there!” Cole says with a grin, tossing his towel over his shoulder, when I wedge into a space at the bar.
“Thanks,” I reply, already feeling my cheeks warm, half from the praise, half from the alcohol.
“So, what can I get ya this time?” he asks, leaning on the bar.
“Sex on the Beach,” I reply with a flirty smirk.
“Ain’t no beaches around here, but I can always figure something out for ya,” he replies with a wink.
“Oh yeah?” I laugh, and he leans in just slightly.
“Anything for you,” he says, flashing that cocky little grin before turning to work his magic behind the bar.
His hands move quickly, confidently, and in less than a minute, he slides the drink across the counter with a smooth flick of his wrist. A small, folded paper rests neatly underneath the glass.
“Can you add it to my friend’s tab? We’re covering it all together,” I say, flashing him a smile as I pick up the glass and swipe the paper beneath it, briefly glancing at it.
“Of course.” His eyes gleam with amusement as they follow my hand. His grin only widens when I slip the paper into the bodice of my dress like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Thanks, Cole.” I wink before slipping away from the bar to rejoin my friends.
Roughly another hour slips by in a blur of music, laughter, and clinking glasses. At some point, Khloe and I decide to wander off for a game of 8-ball. Big mistake—for her, anyway. I end up absolutely smoking her, sinking the eight ball with a smug little smirk while she groans dramatically.