Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
To celebrate that Flint has survived his first full month at Wanderlust, Annemarie and I decide to take him to the club on Saturday night. Even Betsy decides to tag along, which could prove to be either hilarious or a fucking disaster. Guess I’m about to find out.
Also, it’s the Midwest – even by the greatest stretch of the imagination, the best we really offer around here is a bar that happens to have a space for dancing.
From my experience in some of the even smaller towns, we’re lucky to have Beat.
While it still qualifies as a hole in the wall, it at least has a decent-sized dance floor and is often filled with kids from the local college.
I think it was more of a blue-collar bar back in the day, but I’ve only known it in its current incarnation.
As a nod to its current role, the short, wide exterior is painted matte black with a huge mural of vibrant, swirling colors.
Bright string lights drip from the perimeter, highlighting the colors long after the sun has set and the place opens.
There’s a patio space at the back, as a nod to those who are still fighting the good fight for their nicotine fix.
The air inside is thick with spilled beer, forgotten or drunk away dreams. You don’t come here for the ambiance, unless you crave the mix of stale cigarette smoke (never mind that smoking has been banned, the scent continues to cling to the walls like a second skin) and the sickly sweet of too many perfumes in a space at one time.
The main room is long and narrow, dominated by a scarred wooden bar that looks as though it had survived a war – and it probably has.
Black vinyl stools crowd the bar in a line, set entirely too close together.
There is limited seating on the main level, in order to maximize the amount of time people spend dancing and therefore, drinking.
The floor is tacky, like there’s been too many drinks spilled over the years to ever have hope of being appropriately cleaned up.
By now, it’s probably soaked clear through to the soil under the building.
To the right of the bar lies a narrow staircase that likely groans, but no one would ever know it except the plastic looking staff of the bar itself.
The stairs lead to the “basement” which is arguably the entire reason for coming – the dance floor.
More string lights hang from the exposed beams high in the ceiling, which hold the light system they use on nights dedicated to “clubbing”.
The floor itself is a patchwork of wood – sticky in some places and suspiciously slick in others.
A DJ booth is crammed on a tiny, raised platform in the far corner.
The sound system is, at best, questionable.
While the base could probably vibrate the fillings right out of your head, the higher notes often got lost in a haze of static.
Despite its flaws, Beat does hold a certain magic.
Inhibitions were shed like cheap coats and old Letterman jackets, the most awkward of bodies could find a rhythm, strangers connected in the most superficial way in the sweaty and pulsating darkness.
No, it wasn’t glamorous or pretty, but for some, it could be the realest thing they could find.
There was a magick in losing yourself in the music, the press of bodies and to forget, for however long you stayed, that there were harsh realities outside.
In its own gritty and, admittedly, viscous way, it served as an escape from the pressures of life.
Annemarie and I have been coming here fairly regularly.
From the time I showed up at Wanderlust with nothing but a bag and no college degree, we would come at least once a week – sometimes twice, if things got crazy.
That lasted up until recently when I decided my writing needed more serious attention.
It was a great way to burn off the stress of the week – losing ourselves to the hard beat of the base pounding, mildly buzzed from maybe one too many drinks, and screaming lyrics at the sky.
It has been a while since I let her talk me into coming out, but Flint survived the month and with the increase in the number of women coming into the shop to ogle him, that’s hardly a small victory.
He really is picking up on everything even more quickly than I could have anticipated and honestly, I’m pretty damn proud of him.
As a sop to Betsy’s age, we came right at opening.
Yes, I know, that’s the lamest thing you can do.
But is it really any worse than bringing your almost seventy-year-old, dirty minded boss to a “dance club”?
Yeah. I didn’t think so, either. By getting here on Betsy’s timeline, we were able to secure one of the few shitty tables upstairs, in a place where we can set up shop.
The added bonus, of course, being that Betsy will have a place to rest – assuming she gets up to dance or anything, but I’m not really anticipating that.
The four of us, looking like the motley-est of motley crews squeeze into warm wooden chairs placed around an equally worn table that’s been maneuvered between the wall and the banister that overlooks the dance floor.
Ever the gentleman, Flint offers to go get everyone a drink but Betsy pushes him aside and makes her way to the bar after collecting everyone’s orders.
For such a small woman, she certainly packs a punch.
Flint just shakes his head and grins. He grabs a chair, turns it around, and straddles it, looking at Annemarie and me.
Why is that so hot? That’s hot, right? It can’t be just me.
Luckily, the DJ hasn’t started yet, so the three of us are able to talk without screaming at each other repeatedly.
“So, how are you liking the shop?” Annemarie asks. “I’m there so early and I feel like I get gone before anything interesting happens.”
In true Annemarie fashion, she’s wearing a black corset top with one of her long, flowing, layered skirts and flat sandals that lace up her calves, disappearing under the riot of colors.
Her makeup is, as always, flawless, and she’s painted her mouth a deep bronze.
As always, I feel like an imposter next to her flawlessness.
As a nod to “going out,” I decided to wear fishnets under my usual ripped jeans, and a cropped halter top.
Not only will it make dancing a little more comfortable – temperature wise – it has the added benefit of showing off my ink. I have expensive skin.
I went light on the makeup, anticipating that I will be sweating plenty tonight.
I have my usual eyeliner, sharp enough to cut a man, but little else.
I have secured my riot of curls into a high, bouncy ponytail in order to keep it off my neck as much as possible.
I know from experience that nothing will trigger my texture ick like sticky, sweaty hair adhering to the back of my neck.
I’d like to enjoy my evening rather than have a frustrated ADHD meltdown later on.
“I’m really enjoying it. I love the idea of working around all of those stories,” Flint replies, crossing his arms over the back of the chair and resting his chin on his wrist. “It’s a good location and we seem to have a pretty consistent stream of customers.
It’s a little daunting to figure out where everything is and the stories here are…
” he seems to pause and search for words.
“Uh, I mean Betsy has a different organization system than anywhere else I’ve seen. ”
Shit. He was about to say that we don’t have the same stories as Goira and luckily, caught himself before totally blowing his cover.
As much as I love Annemarie, I haven’t quite gotten to the task of telling her I’m living with a Fae warrior and a fucking dragon.
I’ll get there eventually. It’s only been seven days for the love of Gods.
Speaking of… I catch a flash of blue from the corner of my eye and look up. Are you fucking kidding me? Calida is laying on one of the beams in the ceiling, her silver eyes glinting in the lights.
What are you doing here? I ask, mentally hissing it in her direction.
I wanted to come along. You can never be too careful and I want to have fun too!
As I’m trying to process how to appropriately address this, Flint’s eyes widen ever-so-slightly and I track his gaze to the ceiling. He looks back at me and his eyes narrow. Apparently, she didn’t just send that into my mind, but his.
‘I WILL!’ She snarls.
I’m not sure what admonishment Flint gave her, but Calida clearly isn’t happy about it. Not that I blame her. We don’t really do much, do we? Then again, this place is so old and soaked in decades of spilled alcohol, it would probably go up like a tinder box if she sneezes in the wrong direction.
Annemarie frowns. She turns to look over both shoulders and up at the ceiling, trying to decipher what the two of us are finding so interesting. I catch her eye and shake my head in a “don’t worry about it” gesture.
She turns back to Flint. “Doesn’t Betsy organize by genre?”
I decide to interrupt and try to throw Flint a lifeline. “It’s Flint’s first time working in a bookshop. He’s from a … well a town smaller than this, but the entire store is organized by the author's last name. Isn’t that weird?”
“But why?”
I don’t know, Anne. Because I’m making this shit up.
I can’t say that. Instead, I shrug. “Small towns.” You can get away with blaming a lot of eccentricities on small town syndrome.
Annemarie rolls her eyes at me. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re liking it. I bet Cas is happy to have the extra help. Really helps free up some of her extra time to work on her book.”
Flint grunts in a way that tells me he is still arguing with Calida mentally, so I give him a nudge under the table with my foot.
He brings eyes back to Annemarie’s and smiles. “Has she let you read it yet?”