Page 2 of Small Town Girl
In Which a Girl Walks into a Bar
By eight o’clock, I’ve sent home nearly everyone I can, and of all the dancers that stick around, it’s the newest girl, a kid named Steely, who’s still up there dancing for the two guys sitting up against the stage and still watching. They’re not ordering drinks, but at least she’s making a little cash on this crappy night. I check my watch for the millionth time. I almost wish I was a smoker so I’d have an excuse to wander outside.
I’m just about to head to the front and get into Eddie’s hair when something rattles the bar. Glasses tink against each other, the bottles on shelves sway just a bit, and even the silverware in the drawers clinks together. I look around, unsettled by the randomness of it.
Whatever it was doesn’t seem to bother anyone else. Steely’s still dancing, and the two guys are talking to her as she moves. I make eye contact with her fromwhere I’m at and tilt my head. She just winks–her signal that she’s doing just fine.
Everything settles down. No one looks my way. It’s almost like nothing happened. I’m still debating what the hell all that was—mini earthquake? big truck driving by? my imagination?—when the door opens and in walks the most unlikely woman to ever walk into a strip club I’ve ever seen.
She’s dressed all in green—a long green skirt, green open-toed sandals, and a low-cut green top that hangs off one shoulder. Her blond hair is curly and long—longer than I’ve ever seen anyone around here wear it. It hangs well past her butt and somehow manages to shine even in the dim lights of the bar.
She meets my eyes and grins, then practically glides towards me. She hops up on the bar stool directly in front of me and holds out her hand for me to shake.
“Nollaig O’Connor,” she says with a slight Irish accent.
I can’t help but smile back at her. Light brown freckles the same color as her eyes dot her face, and her smile widens as I take her hand.
“Zander Lamar. What can I get for you, Nollaig?”
She lays her hands on the bar and peers behind me at the bottles lined up on the shelves.
“I don’t get out much. What do you recommend?”
I lean forward on my elbows, moving closer into her space. “I don’t know, what kind of girl are you, Nollaig?”
She searches my face for a moment, then decides I’m teasing. “Oh, you know…just a girl who likes to have fun when she can get away from housework.”
Of course, she’d be married. I school the irrational disappointment I feel and maintain my grin. “Ah, stay-at-home mom stuck with the kids all day?”
She shakes her head and laughs. “One day, maybe, but right now, no. Just keeping up with my da,making sure he lives another year despite his best efforts.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry–” I start, but she shakes her head.
“No need to be. But I don’t want to waste the little time I have…”
“Of course not,” I say, still feeling like a jerk. “How about this, since this is a rare night for you, why don’t we do a sampler before you decide?”
She looks slightly suspicious. “A sampler? Will it beexpensive? I don’t have much…”
I shake my head. “I’m the manager tonight. This taste test will be on the house.”
Her eyes study me for a moment. “Okay, sure. That sounds marvelous, Zander. As long as it’s not any trouble.”
“None at all,” I reassure her. The way she looks at me as she says my name sends shivers up my spine. But I can’t act like an idiot now. I turn around and survey the bottles, trying to decide what I can make to impress the hottest girl to ever step foot inside the club.
But then again, if she doesn’t get out much, fancy cocktails might be a little too much. I change my mind and instead pull down a few bottles and begin to mix up some of the classics–a gin and tonic, a rum and coke, a martini. I even get out the blender I had cleaned and put away and make her a strawberry daiquiri. She watches with growing interest as the row of glasses grows on the bar. It’s easily fifty dollars in alcohol, and I’m stupid to be doing it, but there’s something about her that desperately makes me want her approval.
She waits for me to put out the last glass–an IPA we have on tap that I’ve noticed a lot of ladies order–before she begins.
“Where should I start?”
I smile, and she grins back. “Well, you don’t want to get tipsy before you pick, so start on the beer end and work your way down. It’s all top shelf, but I made it weak so we wouldn’t knock you on your ass right out of the gate.”
She chuckles. “I appreciate that. My da drowns himself in this stuff every night, so I tend to stay away, but I’ve always been curious.”
She picks up the beer and sniffs it.
“Beer’s usually an acquired taste,” I warn her before she puts her perfect pink lips to the glass. She tilts her head as she puts the glass carefully back on the bar.
