If there’s one thing I’ve learned about women over the years, it’s that they like cheap liquor in copious amounts.
The proof? The horde of drunk, loud, giggling ladies surrounding the bar at Clyde’s that’s rapidly gaining the unwanted attention of many of the more questionable men seated around the establishment—myself excluded on the questionable front.
It’s the first night in months I’ve had off from either of my jobs, and of course the one night I’m looking to relax, the bar is filled with the drunken laughter of a group that’s almost impossible to ignore. My friend and I have been watching them for the last few minutes, trying to figure out the cause for the obnoxious celebration. We can’t see crowns, cheap plastic dick decorations, or veils, so it’s safe to assume it’s no one’s birthday or bachelorette party. They’re just here having a good time.
Normally, I’d be okay with that, but tonight I’m craving the usual laid-back vibe Clyde’s provides every other night of the week. Now I get to watch this circus.
“Damn they’re loud,” says my best friend and coworker Tucker as he takes another swig of his beer. I glance over to where he’s staring, doing nothing to hide my irritation.
“Tell me about it, man. I wasn’t prepared for this tonight.”
Tucker scoffs. “Me either. What the fuck is worth celebrating so loudly?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
One of the women throws her head back, her blonde hair spilling around her shoulders, her laughter carrying through the bar. She’s a gorgeous woman. Her hair is a shade between gold and sunshine, with just a touch of dark highlights throughout. I can’t see her eye color from here, but every time the light catches her gaze, it’s near impossible to look away. If I were here to pick someone up, she’d be first on my list—but that’s not what I’m here to do.
I continue watching the group, intrigued at how they all fit together. It’s an old habit of mine—watching people and creating a scenario for how they met. With this group, the only idea I’m coming up with is work. That must be it, seeing as they range from looking around my age to mid-forties. There’s no way they’re all related; not one of them look alike.
However, one of them does seem familiar. It’s nothing about her appearance—anyone can have light brown hair and green eyes. No, it’s the way she’s holding herself, the lines around her mouth when she smiles, the way she exudes confidence. Although she’s probably the quietest one of the group this evening, her presence is still loud and…felt…and it has nothing to do with how drunk she is.
I’ve been counting how many drinks she’s had because I can’t seem to wrap my mind around how a woman so petite can throw back so many shots and not be facedown on the floor in a pile of vomit. I watch as she wraps her dainty fingers around the shot glass that’s placed in front of her, intrigued by the warm, easy smile she gives the bartender. She turns back to her group of friends, a broad smile gracing her lips. Her eyes scan over the crowd in the bar, curious and searching.
When our eyes meet, there’s a pause before she looks away.
And that’s it. Nothing special, no angels singing from the heavens above, no flicker of familiarity, just a brief connection between my eyes and hers.
Within those few seconds, I still can’t seem to place her, though I know I must have seen her somewhere before. Hell, it might have even been here. She’s friendly enough with the bartender, so it’s a possibility.
“All right, dude,” Tucker says, pulling me from my thoughts. I swing my attention to him. “I’m out. I’m too tired for this stuff tonight, and we have a long day tomorrow. We’re going to need to spend at least an hour in the morning just going over shit with the new guy.”
I scoff. “New guy. Why the fuck did Hudson hire him again? He’s kind of lacking in the brains department.”
Tucker lets out a soft chuckle. “I think it’s just nerves, man. The kid’s young. This may be his first big kid job, ya know. I’m sure your surly attitude doesn’t make him feel any more relaxed.”
“I’m far from surly.”
Tucker raises a brow. “Yeah? Then why do you always walk around looking like someone kicked your puppy?”
“Maybe someonedidkick my puppy. Don’t be an ass about it, Tuck. Have some compassion.”
“Right. And on that note”—he throws down a couple bucks for a tip—“I’m gone. You coming?”
I glance around the loud bar again, finding more solace in this place than I do back at my shitty ass apartment. “Nah. I’ll probably stick around for a bit.”
“Suit yourself then. Let me know you make it back home okay.”
“I’m not a toddler, shithead. I can take care of myself.”
He looks at me, unblinking. “Compassion, Gaige. I’m having some compassion.”
I throw my wadded napkin at him but he sidesteps it, brushing past the table on his way to the front door. “I’m not picking that up,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Dick!”
A few patrons give me a look of annoyance but I ignore them, returning my attention to the beer in my hand. I pick at the label wrapped around the bottle, doing my best not to turn back toward the group of girls. Though it’s a hard urge to fight, I don’t want to bethatguy—you know, the weirdo who sits alone in a bar just staring at chicks. That’s not usually me, but with this group—particularly that one familiar face—I can’t help it.
“You dropped this.”
