“Sorry, I have a hot date tonight,” I told him, enjoying the flash of panic across his face before clarifying. “With Bunny. Sort of a girls’ night out.”
The relief that washed over his features was so profound you’d think I’d just told him the medical lab had mixed up his test results and he wasn’t terminal after all. Which only reignited my suspicions. Why would a simple girls’ night provoke such relief?
Still, when he offered to watch Cricket and Rookie and suggested I meet up with him later at his place, I almost wavered. Almost.
“I’ll think about it,” I said instead, surprised by the coolness in my own voice.
But now, as Ginger putters along the main drag of downtown Edison—a town that makes Brambleberry Bay look like a refined European capital by comparison—I wonder if I made the right choice.
Edison is both dreary and scary. It’s the kind of place where even the welcome sign has graffiti.
“There it is.” Bunny points from the passenger seat while bouncing up and down. “Sparky’s Smokehouse.”
Sparky’s stands out like a sore thumb—if sore thumbs were tall, boxy, brick buildings smashed between a strip club called The Pole Position and a casino named Lucky’s Last Chance. The neon sign out front features a cartoon pig that seems to be suffering from either ecstasy or an electrical shock, possibly both.
“Are we sure about this place?” Clarabelle asks from the back seat, where she and Peggy are crammed like sardines in formalwear. “It looks like the kind of establishment where the health inspector needs combat pay.”
“Oliver raved about it,” Bunny assures us, checking her makeup in a compact mirror. “And he’s reviewed restaurants in seventeen countries.”
“Yes, but does he still have all his original organs?” I mutter as I park Ginger between a motorcycle that appears to be held together with duct tape and a car that might once have been a Cadillac before it was customized with what appears to be house paint and hood ornaments stolen from at least three different luxury brands.
We make our way to the entrance, each decked out for a fun night out. Bunny looks like she’s stepped out of a fashion magazine in a clingy red dress and heels that would qualify as lethal weapons in some jurisdictions. I’ve opted for jeans and a sweater that sayscasualbut alsoprepared to flee from danger.
Peggy sports what she calls her lucky bingo outfit—a bedazzled sweatshirt featuring a turkey wearing sunglasses and pants with an elastic waistband roomy enough to accommodate her plan to “eat until they have to roll me out.”
Clarabelle has chosen a pantsuit in a shade of purple so electric it’s probably visible from space, accessorized with a hat shaped vaguely like a cornucopia.
The moment we push open the doors, the smoky scent of barbecue engulfs us like a carnivorous cloud. My stomach lets out a growl so loud it momentarily drowns out the country music blaring from speakers the size of compact cars.
“Sweet mother of maple syrup,” Peggy moans, inhaling deeply. “I think I just found my new cologne.”
The interior of Sparky’s looks like what would happen if a lumberjack won the lottery and decided to open a restaurant. The floors, walls, halls, and furniture are all dark mahogany greased to a shine that makes me question whether the woodor the accumulated barbecue sauce is responsible for the glossy coat.
The extra-large main room features picnic tables arranged around a central area where the main attraction commands attention. And that main attraction just so happens to be a mechanical bull.
Not just any mechanical bull. A mechanical bull dressed up to look like aturkey, complete with a wattle that flops with each violent twist. And riding this gobbling monstrosity is a man in a cowboy hat whose face suggests he’s regretting everything that led him to this moment.
The place is packed, and the noise level hovers somewhere between a rock concert and a jet engine, with spontaneous line dancing breaking out in the aisles between tables.
Fall decorations assault the senses from every direction—corn stalks bound with orange ribbons flank the doors, miniature pumpkins serve as centerpieces, and what appears to be a stuffed turkey wearing a Sparky’s T-shirt presides over the bar like a fine feathered mascot.
“This”—Bunny declares while waving a hand around at the place—“is exactly what I need after the week I’ve had.”
The turkey rider finally loses his battle with centrifugal force, flying off in a spectacular dismount that looks like it will keep some lucky chiropractor’s children in college for years. With each twist and hairpin turn the crowd goes wild, and I can practically hear the poor guy’s vertebrae snapping just an octave above the hooting and hollering.
Peggy takes one look at the mechanical bull and stands a little straighter. “Oh hon, sign me up!”
“The only thing you’ll be signing is your own death certificate,” Clarabelle retorts. “The Grim Reaper is probably warming up in the parking lot right now, doing stretches and checking your name off his to-do list.”
“Please,” Peggy scoffs. “Death has been trying to catch me for twenty years. The old boy is out of breath, and I’m just hitting my stride.”
“I’m not riding anything that can’t buy me a condo complex,” Bunny announces, scanning the room with the eye of someone evaluating both the menu and the marriage potential of every man present. Well, maybe not marriage—a one-night stand is probably more likely.
A piercing whistle cuts through the din—not from Bunny, but clearly directed at her. We turn to see a silver-haired man waving from a table on the far side of the room, who just so happens to have a front-row seat to the mechanical mayhem at hand.
“Oliver,” Bunny calls back, waving with enough enthusiasm to qualify as cardio.
We weave through the crowd, dodging servers carrying trays piled impossibly high with meat and the occasional impromptu two-step breaking out in the aisles. By the time we reach Oliver’s table, I feel as if I’ve completed an obstacle course designed by an architect who clearly hates personal space and maybe loves chaos.
