stand in front of me with a toothpick hanging out of his mouth and a gray beard over his chin.
I look behind him to the menu drawn over a chalkboard paint wall. “Just a beer. Whatever’s—” cheapest, “—on tap.”
With a nod, he walks over to fill up a glass for me and then slides it over. I pass over a few of my precious last dollars and then claim the furthest booth in the corner, wearing my best Don’t Fucking Talk To Me face. It has a ninety percent success rate.
I’m going to sit here and nurse this beer until the last possible second.
I take my first sip, the froth sticking to my lips as I swallow it down. I swipe my hand across my mouth, and an involuntary sigh escapes me. Damn, that’s good. Ice cold and fresh, and for once, I’m drinking without Kaazu breathing down my neck. He only let us drink a handful of times with his permission, and everything besides that was me sneaking some from the leftovers after a show.
I relax back in the booth. For the first time since I ran away, I feel myself start to unwind, and I bask in that feeling. I’m tired of always being so goddamn tense.
The more I drink, the less I give a shit. After a half hour or so, all my fucks given are gone. I even take off the stupid purple scarf and toss it on the booth beside me, because so what if Rockhead’s goons find me? Fuck it. I’ll take all the assholes down. It won’t even be that hard if they’re all as slow as the other two.
By the time I’m half way through my glass, I’m feeling pretty damn good. Beer is awesome. There’s just one thing missing.
My mind wanders to the last time I had a beer. We were somewhere in Tulsa, performing for a small group of female-only vamps. They owned a high-end nightclub, and we performed on their stage. Afterward, they were so impressed with our performance that they opened a fresh keg for everyone to celebrate. Kaazu was charmed enough by the female in charge that he let us all imbibe.
Cliff and I took a spot in a booth much like this one, except instead of cracked plastic padding, those were smooth black leather. The two of us drank side by side under the low lighting, and it felt...normal. Like I was able to pretend that I was just there with him on Friday night after work for drinks. I lost my tension that night too. But I think it was more about the company than the drink.
Cliff is the embodiment of confidence. But not in the way you might expect. He’s not arrogant. He’s not cocky. But being around him fills you with this assurance that everything is fine. That you can get through whatever comes your way. Just being in his presence centered me. It made me feel something other than rage.
If he were here right now, he’d make sure I was making the most of every moment. That I wasn’t doubting myself. He’d urge me to forget about all the bullshit anxieties. Like he always told me, I’m not a psychic. I can’t tell the future, so why waste the present worrying about it?
So tonight, I’m going to take a page from Cliff’s book and say fuck it. I’ll face whatever comes my way, but until the next roadblock, I’m going to live. Not run, not fear, not worry, just be. Just for tonight.
I’ll do it for Cliff.
7
Jetta
There’s something to be said about dudes who want to get their dicks wet. They don’t let a girl go thirsty.
I thought I’d be spending the entire night with my hand around the same glass of beer, taking small sips of the yeasty, warm bubbles. Instead, I’m up five.
I get four more drinks from four different guys, and surprisingly, they don’t even seem to mind that I shoot them down afterward. They give me the drink and go back to their own corners, leaving me to enjoy it alone while I watch the tiny flatscreen playing a rerun of this afternoon’s sports game.
It’s kind of funny, actually. As soon as my glass is empty, another human comes up with a new one, like a really efficient supply and demand system. It’s not a bad way to pass the time.
I’m feeling good.
Real good.
Rockhead wants to try and fuck with me? Whatever. I’ll hand them their asses.