Carried Away

Then he walks out the back door without saying goodbye while I stare after him.

“How’s the faucet?” Nan asks.

I turn it on, and a steady stream of water flows out. “Fixed.”

Chapter 10

“Finally! I was beginning to wonder if had to come drag you out,” Gina says as soon I push through the stack of bodies to reach the bar where she’s standing behind.

Queen is lit. I can barely breathe in here it’s so packed, and this place has a high exposed ceiling.

“Yeah, I know,” I mutter sheepishly. “Sorry it took so long for me to put this on.” I open my (Jackie’s) leather jacket and flash her my vintage Superman T-shirt beneath.

“You––” she says, pointing to a twenty something hipster with blond dreads. “––out of that barstool. This is the VIP section by order of the owner.”

Hipster kid makes a face. “Fuck that, I spend money here. Lemme talk to him.”

Not the answer Gina was looking for. One well-groomed eyebrow twitches up.

“Hey, crystal deodorant. You’re looking at her. So get up, or I’ll have Dana escort you out.” She hooks a thumb at the dude at the front door. Dana happens to be a seven foot Samoan. Sensing the attention, he dips his chin at us. One glance at Dana and the hipster kid slides off the stool.

“Haha. That has to be the most satisfying.”

“The mostest,” she echoes.

If you had any idea how many times we were bullied to either move over, or move altogether off the bleachers at football games back in high school you would understand.

Grabbing a glass from a stack behind her, she lifts it. “What’s your poison?”

“I don’t really have one so you decide. Nothing too sweet or strong though. I’m walking home.”

Gina gets busy mixing ingredients, smashing mint, and pouring the contents of the shaker in a tumbler. I take a sip and smile. Just perfect.

“Mojito, but with my own little twist. Raspberry infusion.”

“Deeeelicious.”

She leans her elbows on the bar, a big toothy smile on her face. “Can you believe this is us?”

“Speak for yourself. And yes, I can believe this is you. You were never one to back down. Me, on the other hand…”

“Everyone can’t be a fighter. You’re strong in your own way…what you did took some guts.”

“Or sheer stupidity.” I shrug, sucking down my drink. “May I have another please?”

“You sure? That went down a little quickly.”

“You’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t.” Snapshots of all the things that have taken a turn for the worse the last few months flips through my mind. “Maybe I should.”

Two hours later…

“I dunno. I dunno. Maybe it was for the best. He was a lousy kisser, know what I mean?” I can hear myself, and yet I don’t seem to be in charge of my mouth. “Like swallowin’ a chuncka raw tuna. Like bad sushi.”

“He sounds wonderful,” Gina deadpans.

“I should get going.”

“Tough love?”

“Shoot.”

“You’re the biggest lightweight. Those mojitos weren’t strong at all.”

“Not a drinker. Shouda told you that.”

Gina slides a glass of water in front of me. “Drink up and I’ll drive you home.”

“No…no, no. I’ll call my dad to come get me. Gene missed out on all that good stuff when I was in high school. He’s got a lot of catching up to do.”

I take out my phone, hold it up, and hit my dad’s cell icon.

“Hello? Carrie?”

Why does he sound winded? I shove the strange thought aside because somewhere in the recesses of my mind I know that I am mildly inebriated and shouldn’t attempt to think right now.

“Why do you sound winded, Dad? Never mind. Can you pick me up? I’m at Gina’s––’scuse me––Regina’s bar. It’s beautiful and it’s called Queen. Cause she’s a beautiful queen…”

Chuckling, Gina helps the bar back clear the counter of empty bottles and glasses.

“I’m…” Dad exhales. “Yeah, okay. Give me a few minutes.”

“Everything alright?” she says, reading the puzzled look on her face.

I shake off the strange feeling. Now is not the time to play investigative reporter. “Yeah…he should be here soon.”

Ten minutes later my investigative alarm starts ringing when I see Jake walk in the door, scan the room, and make a beeline for me.

“Hello, stud muffin,” I hear coming from my long lost friend. “Damn, he’s fine.”

“Not my type,” I hear myself retort. Which of course is a bald-faced lie. Whether he’s my type of not doesn’t mean jack. The inconvenient truth is that I am one hundred percent attracted to a man I can barely tolerant, and who can tolerate me even less.

“Smoking hot and built like a brick shit house isn’t your type?”

“Not this time. Also, he’s an insufferable stick in the mud.”

“So you know him well?”

“Not at all.”

Which is mostly the truth. Turner is close to impossible to pin down. One minutes he’s gazing at me like he wants to discover every single one of my secrets, and the next he wants to shove in a box under the bed.