“Brussels sprouts, right?” Be says with an obnoxious grin.
“Exactly.”
Up on the stage, the lead singer taps the mic. “Everybody shut the fuck up.” Then he chuckles. The chatter dials down. “Good…now listen up. We’re all here tonight to honor a legend.” The crowd explodes into whistles and cheers. “Rowdy, wherever you are––” The singer points to the ceiling, eyes skyward. “This one’s for you.”
The music starts up. The guitarist strums a melancholy tune. I recognize the song almost immediately because it was one of my grandfather’s favorites, Ain’t No Grave by Johnny Cash. The lead singer is good, really good, weaving a magic spell with his distinctly raspy voice that adds an original touch to the cover. Everyone goes completely silent in awe of his skill.
Not everyone is lost in the music, however. Noah’s scrutiny is hot enough to slap some color on my cheeks. I ignore him as long as I can, which to be honest is not very long at all. Our eyes meet again. This time he’s standing next to the woman with the tattoos I’ve seen come and go from his house.
His girlfriend, I’m assuming. She’s living in his house so she must be. I guess she works for him too. Super uncool but whatever. Add unprofessional to the long list of his fine attributes.
She pats his chest and it suddenly feels like the air in my lungs is being held hostage. Bebe grabs my arm and we scoot into a booth recently vacated by a bunch of OU students. A cocktail waitress, young and pretty, wipes the table down and asks us what we want to drink.
My eyes return to Noah and find him talking to his girlfriend. I see the look on his face, the absolute focus with which he watches her, and my mood executes a perfect swan dive into the burning pits of hell. Because I know that look. For years I owned that look. It’s the same way he used to look at me.
“Tequila,” I bark, slapping my palm on the wood table. I need to drown out every bad thought I’m having and I’m willing to do whatever it takes. “We’ll start with two shots of your best dang tequila and two Dos Equis, please.”
“How about Patron?” the waitress suggests with a conspiratorial smile.
“Is it tequila?”
“Yep.” Her expression says she’s happy to play accomplice to this plan which has major disaster scribbled all over it.
“Then bring us the Patron.”
My sister looks confused. “You don’t drink, Mare. And you definitely don’t drink tequila.”
She’s right, but all bets are off tonight. Figures that the one night I want to throw caution to the wind would be the night Bebe grabs her pearls.
“I do tonight.”
* * *
Noah
“Wooohoooo. Fis is my jaaaam! They’re playin’ my jam, Beebs!!”
Loud enough to be heard over the live music, Maren’s shout reaches me at the bar. A deep chuckle comes from my right. My gaze slides there. Standing behind the bar, Knox presses his lips together, curtailing the full-blown laughter I see wanting to come out of him.
“Laugh it up, dickhead.”
He refills my glass with club soda and slides it down to me. “That her?” he inquires a bit too innocently.
I drag a hand over my beard and sigh. “That’s her.”
“I can see the appeal.” Knox hides a smirk down and away as he wipes the copper-topped bar.
“No, you can’t, motherfucker, and don’t even try.”
This time he outright laughs. “You gonna go get her off the table or should I?”
Knox looks like one mean sonovabitch, one of the reasons he always works the busiest nights. At six-seven, tats up his neck, and piercings everywhere no one’s gonna start trouble with him behind the bar. He has plenty of experience peeling drunk women off bars and tabletops around here. I draw the line at having him clean up my personal messes though.
Maren doesn’t even drink. I don’t want to believe things have changed that much. That would imply I really don’t know her anymore. That we are the strangers we once vowed never to become.
I held off, thinking if I went over there she was going to pick the fight I know she’s spoiling to have. I watched her throw back four shots telling myself she’s gonna stop any minute now. That was three hours go. Big fucking mistake. Looks like I’m full of them lately. Especially when it comes to the woman standing on the table.
I’ve written about a million versions in my head of how it would go when she finally came back, and none of them looked even remotely like this. Back at the house, I saw the indifference on her face, telling me she wouldn’t waste her time on a loser like me and something within me snapped.
That something took over my mouth and before I knew what I was doing, I was saying shit just to get a rise out of her ’cause one thing is for damn sure, I’d rather endure her wrath than have her look at me like I don’t rate higher than a goddamn weevil.