"Oh yeah," Everett plays along. "I bettttt I can get ya to say the word beer." As their sobriety level declines, the crowd grows heavier around us, making it harder to hear everything being said.
"You're on," she shouts. Oh good, he's drunk too. I told him this wasn't about having drinks tonight, but of course he'd forget I said that since it was a whole twelve hours ago.
I clear my throat to get their attention and Everett is quicker to meet my stare than Harley is, so I narrow my right eye a bit, hinting at him to stop, but he laughs. The I've had one too many beers laugh.
"How about ... instead of that game, we get to know each other a little more," I propose. Harley twists her body back toward the center of the table, facing me on the opposite side.
She smiles widely, rests her elbows on the table and lets her chin fall to her fists. "Sure, Axel, what would you like to know about me?" Harley takes her second half-filled glass of beer and pulls in a hearty swig, or two ... three, before setting the glass back down and replacing her chin on her fists.
I'd love to just come right out with it and ask her what her real name is, but patience is something I've learned to have while dealing with people who have information I need. "How long have you lived in Boston?" I'll start easy, knowing her answer won't help me much.
"Hmmm," she laments, bobbing her head from side to side in thought. "Five years-ish." She glances up toward the ceiling as she’s second-guessing herself and counts silently. "Yeah, five. I grew up in Michigan, then came here for school and stayed." No help.
"Where did you go to school?" I ask her.
"Aren't these questions you should have asked while interviewing me instead of forcing me to watch a drug-addict slice her wrists?"
Shit. Not drunk enough.
Everett, the red-headed bastard with his drunken matching skin color, takes another swig of his beer while blatantly trying to hold back a smirk by covering his face like a little girl. He’s ganging up on me with Harley, of all people, and I’m about to beat the shit out of him. This is obviously not going to work.
As the waitress passes, I call her over with a wave of my hand. "Excuse me, could I bother you for a glass of water?"
"Sure thing, doll."
Everett and Harley don’t even notice the waitress at our table because they’re so caught up in their conversation, which has something to do with the meaning of colors and the difference between the way men and women see them. I would do just about anything to drown my thoughts out with booze right now, but one of us has to actually work here. The waitress is quick to return with the water, and I hand it over to Harley. "Drink this."
"What?" she asks, laughing as if I just told a joke. "Is that—it's not vodka, so did you just order me a water?"
"Yeah, Harley, it's a water. I think you need it," I tell her.
"You know what I need?" she asks, pushing the glass of water back toward me. "I neeeedd to use the resssroom before the line gets any longer."
I keep my eye on Harley the whole time she's standing in line outside of the women's room, watching the big strong wall hold her up. It appears that she's one of those girls who drink too much while sitting down and doesn't know she's plastered until standing up.
During the time she's waiting for the bathroom, another crowd pours in, making it clear the dinner portion of the evening is over, and the drunken loons are here to steal the spotlight.
Once the bar fills up, it never takes long before the tables are cleared and people begin dancing, sucking face, and downing shots. The level of sobriety goes from ten to zero as quickly as it takes a light switch to be flipped.
By the time Harley is able to claim a spot in the bathroom, the crowd has spilled into the section we’re in, filling up every free inch. After a couple of minutes, I stand from the table, worried I won’t see her when she comes back out. Except, standing doesn’t help because I can’t see a damn thing over by the bathroom doors now anyway.
"What are you doing?" Everett asks while pouring himself another glass.
"Waiting for Harley to get out of the bathroom," I tell him.
"Dude, she left the bathroom like three minutes ago. She went over to the bar. Way to go, Inspector Gadget."
"Shit. Why didn’t you say something?" I ask him.
He just laughs, reminding me of how useless he is right now. "Because you’re the boss," he says, in a cartoon voice while shaking his head at me.
Casually, I make my way over to the bar, spotting Harley quicker than I thought I would. She’s chatting with some guy, and just as I move into hearing range, she shouts, "Thank you!" over the music to the hipster with leggings and thick, black-rimmed glasses.
"Red-Headed Slut," the hipster shouts in return, handing Harley a shot glass.
"Excuse me?" Harley snaps back, ready to throw the shot back into the guy's face. "I don't have red hair! What the hell?"
The guy laughs and points to the shot. "That's the name of the shot."
"Oh!" she giggles, taking the shot with one swig. "That's a good red-headed slut!"
That's about enough of that. I clamp my hand around her arm and pull her away from the booze-feeding turd. "You know you’ve got work to do tomorrow, right?" I mutter against her ear.
"Having fun?" she responds with. "Lighten up. Having fun isn’t all that bad."
I laugh out of irritation, and maybe to prove she isn’t getting on my nerves. "Do you always take shots from random men at a bar? How did you even survive college?" I ask.
She shrugs me off, clearly not giving a shit about what I think of her. "I'm alive, aren't I?"
I swing her around to face me. "Come on, Isabelle," I say. The name slips from my mouth, and I immediately try to cover it up, but it's clear by the look on her face, she heard it loud and clear. "Harley, look, I need you to be smart if you're going to work with us."
"Did you just call me Isabelle?" she asks.
"My mistake, you just look like a woman I once knew," I tell her. She's looking directly into my eyes as I try to cover up my mistake, and her burning stare makes my chest constrict.
"My name is Harley," she tells me. "I've managed to remember your name, and I'd appreciate the same respect from you."
"I said, I made a mistake," I tell her pointedly, lowering my head to bring my face closer to hers. "People make mistakes."
"I need another drink," she tells me as she takes a step away.
"Well, it looks like that guy is over you. He’s on to the next chick, so I guess you missed your opportunity there." I smile, feeling one eye squint from frustration.
It doesn't take long for me to realize we're smack in the middle of a pop-up dance party, being shoved in every direction as a shitty song blares through the bar's ceiling speakers.
"You know, you're really uptight," she tells me. "You look like you should be some kind of secret service agent. I mean, you even look like you’re uncomfortable in casual clothes. Plus, have you not noticed that every woman in this bar has been ogling you since you walked in? Maybe if you got laid or something, you'd loosen up a little."
I want to look around to call her bluff, but I don't pay attention to the shit she's talking about. I get what I need when I need it, and it isn't going to be from some skank at this bar. If she knew why I’m uptight, she may not be busting a move on the dance floor right now. "Oh yeah? Maybe I should," I respond to her analysis, possibly a few seconds later than I should have.