“I got it, thanks,” I said, giving him a placating little pat on the shoulder for reasons I couldn’t explain. I lowered down onto my towel.
“Okay, well.” He stared down at me for a moment before taking a step back. “How long are you here?”
“Just the weekend. I go back Monday morning.”
“Maybe I’ll see you around, then.”
I smiled and gave him an noncommittal nod, since politeness demanded it, but the chances were slim to none. Not only had we not exchanged names, but it was only Friday and this was my only furlough day. After this, I’d be chaining myself to conference tables and work events. After those, I’d be in bed. I’d made a rule after defacing the ex’s property—I would take a break from men, bars, and any fun that resulted in breaking my oath on the first two items on the list…
Two
“You come here often?”
So much for not strapping on a buzz and sidling up to the bar. I’d been sitting there for over an hour with only my slide printouts to mutter at. They weren’t becoming any clearer as the time passed. Since I didn’t think sobriety would change that fact, I figured it wasn’t necessary. If I was going down with the ship, I was going to party like a rock star the whole way. Besides, bars weren’t really the problem. It was men that were the problem. If I just stayed away from the opposite sex, I could make it out of this life rut in one piece, I had no doubt.
“I doubt people who live in Hawaii hang out in resort bars,” I said to the middle-aged man who was standing way too close. “And since most people don’t vacation year round, it’s doubtful that I come here often. Or was that rhetorical?”
“Uh oh. Bad day?” The stool next to me groaned. His butt kushed into the leather seat.
I sighed in an extremely aggressive sort of way. An obvious bad mood was the first line of defense against would-be pick-up artists.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked. I barely saw a finger edge into my line of sight, pointing at my half-empty glass.
“No, thanks. I don’t want you to think I’ll sleep with you.” Boldness was the second defensive technique I’d learned, and it usually did the trick.
“Whoa.” The stool creaked as he shifted. “Slow down, little lady. I’m not after anything at all. I saw a beautiful girl sitting here all by herself and figured she needed someone to make her smile.”
That sounded nice and all, but his suggestive lean and the soft stickiness of his voice made my skin crawl.
Luckily I was armed with Snark and Crazy. Usually those weapons used in tandem would chase even the most determined guys away.
“There are two women sitting at this bar,” I said in a strong, confident voice. It was my Creepy Man-deterrent voice. “One is a hot mess that is all out of fucks to give. She’s sunburnt in patches and surly as hell. The other is wearing a muumuu made out of something resembling a curtain. Both of us have our resting bitch faces on. Not even a saint would sidle over and try to turn these frowns upside down. So what is it—you looking to sell your testicles on the black market? Because I know a guy. He’d set you up, good and proper. Two hundred K, and that ain’t no bathtub full of ice, know what I mean, Vern?”
“What?”
“No, huh?” I drummed the bar as though I was thinking. “What about this—a big coupon pack. Eh? Who can say no to a big coupon pack? Big savings, tiny fee…”
He laughed in a weirdly intimate way that told me he wasn’t buying my crazy. A real drunk girl bloodhound, this guy. He took the nonsense as it came.
Dang. I had to pull out the big guns.
The bartender walked over with a blue uniform posing as a Hawaiian shirt. He gave the tick of his head that said, “What are you having?”
“I’ll have a daiquiri. And get my friend here a—”
“No.” I slashed the air with my hand. “Nada.”
His voice softened. He leaned a little further over the bar. “Just get her—”
“Nope.” I connected eyes with the bartender and said seriously, “I’ll continue to get my own.”
“You want one right now?” the bartender asked, undaunted.
“No, thanks.”
He nodded and walked down the bar to get the guy’s drink.
“Okay, okay,” the guy said. “Don’t want a drink. I can take a hint.”
“Clearly not.”
“So what are you here for?”
“I’m training to be a monk of the silent variety, constantly fighting against my natural impulse to answer annoying questions.”
“Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“A journalist type, huh? Asking the hard-hitting questions, I see.” I sucked my margarita through the straw. “Well, I’m all about the business. Minding my own mostly…” To accent the terrible pun, I turned to him with a scowl-smile—a terrifying version of the real thing, I was sure.