“A cosmo.”
And he turns, reaching for the bottle of vodka behind him. I pull the chair out beside Janine, and she looks over at me.
She nods. "Uh-huh. Noticed this time you didn't say you don't drink." She laughs. "Told you that bastard'll drive you to the bottle."
The man places a napkin down, dumps a little salt on it, then places the martini glass in front of me, the dark red liquid threatening to spill over the edge.
I pick up the glass and chug it then place it on the counter. "I'll take another one. Extra shot, please."
The barkeep nods, and Janine whacks me on the back. "Attagirl."
For an hour, the conversation drifts back and forth from EA to Janine's string of ex-husbands, and I lose count of the drinks I've had. But my head is swimming, and my body is warm with this blissful fog of "I don't give a shit about anything." I kind of like this feeling. Maybe too much.
"And that’s why I divorced husband number three," she says, arching a brow. Janine hops off the stool. "I'm going to the ladies’ room. Order me one more, then we need to get a taxi or something because I definitely can't be weaving my way up that fucking mountain. And neither can you."
She stumbles off to the restroom. I dig my cell from my purse, but instead of calling a cab, I dial Jax's number, and now I have the phone pressed to my ear, my heart drumming into my throat with each ring. I debate hanging up and convincing myself he'll only hurt me. He’ll be that guy who fucks me and leaves me, that guy who yells at me in the parking lot. Any of the bastards I sat and watched an hour ago.
But the second I hear his voice come over the line, instead of panicking and hanging up, instead of stumbling over my words, I say, "I want to see you."
He takes a moment, swallowing hard. "I've been waiting to hear you say that. McClintock's off South Street? Fifteen minutes?"
And… shit. "Uh, yep. Sounds good. Sure…"
"And there's that sure again," he says with a laugh. "Fifteen minutes it is then. Don't be late, or I'll arrest you."
"Yeah, um…” I fidget with the damp napkin beneath my drink. “Okay…" I don't know how to handle him. I want to laugh. I probably should laugh, but I suck at social cues. "I'll see you in a few."
I hang up and glance down at what I'm wearing in a complete panic. A Nirvana T-shirt, jeans, and Chuck Taylors. Fucking amazing.
I'm in such shock that I actually just initiated this that I barely notice Janine when she comes back. "Honey?" She grips my shoulder. "You okay? You look a little mortified."
"I, uh…" I glance up, swallowing as the panic really sets in. I grab my drink, down what little bit is left. "I just called Jax."
She beams as she motions for the bartender. "And?"
"I'm supposed to go meet him… shit, that's so rude. I'm sorry, Janine. I don't know what I was—"
"Oh, it's fine, sweetie. I'm just fine right here with my cosmos and…" She squints to read the name tag on the bartender's shirt. "Randall. Me and Randall will be just dandy, won't we?"
He ignores her and continues wiping down the counter.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"McClintock's or something like that."
"Oh, that's just a block over." Her eyes widen, and she claps. "Talk about fate." She grins as she brings her glass to her lips and takes a sip. "Go on now. I've got my phone. If it gets too late, I’ll take an Uber or"—a slight giggle bubbles from her lips—"go home with Randall."
Shaking my head, I grab my purse and head to the door, playing out a thousand scenarios of why I shouldn't go. I groan and push the door open, still in shock that I actually called him and agreed to meet him.
The entire ten-minute walk to the bar, I obsess over how I’ll mess this meeting with him up. The thought of having to talk to him, having to come up with conversation, nearly paralyzes me. I'm bound to say something dumb or awkward or just… random. And then he'll give me some weird look, and I'll get all nervous that he's wishing he'd never met me, wishing I were some normal girl. A normal girl… a fucking normal girl…
The bar's dark and fairly empty. I walk straight to the counter and take a seat, crossing my legs and immediately picking at my nails.
"Want a drink?" the old man behind the counter asks.
I hesitate. My head's already dizzy from the drinks I had at Applebee's, and although it is tempting, I decide maybe since this foggy feeling is what incited that phone call in the first place, I shouldn't have another one just yet. God knows what I'd end up saying then.
"Oh, no thanks," I say, forcing a nervous smile.
He shoots a confused look in my direction, shrugs, then walks off to the other end of the counter to serve another customer.
And I wait. And wait. And wait.
"You sure you don't want a drink? You look like you could use one." The bartender laughs.