hollis-partygirlFD-IN-EP (4 page)

“Brody,
I
have my wallet,” I tell him cheerfully. “I can get it this time.”

Oh Lord, if I thought he turned green when I mentioned the ninety-nine cents store, it was
nothing
compared to the look on his face now.

“Absolutely not.” He hits the blinker and quickly drives up the road, apparently deciding that side streets are better than freeways right now.

I fold my arms across my chest in exasperation. How did I know he was going to be
this
guy?

“It’s really not a big deal,” I try again.

“It’s our first real date,” he counters. “
I
invited you out, and
you
are not paying for anything.”

I blow out a long breath that makes one curl dance across my cheek. How do I proceed here without offending his ego and his pride? He takes another right, and I recognize the street and then realize how close we are to one of his clubs.

“Hey, isn’t The Directory around here somewhere? And come to think of it, Q7 isn’t that far away either.” Both of them are Barker-Ash properties, and if he is insistent on paying, surely he could put our dinner on his account or something.

“They are,” he says slowly, before pushing a hand through his hair again. “It’s just . . .”

He trails off, and I can’t tell if he’s going to finish or if he’ll spend the rest of the trip caught in whatever thought process he’s found himself in.

“It’s just . . .” I try to lead him to the end of the sentence.

He sighs loudly.

“It’s just, I go to those places a lot—I mean, I’ve gone to those places a lot. I really wanted to take you somewhere I’ve never—I mean—”

Oh, I get it.

Suddenly Michael complaining about Brody’s stipulations makes much more sense.

“Somewhere you’ve never taken another
date
before?” I ask carefully.

“Yes,” he says, before laughing quietly.

I can’t tell if he’s laughing at himself or the situation. But either way, I refuse to let male pride ruin my night.

“So you want to go to a specific place, and it can’t be one of your clubs, but I’m not allowed to pay, and you don’t have your wallet. Do I have that right?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes?” It sounded like a question, maybe because he was starting to realize how ridiculous this was becoming.

“OK. If you’re worried about your wallet being in unsafe hands—”

“No, it’s fine,” he says warily. “I can have Michael grab it on his way back home tonight.”

“All right then, this
isn’t a big deal
. You need to take a breath, stop trying to control everything—which is impossible, by the way—and let me pay.” I wave my black clutch at him. It’s filled with more than enough credit cards to get us through the night in one piece. “I want to hang out with you, and there are some really fun places around here, but you’re going to have to loosen up.”

He looks dubiously at my clutch then at me. Finally he nods.

“Speaking of which”—I point left so he can get into the turn lane—“I know the perfect spot to get our next drink.”

“You don’t want dinner first?” he asks, making the left turn.

“I do want dinner, but first I think you need to chill out.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him. “And I have an idea.”

“Why does that make me nervous?” he asks with a chuckle.

“Because you’re a very smart man.” I grin over at him. “Make a right up here.”

—

“We’re uh . . . slightly overdressed for this,” Brody yells over the sound of Bon Jovi wailing from a jukebox that is at least as old as I am.

I look down at my gorgeous dress and his ridiculously expensive outfit, and while I agree in my head, there’s no way I’m going along with anything he says right now. He needs to stop being so uptight about this whole thing.

“Nobody cares what you wear at St. Nick’s,” I yell back to him. “What can I get you?”

I belly up to the bar and wave at a bartender the size of a Prius.

Brody looks around the raucous bar with distaste. It’s filled with people from all walks of life and furniture from every decade. Neon signs fill up most of the walls, and half-broken Christmas lights hang from the ceiling. It’s a total hole-in-the-wall, but I’ve only ever had a great time here, and if he’d just embrace it, I know he would too.

“Brody!” I sing his name out. “What do you want?”

“Uh . . .” He eyes the alcohol options. “Stella, I guess.”

“Two Stellas, please,” I announce to the bartender and slap down my card—which is definitely
not
black, just regular old green and white—on the bar. The bartender takes my card and replaces it with two bottles of Stella. I nod when he asks if I want to keep it open. A couple nearby gets up to leave, and I quickly grab their barstools. Brody is preoccupied by the group of bikers across the room, but he finally takes the seat next to me.

“Let’s play ‘I’ve Never,’” I suggest to get his attention back.

His blue eyes sparkle with amusement.

“How does that work?” He takes a drink of his beer.

“We take turns saying things we’ve never done, and if the other person
has
done it, they have to take a drink of their beer.” I take a small sip of my own drink, waiting for his response.

“OK,” he says slowly, clearly not sure where this is going.

I pretend to think about my choice, but the truth is that I know exactly where I’m going with this.

“I’ve never . . . been out of the country,” I say with a smile.

“Really?”
he asks, totally shocked. “Not even Mexico—or Canada?”

Bless his heart. He really is so far removed from the reality that most people don’t have access to private jets and unlimited bank accounts.

I shake my head and tap his bottle with a pink nail. “Drink up, buddy.”

He takes a swig while he considers me for a moment.

“Your turn,” I remind him.

“Right, um, I’ve never . . . been skydiving.”

I smile and shake my head. “Sorry, I’ve never done that either. My turn! I’ve never been inside a private plane.”

Brody looks suspicious and starts to say something but takes another drink instead.

“I’ve never . . . been bungee jumping?” he tries.

“You’re kind of terrible at this game.” I laugh at him, shaking my head again. I’ve never been bungee jumping either. “I’ve never had more than a thousand dollars in my wallet at one time.” I eyeball his beer pointedly.

“Are you kidding me?”

I know he means the game I’m playing, but I purposefully misunderstand.

“When I had to give Max the deposit for the apartment, I got eight hundred dollars out of my bank account and I was sick as a dog, nervous that I was going to lose it or be robbed.” I take a sip of my beer while he laughs. “But no, that’s the most I’ve ever had at one time. I imagine you
have
had more than that, so that’s another drink for you, pal.”

He grins and takes another big drink. “I know what you’re doing,” he says, fighting a smile.

I am the picture of innocence.

“And what’s that?”

His eyebrow rises dubiously.

“Trying to get me drunk?”

“I suspect it would take more than a beer to do that, but it wasn’t my intention, no. I just want you to relax, and a silly drinking game seemed like the best option. It was either this or putting on “Roxanne” and drinking every time he says ‘
red light
.’” I shrug and take another sip. “But I didn’t have any quarters for the jukebox.”

He chuckles and finishes off the beer.

“Who says I’m not relaxed? I’m the picture of laid back. I’m the king of go with the flow. Come on, you’re lagging behind.” He points to my half-empty bottle. “What are we drinking next?”

“Go with the flow?” I ask incredulously.
“Oh really?”

“Absolutely. I’m up for anything.” He knocks the bar with his knuckles to emphasize his point.

An idea forms in my head.

I really shouldn’t.

I
should not
.

It’s a terrible idea.

“Anything?” I hear myself asking.

He looks me right in the eye, daring me to do I don’t know what—definitely not what I have in mind—but it’s too late, and the idea is too good. I worked at a bar throughout college, and I’ve seen this more than once. Admittedly it usually happens at one in the morning, and admittedly it’s usually done by drunken coeds, but it’s the exact kind of thing that will shake Brody up, and that’s what he needs. The bartender wanders over and looks at me expectantly.

“Another Stella?” he asks us.

I grin at Brody. “You feeling patriotic there, buddy?”

—

Brody looks down at the shots in front of us, then to the small candle the bartender so helpfully provided, then back at me.

“This is called a
what
?” he demands.

“A Statue of Liberty shot!” I answer happily. “You never did this in college?”

“No.” He shakes his head slowly. “Are you sure this is safe?”

I laugh and lean closer to the shots of sambuca in front of us.

“Not safe in the
exact
sense, no—” I start to explain.

“What other sense is there?” His exasperation makes the last word come out louder than the rest.

I choose to ignore the question.

“So what you do is—” I hold the first two fingers of my left hand up in the air. “You dip these fingers into the sambuca, then you put them into the flame to light the liquor on fire. Then you hold them up, do the shot, then put the fire out in your mouth.” I finish happily.

He eyes the bartender in annoyance.

“This is totally against code.” He sounds as snooty as ever. “I can’t believe they’d allow this in here.”

I ignore his tone.

“Not against my code,” I tell him with a happy shrug.

“Oh?” He takes a sip of his new beer. “And what code is that?”

“Bro-code,” I say, just to be ridiculous.

He chokes on his drink.

I nudge the shot towards him with my finger, and he looks at me like I’ve lost my everloving mind. It’s probably better to just show him, because we can debate this for hours and it won’t move him any closer to actually doing it. Without a moment of warning I hold the shot up, toast to Sandra, dip my fingers in the liquor, and glide them through the flame. Brody gasps, but I quickly slam back the shot that tastes disgustingly like black licorice and put the burning fingers out in my mouth. All around us people I didn’t know were paying attention cheer. I laugh at the horrified look on Brody’s face.

“That was ridiculous,” he scolds me.

“
That
was a
challenge
,” I fire back. “You’re not too afraid, are you?”

I raise my eyebrows in a dare.

Brody stares at me, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or horrified. Maybe both? Either way I know he can’t believe he’s found himself in this situation. Nothing like his normal dates, I’m sure.

“No, I’m not afraid. I’m just wondering—”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” I announce loudly.

Brody looks instantly mortified. I’m willing to bet the light in my eyes is something closer to maniacal glee.

“Please gather round,” I continue loudly, “as my friend Br—er,
Broseph
will set out to do his
first ever
Statue of Liberty shot!”

People have already been paying attention to us, so this only gives them official permission to watch. Several people scoot closer, and some of them shout out encouragement to him. If looks could kill, I’d be way dead right now. I laugh so hard my sides hurt.

“Come on, Broseph,” I say loud enough for the small crowd to hear. “Do it for America!”

People around us cheer.

Brody looks totally chagrined, but he’s also fighting that smile again. Plus he’s an adult; if he doesn’t actually want to do this, all he has to say is no. He looks down at the shot and the candle, then at the people around us. At that exact moment “Born in the USA” starts up on the jukebox, which makes our assembled crowd go crazy. I don’t know who starts the chant—OK, so maybe it’s me—but before I know it, a whole group is chanting with me.

Bro-seph! Bro-seph! Bro-seph!

Both Brody and I are laughing now.

“OK.” He chuckles.

And then, with Bruce singing about the heartland, Brody plunges his fingers into the shot glass, taking an extra long time to be sure that they’re totally covered with liquor.

He pulls them out, shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s doing, then dips them into the candle flame. As soon as he lifts them out, I’m cheering along with everyone else. He pounds the shot and then quickly lifts his flaming fingers to his mouth. Out of nowhere a huge guy, who’s clearly had one too many, stumbles into the crowd around us. Before I can react and stop him or help or scream or
something
, the crowd bumps into Brody, whose fingers are traveling up to be extinguished but slam into his chest instead. Then like something out of a horror movie, the front of Brody’s blue shirt catches on fire like dry grass. I scream and jump up to help at the same time that Brody’s eyes grow three times larger and he lunges for a glass of water on the bar and douses himself with it. His sudden lunge throws me off balance, and I try to adjust before I topple, but my shoes are new and I’m unused to their height. My ankle wobbles at the same time that my top half careens forward, and my eye slams directly into Brody’s right elbow.

“Good God!” Brody bellows as soon as my eye makes contact with his arm. He immediately turns to try to grab for me at the same time I grab my eye and try to regain my balance. Unfortunately for us, the ground is now wet with water, my shoes are unstable, and we’re both out of sorts. We go down like a pair of dominoes, and my head hits the dirty bar floor with a thunk.

In the few seconds it takes for both of us to get our bearings, I can hear Brody cursing up a storm. By the time he’s leaning over me checking me for injuries, I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe.

Broseph is
not
amused.

I bite my lip to try to get a hold of myself, but as soon as my eyes dart down to his beautiful blue shirt, I start laughing again. It’s soaking wet, covered with char marks, and has a good-sized hole in the shoulder where it burned through.