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Barrett coughed. “Every time you and I hang out I wake up with rot gut.”
I washed the citrus taste down with a swig of beer. “I guess that’s our thing.”
He laughed and clanked his mug to mine. “The drunken duo.”
Forty minutes and several shots later, we were at the microphone belting out the lyrics and yodeling to the Cranberries’ Zombie. No one clapped when we finished. Nor did anyone ask for an encore. Luckily, we were feeling generous so they didn’t have to.
Barrett told Darnell—the guy running the karaoke—to play another one.
As soon as I recognized the beat I cheered, “Ohhhh shit!” My hands were over my head as I swayed to the background shoops and shut my eyes, channeling my inner Salt-N-Pepa. No lyrics were needed for this one.
I looked up at Barrett and asked, “How you doing, baby?”
He frowned, not knowing Shoop as well as I obviously did. “Huh?”
“No, not you.” I pushed him out of the way and grabbed the guy at the bar. “The bow-legged one.”
The man grinned the moment I started dancing in his space.
“What's your name?” I sang, knowing the lyrics by heart.
“Brian,” he shouted.
This wasn’t about Brian. This was about shooping. I’d gone to the place of no return and there was nothing to do but sing the song to its entirety, so off I went. “Damn, baby, that sounds sexy.”
“Uh, Rayne.” Barrett tried to pull me away, but I was too far gone. “Sorry, man, she’s had a long night.”
I spun and shouted into the mic just as the beat picked up. “Here I go!”
Salt-N-Pepa’s timeless lyrics belted from my long-term memory with precision borne of alcohol and accuracy no one sober would trust. But to my ears, I sounded Grammy-fucking-tastic.
As I danced around the bar, sticking the microphone in the face of any woman over thirty, they jumped in. Our rap skills were magically delicious. My moves were on fire. My voice was a derailed locomotive grinding down the tracks with the melodic grace of an asthmatic smoker. But everyone loved it. Or at least I loved it enough not to care if others were enjoying the show.
After that, I annihilated Rappers Delight. Then Barrett performed an earth-shattering rendition of Benny and the Jets while I danced backup.
We kicked an entire bottle of Cuervo and dominated the mic, jumping from hip-hop to rock, segueing into some old-school gangster rap then dropping in a Barbara Streisand and Neil Diamond duet to show off our range. It was thirsty work, but we literally sang until the bar closed.
“Where do we pick up our royalty check for tonight’s show?” I snorted at my own joke, stumbling into Barrett.
He steadied me, but he was also having a hard time standing. “We should at least get a free drink.”
I reached for the microphone only it wasn’t there. Darnell was packing up the last of his equipment and our audience was long gone.
“Huh.” I looked around. “I think it’s time to boot-scoot-and-boogie on out of here. Where’s my purse?”
Barrett searched the shadows of the stools. “What did it look like?”
“White. Small.” I searched my pockets for my phone only to remember I was wearing a dress. “Uh-oh.”
“What-oh?”
“I think I left my stuff in the cab.”
“Fuck.” Barrett paid the bartender, but his counting was sloppy and I was pretty sure he tipped more than two hundred percent.
We wandered outside and I shivered. “D’ju have a coat?”
Barrett paused then frowned.
