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I leave my backpack in my car, slide my cell into my pocket, and find my way to the bar down the street from Inked Hearts.
It's a dozen blocks from the aikido studio, but the walk feels good. Crisp, clear air, big silver moon, salty ocean breeze.
The pounding house music of the bar. It's packed for a weeknight.
"Vodka and orange juice, please." I slide onto a black stool. Take in the utilitarian decorations. It's like someone crossed a dive bar with an industrial music club. It's weird.
The bartender, a busty woman with long hair, nods. "Well or call?"
"Well." Tonight is a cheap vodka kind of night.
She scoops ice into a glass. Adds a heaping serving of vodka and plenty of orange juice and hands it over. "Close it out or keep it open?"
I hand her a twenty. "Make it two."
Her expression gets knowing. It's not quite understanding, but it's not judgmental either.
It's weird.
I ignore her. Take a long sip of my cocktail. It's not good booze. It burns my throat. Warms my chest. Sends my thoughts swimming.
I finish the thing in three long gulps.
Pound the glass on the bar.
It lands with a thud. It feels good. Purposeful.
Someone nods hello. A guy sitting on the other end of the bar. He's tall. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Business casual outfit. The kind of guy who likes tattooed bad girls.
He probably thinks I'm some kinky alt model.
I nod back anyway. Gia would tell me I'm jumping to conclusions. Maybe the guy likes my eyes. Or my smile. Or my haircut.
Maybe it has nothing to do with my combat boots and tattoos. Maybe he's as desperate for a distraction as I am.
He slides into the seat next to mine. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Right on cue, the bartender drops off my second orange juice and vodka.
I look up at the guy. He's cute. If things were different, if I was a normal girl with a body that responded to cute guys, I'd flirt back. Kiss him. Invite myself to his place.
The glass is cold against my fingers. Then against my lips. I take a long sip. Let the vodka warm me everywhere. "Sure." My face and chest flush. From the drink, not the attraction. But isn't this close enough?
He's here. He wants me. He's not my boss. He doesn't drive me out of my mind. He doesn't grab my heart and refuse to let go.
There's no risk in sleeping with him.
I can get in, come, get out. Dean style. No feelings. No strings. No attachment.
"Give me one second." I set my drink on the bar. Slide out of my stool. Slip between tables full of friends and lovers to make my way to the electronic jukebox.
A dollar per song. It's a crime. But right now, I'm willing to pay to set the mood.
I trade a five for a set. Pick my songs carefully.
Alive by Pearl Jam pours from the speakers as I make my way back to the bar.
But I'm not even thinking about the angsty themes of the song.
