“Nope. Didn’t know I needed one,” I responded lightly.
The hostess gave me a once over, barely containing her disgust, before her professional grin curled up her lips. “Tables are full, there’s an hour wait for the bar seating.”
I instantly disliked her. “No worries, suga, I’ll stand.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but a cheer from the bar summoned me. I sauntered over, engaging with the group of suits and the ladies in pencil skirts or pressed pants. “Bet you the Braves load the bases with that pinch hitter.”
That sparked an immediate conversation. A cold beer was in my hands three minutes later thanks to the grey suit with slicked-back blond hair.
Introducing myself as Maggie—not a nickname I loved, but it technically wasn’t a lie—I worked the group, hustling a second round from them before my stomach growled in protest. I wasn’t above singing for my supper. There was a kind of romantic justice working these corporate assholes over, making them spend their hard-earned pennies on my behalf.
The trick was to not get too close and slip to another group before any one individual took a particular interest in me.
It had to be the second beer that was making my skin prickle. I accepted a vacated seat at a table of frat boys and sank into the thick, solid oak chair. Until I got some food in my belly, I was going to have to go slow on this round.
I chatted aimlessly, smiled and laughed when necessary. Each face was like the next. Worthless hooligans, all of them. They had no idea I was using them for the order of breadsticks and golden butter. But if they did, I doubted they would mind.
The band shifted to a slower, more haunted melody. There was still an energetic undercurrent to the song, but the tones were more somber.
I rubbed the back of my neck, using the roar after a failed pitch to look around. Shadows haunted the back row of booths, nearly black by the sharp glow of the swinging kitchen door. A rush of something shot through me. Ifeltit. There was something there.
Careful not to seem too interested, I took my time moving to another group, a bachelorette party who’d flown into the room and took up residence at the bar. They no doubt had a reservation.
“Let’s see the ring,” I gushed.
The bride-to-be extended a soft, slim hand. “He picked it out himself!”
“Well, I’ll be.” I smiled. “Gorgeous, suga, just gorgeous! Like you.”
She blushed, which wasn’t hard since her cheeks were flushed from earlier rounds of bar hopping.
“I mean it, you’re pretty as a peach.” I let my drawl thicken and immediately folded into their group.
This time, more appetizers and a few entrees were ordered. They wanted to know where I was from with thatcuteaccent.
“An itty, bitty town south of Atlanta,” I chirped.
“What brought you here?” one of the bridesmaids asked.
“Work!” I snagged some freshly arrived potato skins, burning my tongue in the process.
A jig started up and the girls hollered like a bunch of stray cats. I was sipping a coke at this point but accepted the shots of Jameson before being drug onto the dance floor. Suddenly we were dancing as if we were long lost friends.
The city didn’t seem too bad right about now.
By the time my thighs ached, my head buzzed, and my belly was full, the group was arranging an Uber to go to the next stop. The offer to join them was tempting, but I was ready to catch the bus back to the Chestnut Hill neighborhood.
“For you.” The bartender handed me a glass of what I assumed was whiskey and some kind of cola.
I frowned at it. “Thanks?”
The bartender, Pat, jerked his chin to the shadowed booths. “From a guy back there.”
A shiver ripped down my spine.
I was good and happy. There was no way in hell I was drinking anymore tonight, especially if it was purposefully sent. I knew how to walk the line between fun and stupid, and accepting drinks from strangers like this was definitely veering off that thin mark in the sand.
Without looking to the booths, I sidled up to the bride—whatever her name was, it didn’t matter—and offered her the coke. “One more, and blessings on your marriage!”
