I know V means well, I know she does love me, and I’m sure somewhere deep down she believes what she’s saying, but her words bounce off me like pebbles flung at a large stone. “I’m sorry, V, but this is just something I gotta figure out first.”
I get up and toss out the stale popcorn, trying to will myself back into a state of calm, one where the turmoil inside me is replaced by that blank, methodical questioning of how I got here and where I actually want to go next. With it, the tightness unwinds, and while I haven’t decided my future, I’ve at least decided my next move.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sure we can find a place that makes a decent Manhattan somewhere nearby. No reason not to start drinking now.”
V gives a slight chuckle, as if slipping her old mask of dominance back on, and stands to join me, Gabby’s clothes in hand. “It’s gonna be overpriced as shit.”
“Yeah, but I don’t wanna wander too far, you know.” I gesture to the clothes.
“Fair enough.”
Chapter four
Bar Rescue
Despite our many efforts and long wait, Gabby never showed. Not at the park, not at the bars near the park, nothing. She knows how to find us, can practically smell V on the air in that haunting way all ghouls can, so if she’s not here, it’s by choice. To make matters worse, not only were all the bars too expensive, but not a single one could make a Manhattan to save their lives. And they needed to, by the way, both V and I wanted to rip into each snooty bartender as we drunkenly tried to stitch my soul back together.
“Seriously, how hard is it to make a Manhattan?” I mutter as we pull off the interstate. “2 oz Rye Whiskey, 1 oz Sweet Vermouth, few dashes of Angostura Bitters, and a maraschino cherry!”
“Who does an orange twist?” V says, shaking her head. “I know it’s like your one fruit, but give it a rest.”
We pull up to the motel, late, and get out, me nursing a headache while V clings to Gabby’s clothes. I fetch the key card from my pocket, and the first thing we see when we walk in is Gabby bawling her eyes out on the edge of one of the two full-sized beds.
She runs through me, her ghastly naked form sending shivers down my spine before grasping V in a corporeal hug. “V! I’m so sorry for how I stormed off! I didn’t mean it! I know how hard it is for you to do stuff like this.”
V shoots me a concerned look paired with a shirk toward the door, the universal sign of “Get out of here before things get messy.”
I give a knowing nod and point to my phone, gesturing to text once it’s safe to come back. Once I am outside, reality settles in again that this was supposed to bemyvacation, and somehow, I am the third wheel again. I think to turn around and at least protest the state of things, but the sudden change in tone from inside makes me worried I’m about to either walk in on a fist fight or something more explicit. Well, it’s hot and humid, but not the worst night for a walk.
I stroll down the side street, past a gas station, walking over grass and curbs because, of course, there are no sidewalks. Why would anyone want sidewalks? I turn another corner, and the first thing to get my attention is a neon sign for theShot Glass.
My mind wanders back to last night, to Manny, to the way he hit on me before flirting with those bimbos, and suddenly that tightness is back. I think about today, about how I just spent an evening with V bar hopping, yelling how I’m not going to be pushed around and taken for granted anymore. And the longer I look at the sign, the more a sly smile creeps across my face.
I check my phone and still no messages. Why should she and Gabby get to have all the fun? My tipsy mind hatches a new idea, maybe it’s time I made some fun of my own. Besides, it’s not like he could make a worse Manhattan than the ones I just had.
I march toward theShot Glasslike I’m on a war path, my target working just inside. The moment I step through the doors, I exude confidence. If I’m not the woman I want to be, then I might as well act like her until she finally manifests.
My eyes scan the bar, and as if on cue, there’s Manny, tight shirt, big muscles, and all. It takes him a moment, but the second his eyes catch me, they stay glued to me like there’s no one else in the room. Clearly, my act is working.
I saunter up to the bar and take a seat, doing my best to look unimpressed as he finishes someone else's order. As he walks towards me, I collect a drink menu from the small stand, pretending to look it over.
“Hey, can I get you anything?” Manny’s words sound cordial, but I catch the faintest tinge of nervousness underneath. Still, I ignore him, like he’s just scenery.
A finger appears at the top of my menu, pulling it down so my eyes meet his. “Franky, right? Can I get you anything?”
“A Manhattan, two cherries,” I say in a smooth voice. “And pour it yourself. None of your other bartenders need to touch it.”
There's a pointed command in my request, a subtle test, and the moment he nods and turns around to make the drink, I exhale a deep rasping breath, collapsing under the weight of my performance. It’s about here that the last of my tipsy courage finally runs out, sobering me to just how dumb an idea this was. I even feel stupid for the way I said it; there aren’t even any other bartenders here to make the drink. I’m clearly not cut out for this femme fatale stuff.
To his credit, Manny makes the cocktail with practiced movements, knowing where everything is without looking. I’m mesmerized to the point I almost forget to assume my stony facade when he turns around to deliver me my drink.
He sets it on a cocktail napkin, sliding it toward me, and as he does, I brush my fingers against his so that he lingers in my grasp. “So tell me, Manny... what did you do last night after your admirers went home?”
I hold his gaze, a challenge sparkling in my eyes, the heat of that awful embarrassment from last night burning out in an attempt to show I’m not some passing flirtation. Manny stares back, his deep brown eyes looking dumbfounded. At first, all he can manage is a slow blink until finally he finds his words. “What admirers?”
His face twists into a look of confusion, and then heat floods my face as I realize I overplayed my hand. “You know, those girls.”
“The bimbos?” He practically laughs the words at me. “Oh god, no, I was trying to get a bigger tip.”
