Santos’ face splits into a wide, toothy smile. “Good man. Around eight? The Bleachers?”
“The Bleachers?”
“Yeah, it’s a sports bar downtown. They have Happy Hour every Friday from six to ten.” Santos waggles his eyebrows.
“Okay. Sounds good.” I need to make an effort, and I guess it starts tonight with Santos and Hua Jing.
The bar is buzzing when I enter, and I’m seconds away from turning on my heel and getting the hell out of here. I almost had a panic attack earlier when I was getting ready. I think I changed my clothes at least three times and ended up with a simple pale pink T-shirt and some loose-fitted black jeans. The crowd and loud music surround me, and that feeling of being suffocated returns. I try not to imagine everyone staring. Why would they even care about me? They’re engulfed in their own lives. I inhale deeply, then make my way toward the back of the bar.
Santos shot me a text a few minutes ago that they got a table. When I find him, he’s with a group of eight people, shots and beers lined up on the table in front of them.
“Jett, my man!” Santos yells, holding up his fist for me to bump. “You came!”
“Yeah.” I shrug, then bump his fist as I take in the group of people. A beautiful dark-haired woman in a pink halter top and huge gold hoops sits next to Santos, sipping an orange drink.
“This is my baby mama, Layla. Baby, this is Jett.” Santos waves his hand between us.
“Hi Jett. Nice to meet you.” She holds out her hand, and I grab it.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“Take a seat, man. Yo, Chris, move on over for my man Jett.” A redhead with glasses moves over on the bench. My stomach drops when I recognize him from the Sports Medicine Department.I thought it was just going to be Santos, Hua Jing, and me. The thought of Wes possibly being here makes me feel nauseous. He’s fucking everywhere. I scoot past Santos and Layla, then drop down next to Chris. He tips his chin at me, his eyes swimming with intoxication.
“Wassup,” he slurs, then lifts a glass of beer to his lips.
“Hi,” I say flatly.
Santos points at a pitcher of beer in the middle of the table. “Help yourself, man.” Then he holds up a bright-blue shot. “Want aKamikaze?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I’ll stick with the beer.”
“Sure.” Santos winks, then slams back the shot.
“Oh my fucking gawd!” Hua Jing, who just showed up, squeals. “You fucking came, Cordier!” Then, turning to Santos, she holds out her hand in a gimme gesture. “Pay up, motherfucker!”
Santos groans, then digs his hand into his pants pocket and pulls out some cash.
“Woohoo!” Hua Jing rubs her hands together, then grabs the money, fanning herself with it.
“You’re an idiot,” Layla sighs.
Chris laughs. “Shit, dude. You lost another bet?”
“Shut up,” Santos mumbles, then grabs anotherKamikaze.
“What was the bet?” I ask. Santos doesn’t say anything, just looks at me sheepishly.
“He didn’t think you were gonna show, Cordier,” Hua Jing smirks, stuffing the money into her purse. “Ah, ye of little faith.” I’m not even offended.
“Was I that obvious?” I ask her.
She shrugs and drops her purse onto the table. “You definitely looked like you weren’t sure you wanted to go.”
I guess I can see that.
The conversation drifts to Chris, who is originally from Seaside, a town just north of Cannon Beach. We talk about annoying tourists and growing up in a small town. He’s pretty nice, actually, and after a while, I’ve got a decent buzz going. When the pitchers are empty, I volunteer to grab the next round.
The Bleachers is bigger than I initially thought. People are gathered around the bar where a large flatscreen TV is showing a college football game, and there’s a long line to get drinks.
