Page 11 of Bad Intentions

“Missy, you are cut off,” she says to an older woman with a drug-weathered face and perm-fried hair who is loudly conversing with the man next to her.

“I’m getting another drink,” the woman insists. “You are not closing, sugar, not until midnight.”

“I said you are cut off,” Rika says indifferently and slaps the check on the counter in front of the woman.

Ballsy, for sure. The locals don’t like being bossed around, not in their regular bar, not by a girl decades younger than them.

“Listen here, honey.” The woman leans on the counter, about to argue, when Rika raises her palms in front of her.

“Teddy said if there’s a problem to call him,” Rika says.

“So, you call him!” the woman snaps. “I’ve known Teddy for years. He and I go waaaay back and⁠—”

“Not my problem. I’m not serving you anymore. Take it up with Teddy.”

“I’m gonna get your ass fired in a second!”

“Good luck,” Rika says calmly and steps back.

That woman is a riot. I’ve seen her drive off several times in a state that would be hazardous to walk in. She’s in the wrong, but driving while seeing things triple is something many locals have been doing all their lives.

The woman leaves the money plus change in coins—that means no tips—and stumbles out of the bar, leaving the rest of us in complete silence.

“Okay,” Rika murmurs, “enough with this crap.”

She kills the jukebox and pulls up her phone. In a moment, jazz-like music fills the air, and she cranks it up, her head bobbing a little to the sharp rhythm of a saxophone and tuba.

“Who’s playing?” I ask, trying to coax her to step closer.

She beams at me. “You like it?”

“It’s cool, yes.”

“‘Early To Bed’ by Morphine.”

She sticks her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, walks over, and leans on her elbows on the counter in front of me. “The guys invented a tritar,” she says like it’s a secret.

“What’s that?”

“A guitar with two regular strings and one bass string. Just listen-listen-listen.”

She sticks her forefinger in the air, lowers her head, and closes her eyes, nodding with a smile to the rhythm.

She’s cool. Definitely, positively, refreshingly cool. If I were to make one friend in this town, I’d make friends with her.

“I’m Josie, by the way. From Pittsburgh,” I say.

She keeps nodding to the music, then opens her eyes and smiles at me. “Rika. From Costa Rica.”

“Really?” I thought she said Florida.

She blurts out a laugh. “No. Not really. Though my dad has Costa Rican roots.”

“Huh. Is he from here?”

“No. And he can go fuck himself.”

Oh-kay. I chuckle drunkenly. I’ve never met my father and don’t remember my mother. I wish I did.