Page 22 of My All American Girl

“Yeah,” I replied. “Can we get a round of whatever’s on tap?”

He nodded, clearly approving of my order. I was glad I was the one that did the ordering. I didn’t want to offend the man. We found our way to a table. Kylee’s lip curled when she saw the outline of boobs carved into the scarred wood.

“That’s not quite the art I was expecting,” she remarked dryly, flicking the woodwork.

I shrugged. “Artists have been drawing tits since drawing and art were invented.”

Our drinks arrived within moments, served in mismatched mugs that bore their own history of countless patrons. The beer was cold and surprisingly good, with a smooth taste. Kylee took a drink and grimaced.

I took a long sip from my mug and set it down with a satisfying clunk against the solid table. “That’s exactly what I needed.”

The guys sipped their drinks and looked around.

“Do you think this place is licensed?” one asked.

“Who cares?” I asked. “It’s cool. And that’s all that really matters. No loud music or obnoxious punks dancing like they’re auditioning for a sex scene.”

Being proactive, I took the liberty of ordering another round for all of us except the driver, who had his one beer and was now relegated to water.

Kylee began to warm up to the Fly Trap. It might’ve been the alcohol or just the general atmosphere, but she no longer held her nose high up in distaste. A few burly dudes sat at one table and another group of slightly younger men and a couple of women hanging on them had pushed a couple of tables together. I didn’t miss one of the girls looking at me, eyeing me like she was trying to decide whether she wanted to be like me or she hated me. I paid her zero attention and focused on my friends.

Time to get the party going, haters be damned.