Page 69 of Go Back to December

Baz nods gleefully.

“The name my parents gave me is some joke?”

“Not to me.”

“That’s because you already know it, you prick. This is going to be misery.”

“This is going to be heaven compared to what happens if you think about touching my bed again.”

I clap my hands together. “Are we going to freeze our arses off out here, or are we going inside to save the café?”

“Low blow, MelJo.”

“Show him the license, Dooligan.”

Baz’s evil white smile glints as Dooley whips out his wallet and hands the ID to the bouncer.

The guy’s head bobs between Dooley and the card a dozen times before he smiles. Wheezes. “Nah.” He hands back the card to Dooley, dabbing his cheeks. “You should ask for your money back on that piece of shit fake, son.”

Dooley glares at Baz. “Fucking ending you.”

Baz rubs his hands together merrily. “Time for backup.”

From his wallet, Dooley withdraws a credit card.

The bouncer hands it back. “No photo.”

Curling his lip, Dooley reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out his passport.

“He carries his passport with him?” I choke.

“Always,” Baz whispers.

When the bouncer looks at the passport, he wheezes harder and shakes his head. “Okay, no one would make that up intentionally. Go on.”

As Dooley flings the door open, he marches through it without holding it for us.

Baz sighs deeply. “I needed that.”

I point accusingly at him with my mitten. “There’s a spot waiting for you in the ninth circle of hell.”

“I’ll meet Dooley there.”

The narrow brick-walled hallway opens into a vast space Lacy would characterize as scruffy chic. There’s a massive wooden bar with industrial barstools. The back wall bears shelves lined with pint glasses and a huge black “Q” formed out of Edison bulbs. Clusters of upcycled furniture surround a staircase that divides the space. Green-topped tables file behind it.

It’s the type of place Money Honeys secretly love, but publicly shame, because they hate the taint of hipsteria, and I can’t believe I’m here with Baz and Dooley.

As the kitchen door opens, and the scent of smoked meat, molasses, and vinegar wafts toward us, my stomach stirs with hunger. A red-haired guy drops a plate of fries in front of a group of manbuns lounging on a couch and barely escapes the maul with his life.

He turns, spots us at the bar, and cracks a wide grin. “I heard trouble had arrived.”

“Traitor.” Dooley returns the grin as they exchange one of those high-five handshake hybrids.

“Merely following the counsel of my lawyer.” He and Baz trade similar hand slaps, and he evaluates Baz’s brace. “I’d hate to see the other guy.”

Baz tilts his head demurely at me.

“I’m the other guy,” I say.