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“Riley said it does. I think she said it was Wasted.”
“How original, a bar called Wasted.”I scoff. “Who does that? Who names a bar Wasted?”
“I hope your mood improves after a beer. Or a pitcher.”
“Sorry.” I make a grimace-faced apology.
The parking lot’s packed. You’d think people have a better place to go on New Year’s Eve. Probably a bunch of pathetic singles like us. The bouncer at the door’s in a black T-shirt that advertises some band I’ve never heard of. His head’s shaved to a shiny dome, making it impossible to tell his age. Except there’s more gray in his soul patch than there should be on someone who’s wearing a shirt that tight. He glances at our tops, specifically, our breasts, spending way too much time on them. Then he glances at our IDs. Not sure I’d even call it glancing. It’s a cursory look, at best.
He nods us in. “No cover.” He announces it like he’s giving us a gift.
“Was there ever a cover,” I mumble under my breath to Kara.
She shakes her head. “I’m sure he’s making a joke or something.”
Creep.I contain any pissy remark I was going to make. I will have a good time tonight, if only to help Kara have a good time. I glance at the bare wall above the bouncer’s head. The wall that used to hold the cheap, burnt-out lightbulb sign that readBa-nya-d.
“Where’s the sign?” I ask Kara, indicating the blank area of the outside wall.
“It’s on order,” the bouncer says, apparently happy to serve as our tour guide.
“Thanks.” I can’t wait to see what the Wastedsign will look like. Sarcasm gets the best of me when I’m bitchy. And now I’m feeling bad for even being like this.
Inside, the place is crammed with people. Singles, couples, groups. The music’s blaring, and surprise, surprise, the floor is still wooden slats. But at least it’s pretty well-swept. Maybe the new owner does have standards.
The dance floor’s packed. It’s ten-thirty, and most everyone looks like they’re well on their way to a very good time. Voices loud, body movements exaggerated and sexy, especially on the fringes of the dance floor.
There’s one table available, if you want to call being piled up with used mugs and pitchersavailable. It’s in the furthest corner from where we are right now.
“I’ll go get the first pitcher,” Kara says, heading away.
“First?” I screech it out to be heard over the blaring music and the crowd.
She waves me off. Oh boy, first pitcher, and she’s supposedly not drinking? Well, I have extra for cab fare, if she decides to drink.
I jostle past a group of college guys, probably from a fraternity, if their sweatshirts are any indicator. Three letters, definitely not English.
One of them grabs my arm, starts to say something. His beer-breath pushes me back. I lean away from him and, at the same time, stare at his hand on my arm.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, moving his hand. “Was wondering if you want to dance?”
“I’m going to our table.” I try to soften the rejection with a smile. “Maybe later.”
He beams as if I’ve actually agreed. “Sure.” Then he turns back to his drunk friends, and they all start their schoolboy guffawing.
Why do I feel so old? God.
I make it to the table, shoving the mugs and pitchers to the side, stacking them precariously, and using the cocktail napkins that were strewn about the table to wipe off some of the condensation and spilled beer. I shove the remnants of wing bones into a basket using the same napkins.
Just as I get the table cleared off, I see Kara coming back, her hands full—carrying one pitcher full of light-colored foamy beer, and four mugs.Four?!
There are two guys following her. “Hey, look who I found.” Kara indicates behind her with her head and shoots me a wink that, of course, the guys can’t see. “This is Todd, and that’s Greg.” More head nodding from her. “Todd and I were in freshman English together. Seems a million years ago.”
Todd, or at least I think it’s Todd, nods. “I looked over her shoulder more than once during tests, and not just because I was checking out her cleavage,” he adds.
I let out a laugh that I hope appears genuine. That wasn’t even funny. It was more condescending than anything. I look at Greg and pray that he’s a little bit different. He gives me a look that says,I’m sorry.Maybe there’s hope after all.
“Cassie? Is that what she said your name is?” He puts his hand out, formal-ish.
