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Fuck Nick Mason and his stupid scruples. Just fuck them.
There were plenty of men in Millwood. Nick Mason wasn’t the only one. I would go pick another one. Easy.
While my roommate Heather blared Howard Jones in her room, I picked out a wrap dress from my closet: basic black, knee length to cover my ass, with a deep V neck. I added a silver necklace and a pair of heels. On a wave of inspiration, I picked up the jean jacket Nick had lent me and tried it on. The look was dressy and classy, overlaid with the sharp denim, and I liked it.
I was adjusting the jacket when I noticed something in the breast pocket. I pulled it out and found a business card.Andrew Mason, programmer. Specializing in PHP.There was a phone number and an email. Huh. Who was Andrew Mason? A brother or a cousin? The jacket was a too small to fit Nick, but it was definitely a guy’s jacket, big enough to give cover to my ample boobs, though I had to roll the cuffs.
Whatever. Nick was a mystery in a lot of ways, but he wasn’t one I was going to ponder tonight. I put the card back in the jacket pocket, blow-dried my hair, put on some makeup, and headed out.
I only had a mild panic attack when I got out of the Uber in front of the bar. And a second one—again, mild—as the bouncer waved me through. Oh, God, I was in Cintano’s. To pick up. Right. Let’s do this.
There was a dance floor, already full, ringed with tables, chairs, and booths in lots of dark nooks and crannies. A huge bar lined the back wall, lit with cunning little lights inside the bar and above it, so you could see what you were ordering and paying, but not a whole lot else. The whole place smelled like perfume, cologne, dank dance floor sweat, and sweet mixed drinks.
I walked to the bar and ordered a white wine. I was dressed to kill and obviously on my own—should I find a guy and talk to him? Or would he talk to me? Even in the bad old days I’d met guys through work, school, or friends, so I’d never done this before. But I got my glass of wine and nothing happened, so I sipped it like a loser, wondering what was next.
There was lots of traffic at the bar. The guys were dressed up—nice dress shirts, styled hair, some of them with necklaces or rings. There was a lot of cologne. They weren’t the kind of guys I’d dated before, but they weren’t hideous either, and that was what this night was about. Someone new. Someone different.
Too late, I realized why women tended to come to these places in groups. Right now even Dar, or Heather, my roommate, would be better than standing here like a stick.
“Hi,” a guy next to me said. He nodded to me as the bartender slid his drinks to him.
“Hi,” I said back.
“Nice night, huh?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
He nodded again, picked up his drinks, and walked off.
That was when I started to panic. I wasn’t feeling confident anymore. I looked down and realized I’d drunk my wine too fast, but I needed another glass, or I’d be standing here with nothing in my hand. So I ordered another.
I was about to pull out my phone and pretend to be talking to someone when another male voice said, “Hi.”
I turned. This guy was all right: short dark hair brushed forward, a blazer and a shirt unbuttoned at the throat. I could work with this. “Hi,” I said.
“You here alone?” he asked. I mostly got the words by lip-reading, the music was so loud.
I nodded in answer.
“Come sit with me and my friends,” the guy said. “Let’s hang out.”
He pointed, and I looked past him. In a booth, watching us and nodding, were five other guys. Five. Two of them had backward baseball caps on. While the others weren’t looking, one of them waggled his tongue at me.
Um, that was a lot of men. There was no woman in sight. “You have a lot of guy friends,” I said.
“Come on,” the man said, ignoring me. “You like to party? We like to party.”
The guys in the booth waved. The tongue guy waggled his tongue again.
Great. I’d apparently replaced my Marriage Material sign with one that saidPlease date rape me.“I’m okay,” I said, the all-time lame version ofNo, fuck offthat every woman seems to use in a situation like this. “I’ll just stand here.”
“It’s a good time!” the guy said, standing closer.
So I used the second weapon that women use in bars. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I said, and walked away.
Should I actually go to the bathroom? Was he watching? Why did I care? I ditched my drink—that creep had probably roofied it—and kept walking toward the back of the bar. Operation Get Laid hadn’t lasted fifteen minutes before a retreat to the ladies’ room. I needed a break before round two.
Forty-five minutes later, I was sweaty, tired, and depressed. I was going to die without ever having sex again, and I had the creeping feeling that my hair smelled like cologne. I might have to burn this dress, which sucked, because I liked it. If this was the selection to choose from of the male of the species, I was totally doomed.
