Page 180 of Calamity Rayne Gets Hitched

“Where are we?”

“Queens.”

The commercial district was clogged with small delicatessens, nail salons, and check cashing stores. The buildings were underwhelmingly brick and concrete, and every free-standing street sign had a bicycle locked to it. We had definitely left the posh luxury of 5th Avenue and Manhattan’s Upper East Side.

“Pull over up here.” Barrett reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.

“Do you know where we are?”

“I told you, we’re in Queens.”

I followed him out of the cab. “What now?”

“You said you wanted to disappear. Now we disappear.”

We walked into a small corner bar. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the patrons didn’t look up when we entered. Our attire was an extreme contrast to the casual dress of the other patrons.

“Two beers,” he ordered, sliding onto the stool directly in front of the taps.

I climbed onto the seat beside him. “Have you been here before?”

“No.”

The bartender dropped two napkins in front of us then covered them with two beers. I looked around at the patrons piled in the booths. A television screen displayed a bright blue background with a music note and a man did something on a laptop to the left. A microphone stood like a lone flagpole at his side.

My gaze moved to the special’s board. “They’re setting up Karaoke.”

Barrett followed my stare. “You want to sing?’

“God, no.” But also…kind of yes. “I mean… No. Never mind.”

“Chicken.”

I scoffed. “Would you sing?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

I glanced back at the man with the laptop. He had a pretty thick binder of song options. Maybe belting out my frustrations was exactly what I needed. That and perhaps something stronger to drink.

“I’d need more than beer to get up there.”

He pulled out his black card. “Are we going to Russia or Mexico?”

“Huh?”

“Tequila or vodka? Pick your poison.”

The logical voice in my head reminded me that I had a fiancé to worry about and responsibilities in the morning. A sensible bride would get back in a cab and return to Manhattan to face the music. But karaoke dude had music right here and that somehow felt safer than the music waiting at home.

“Let’s run for the border.”

Barrett whistled at the bartender and held up two fingers. “Two shots of your finest tequila.”

There was no Casa Dragones Blanco here, but that was fine. The bartender delivered the shots with a shaker of salt and two questionable lemon slices. I debated briefly if I was going to regret this.

“Let’s go, Meyers.” Barrett grabbed my hand and slathered it with lemon, then sprinkled the wet mark with salt. “Bottoms up.”

I licked, drank, winced, and bit. All while making unpleasant grunts for each increasingly tart step of the way. We slammed down our empty glasses and gasped.

---