Page 78 of Ice Mechanic

With a sigh, I slap the laptop closed and follow her outside. “I didn’t plan on going inside tonight. I didn’t even wash my hands before coming here.”

“They have a bathroom.” She drags me up the stairs, her blonde hair trailing in the wind. “Besides, the only way we’re not walking in there is if you want to go home, shower and change into one of your new outfits.”

“Nope. I’m good in my jumper.”

“Then let’s go.”

I trail her, keeping a frown on my face as protest. But internally, I’m grateful for the break.

Regardless of what Rebel thinks about my work-life balance, I do enjoy going out every once in a while. The Tipsy Tuna has a great, friendly atmosphere and I love all the sea food platters. Except their tuna dishes. Which is ironic.

Golden lights beam from the windows. I can hear the laughter and trendy pop music blasting.

Just before we reach the entrance, the door bursts open and two extremely beautiful, tall women strut out. They’re wearing crop tops with some kind of bedazzled star and leather shorts with stockings and cowboy boots.

“Excuse us,” they say, giggling.

Rebel and I step aside so they can pass.

As we enter the bar, we exchange quiet looks with eyebrows raised.

‘Is there a festival going on?’I silently communicate.

Rebel pushes out her lips and shrugs. ‘Don’t think so.’

Inside The Tipsy Tuna iscrawlingwith gorgeous women dressed in the same star logo crop-tops, shorts and stockings.

“Let’s order,” Rebel says, pointing to the counter.

We wade through the mass of human bodies and are greeted by Mauve, Bobby’s wife.

“Hey, Mauve.”

“Hey, sweetie.” Mauve lifts a dark hand and uses the back of it to wipe the sweat on her face. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“That’s because she lives inside the garage,” Rebel teases.

“Ah, yes. Bobby told me all about how you swooped in to save the day with the Zamboni.”

“It was nothing.” I wave.

“You two are very talented ladies.” She winks. “Now, what can I getchya?”

We give our orders and Mauve slips into the back.

Bopping my head to the beat, I glance around. I’m glad Rebel convinced me to do this. I’m already feeling a lot calmer.

In the corner of my eye, I notice a guy pat his friend and point in our direction. He’s not the only one. Many of the male patrons have taken notice and are staring at us.

Well, notus.

They’re staring at Rebel, who looks like a model as she casually sits, one leg folded over the other and neat pink nails drumming the shiny bar. If my profile looked that stunning, I’d walk around sideways for the rest of my life.

“Doesn’t it get exhausting having this much attention?” I squirm. I’m not even the one they’re looking at, but it still makes me self-conscious.

“What?” Rebel leans toward me.

I start to repeat myself, but my words are swallowed up by a loud and sudden roar. It’s coming from the game section at the rear of the bar.

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