Page 39 of Wicked Pickle

I nod.

When we open the door, there’s no live band blasting noise, even though the canned music is pounding, and the shouts between tables make my ears vibrate.

I quickly scan the bar. I spot the young bartender from two weeks ago, this time in a slightly different T-shirt. Then the other version of Diesel, hair slightly shorter. The brother, I bet. Merrick.

Leaning over the counter is an orange-haired woman I vaguely recall from two weeks ago. Merrick fills her tray with frothy mugs. She turns with it and spots us, shaking her head and rolling her eyes before taking the beer to a table. That’s not promising.

And no Diesel, not that I can see.

Shit. What if he’s not here?

Marietta takes my arm. “Let’s go to the bar.”

I walk with her to the long, scarred wood counter. Half the barstools are empty. We sit in the middle of the unoccupied ones.

The young bartender spots us. “Hey, weren’t you two here a couple of weeks ago?” His eyes linger on Marietta’s chest. She’s on the slight side and doesn’t wear a bra. Her headlights tendto turn on when she’s nervous, and he probably can’t look away from what’s poking the fabric.

Merrick bumps his shoulder. “Don’t ogle the ladies,” he says. “What can I get you two?”

I scan behind the bar, wishing Diesel was kneeling low to fetch something or fix a tap. But it’s only the two of them.

“She’s wondering where Diesel is,” Marietta says.

I snap my gaze to her. “Hey!”

“Isn’t that what we’re here for?” she says.

Ooooh, sometimes Marietta is way too straightforward for her own good.

But Merrick grins. “Who should I say is calling?”

I’m frozen in my chair. When I don’t respond, Marietta says, “It’s Symphony, his date from last night.”

That gets his attention. “That’s right. You were from that bachelorette.” He lets out a low whistle. “My brother is pretty pissed about the wedding.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be blowing off your family,” Marietta says.

Seriously! Why is she so bold all of a sudden? “Marietta! That’s their business!”

But Merrick shrugs, drying his hands on a towel. “I’ll go get him.” He takes off through a swinging door behind the bar.

I turn to Marietta. “What are you doing?”

“Just laying it out there.” She frowns. “We didn’t get a drink!” She bangs on the bar.

“Marietta!” My face flames. What has gotten into her?

The orange-haired waitress leans against the bar near us. “You two ain’t got the sense God gave a potato.”

I hold Marietta’s hands to silence her banging. “We’re so sorry. Marietta’s just excited to be here.”

She glares at us, her heavy black eyeliner turning her eyes to slits. “I’m not sure her antenna picks up all the channels.”

Marietta stops banging on the counter. “What did you say?”

The woman tugs a cigarette from a pack near her waist. “Two girls like you thinking you ought to come back to a place like this is the reason we have to put instructions on shampoo bottles.”

A man near her lets out a loud whoop. “Vicki’s on a roll!” Everyone looks our way.

---