Page 81 of Wicked Pickle

Carla, one of the regulars, shouts, “You bannin’ little girls now, fuckface?”

There’s a general grumble.

Now I wish we had a thrasher for a band. I want to tell the one we’ve got to take it up a notch, but they choose that moment to go on break. Great.

I hold up my hands. “Nobody’s banned. Go on about your business.”

Merrick stands by Marietta. “What do I do with her?”

“Give me a drink,” she says. “I’ve been working on my tolerance. I can take three shots without getting drunk.”

Merrick blows out a long gust of air. He’s trying to figure out what to do.

I decide to let him handle it and shove the phone back in my pocket.

“Did you drive out here?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You can have one drink, then. One.”

Marietta sits on a stool.

I half expect someone to bring up her incident from last weekend, but nobody does. I head to the sound system to pipe music in until the band goes back on stage.

When I come back, the drummer has sat down next to her. “I’ll have what she’s having.” He grins at her. “Or you can have what I’m having.”

Marietta smiles big. “Okay!”

Merrick scowls, his arms over his chest.

Huh. I didn’t think he had any interest in the shy wildling.

“You go on,” Merrick says the man. “Jake will get you something at the other end of the bar.”

The drummer frowns, but he knows where his bread is buttered. There aren’t many gigs for a band like his, and he won’t piss us off. Even so, he tells Marietta, “I’ll sing one for you later.”

“Okay!” Marietta’s eyes are bright, shining as blue as her T-shirt.

But I can see my brother in the mirror. He’s hovering.

“One drink,” he says. “I’ll make you something.”

“Ohhh,” she says. “Yes, please!”

I catch Jake staring at Marietta’s shirt. She isn’t the bra-wearing kind, and he does not seem to be able to handle it. “Eyes to yourself. Refill the peanut bowls, will ya?”

He takes off for the kitchen to fetch the bucket. When I glance back at Merrick, he’s returned to his place behind the bar and started making a Cosmopolitan, extremely light on the liquor.

Despite Marietta’s plea, I text Symphony anyway.

Me: Marietta’s here.

She replies right away.

Symphony: What? When?

Me: Five minutes ago. Merrick is giving her a light drink. We’ll watch her.

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