Page 22 of Space Balls: Houston, We Have Liftoff
“When did they close?” Jackie asks, turning to Trish and Jules.
We’re on our first girls’ night since the wedding, and it is not off to an auspicious start.
“Don’t ask me.” Trish shrugs. “Must’ve happened while Ian and I were in Germany.” She twists her new, very shiny, verylargeengagement ring on her finger.
Yeah, Trish getting engaged in Europe was a surprise. It also sounded sappy as hell, but Trish deserves all the romance Ian can muster and then some. I’m happy for them. For my best friend. Iam.
It’s just… did Big Texas have to shut downnow? After Holt and Jules decide to raise a pet cow and Jackie and Flynn’s promised till death do we part, and Ian and Trish’s having a magical castle engagement?
Can I get a well-earned, drunken girls’ night break from all the happily ever afters?
I twist my lips to the side, trying to look like I’m pouting. Pouting is more acceptable than the tears threatening my eyes. Even though Big Texas was shady as hell, had police stationed outside every night in case shit broke out, and the drinks were basic as fuck, this wasourplace. The place where the group first came together. The genius, the astronaut, the wanted felon, and the billionaire party girl.
And now it’s closed.
Fuck you, Big Texas. Fuck you.
“Not a problem.” Jules pulls her phone from the back of her leather pants. “I’ve got the details of another honky-tonk closer to town.” Her thumbs fly over the screen. “We’ll go there.”
I’m too upset to even poke fun at Jules’ use of honky-tonk. I simply take another large gulp from my flask and let Jackie lead me back into our UberXL.
Twenty minutesand an empty flask later, we arrive at Whiskey River. Where there’s a line out the door and along the covered front porch.
Of course there is.
Waiting in line is not my thing. Which I know makes me sound privileged as hell, but I don’t care. I don’t understand the concept of waiting hours in line just to give someone more of my money. I reach into my cleavage, wondering how much cash will be needed to get us through the door when the line erupts in surprised shouts and laughter.
“Whoa!” Jules points to the entrance. “Get a load of that!”
At least a dozen Vegas-style Elvis impersonators pour out of the double doors, their sequins flashing under the streetlights, followed by a rush of country club dressed customers.
“What in tarnation is going on here?” Trish asks, her eyes wide.
“Beats me, Yosemite Sam,” Jules deadpans.
They bicker while Jackie and I stare, open-mouthed. Jackie is probably calculating the odds of triangulating each Elvis with the orbit of Mars, or some other such genius thing, while I’m simply astonished in the best possible way.
And happy.
Their cheap polyester capes flare out behind them as they hightail it to a nearby shuttle bus, and my hope grows with each twinkle and sparkle.
This place might not be so bad after all. I mean, a bar that has cheesy Vegas-style Elvis impersonators has gotta be fun, right?
Maybe this place will be even better than Big Texas. Maybe this girls’ night will—
“Darlin’!” We all turn to see Flynn standing in the door the Elvises just ran out of, arm outstretched and waving in our direction. Holt’s beside him, slipping the bouncer a bribe in the guise of a handshake.
My hope dies hard and fast.
Jackie waves back and bounces over in her Chuck Taylors. The rest of us follow.
I don’t even ask. From the look on Jules’ face as she lets Holt put his arm around her and walk her into the bar, it’s obvious she knew the boys would be here.
This night is circling the drain faster than Elvis could eat a peanut butter, banana, and bacon sandwich. God rest his soul.
Trish’s red lips curl up into a wide smile. “Ian’s here too.”
Et tu, Shortstack?
