Page 12 of Hot Mess Express
And deliberately knock my glass into one of his.
Tipping his beer right over.
Spilling it all over the front of him.
“The fuck!” he shouts out, stepping back, jostling all the beers on the tray as he looks down at his soaked clothes. Beer all over the counter. All over the barstool. Dripping to the floor. Helooks up at me, accusation in his eyes.
The best part is, I don’t even feel sorry.
“Oh, damn, shoot,” I exclaim in my phoniest voice. “So sorry, man. I totally didn’t mean to do that. I guess I just …” My eyebrows quirk up with amusement. “… don’t know how to operatebeveragesproperly. Usin’ my actual hands is solast century. Dang, I sure wish someone could show me how tohold a fuckin’ beer.”
The outrage in his eyes.
His lips parted, breathing heavy, staring at me in disbelief.
What’s so hard to believe? That you’re untouchable? That you don’t deserve to be looked down on like the rest of us? That it’s okay formeto get drenched because of your stupidity and not the other way around? This guy is such a tool.
“Aw, damn,” I go on, my voice turning singsongy, “looks like it soaked straight down to your undies.” I shake my head. “Phew, tough titties, pal.” Then I clutch my drinks and go.
He doesn’t say a word. Not to my face. Not to my back. I just enjoy the gift of his scathing silence as I proudly strut through the crowd back to the jukebox. What a satisfying feeling it is, to get the last word in, to put a snob-job like him in his place. Already, my day’s better. I’m on top of the world. King of Spruce. A god.
“Here ya go, Dancin’ Queen Barbie,” I say, giving Juni a glass.
She stops dancing and looks at it. “Half of it’s gone.”
“Slight mishap, spilled a lil’, no biggie. Look, they’re cute, jus’ like you. Got little cherries in ‘em, too.”
“It’s bad luck to drink a drink that’s half a drink.” She kicks it back anyway. The lemon wheel slides off and slaps onto the floor. She doesn’t notice. “Is this a whiskey sour?”
“No fuckin’ clue.” I take a sip of mine as I start dancing again. “But I’m gonna down ten more of ‘em before the night’sover.”
“Good thing I’m not superficial …” she says, slurring slightly.
“Superstitious,” I correct her.
“… because this bad luck sure tastes nice.” She starts fishing the maraschino cherry out of the glass, spilling even more of it, the tiny umbrella bobbing next to her fingers about to go, too.
“Bad Luck Booze,” I decide to name it. It’s suddenly the most satisfying drink I’ve ever had. The tastiest. The manliest. What’s a cherry and a lemon wheel and a tiny umbrella got to indicate what makes a drink manly? I’ll drink fruity cocktails all damned night, I don’t care. I’ve got these cute-ass drinks to thank for flipping my shitty-ass day right back onto its proud feet.
That cocky out-a’-towner can suck it.
4
BRIDGER
I’ve handled my share of punks before. Being in the military taught me how. Kissed the asses of sergeants who don’t deserve it. Sucked it up and saluted them. Dropped down and gave twenty, fifty, even a hundred while holding anger in my heart.
I pride myself in knowing how to keep my cool. At times, my life depended on it.
But this Anthony guy …
This spiteful little twat…
“Oh, shoot, I knew I should’ve helped you!” cries Trey when I arrive back at our table with the drinks, noting we’re one short—and I’m wet down my front. “I’m so sorry! Did it spill? Is that what happened?” He grabs a wad of napkins off the table and starts pressing them to my stomach where most of the liquid went.
“Nah, I’m fine, thank you,” I assure him, taking over with the napkin dabbing while he nudges Cody to get more. “I don’t need a drink. I’ll be the double-D. You go ahead and drink up.”
“You sure? I feel so bad.”
