Page 52 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“Definitely don’t call him,” she says, weaving blades of grass together. “Or rather, don’t have that conversation over the phone. But don’t apologize, either. Just make it clear you haven’t changed your mind about what you want, that it wasn’t the booze talking.”
I frown, disagreeing with my friend—and not for the first time. “I overindulged by a lot, and was a super bitch when he was being the amazing gentleman he is. I’m apologizing. I owe him that much at least.” I feel my cheeks heating. “But I’ll definitely be making it clear that I haven’t changed my mind about what I want, and that it wasn’t the booze making me so horny.”
Audra grins and wiggles her butt with her arms over her head, doing a seated version of an erotic dance. “Get—it—on, girlfriend!”
I slap her on the arm, but I’m laughing with her, because that’s exactly what I plan on doing. After I make amends for my idiotic behavior.
Putting her kettlebells back in the trunk of her car, Audra leaves, after eliciting a BFF-double-pinkie-promise from me that I’ll start working out with her at least twice a week, if not three times.
With Audra gone, I head back inside and clean up from last night, and spend the afternoon on additional house chores—deep cleaning the baseboards and dusting in weird places and scrubbing the shower. When my house is as clean as it can be, I finally take a long, leisurely, scalding hot bubble bath in my clawfoot tub; the tub was one of the main selling points of this house for me, along with the backyard and the plentiful windows. When I’m clean, shaved, and trimmed, I do something I haven’t done in quite a long time: I brush out and curl my hair into loose spirals, put on makeup, and zip myself into my favorite going-out dress, a little red dress with a mid-thigh hemline, a plunging neckline, a low back, and plenty of cling on my generous curves. My gold heels and some understated jewelry completes the outfit, along with a little clutch containing my wallet, phone, lip gloss, and the other essentials.
By this time it’s past eight in the evening, and I opt to text Jesse instead of calling him: Are you and your friend at Billy Bar?
He answers a few minutes later: Yep. You feeling okay? ;-)
The winking face makes me think he may not be too mad at me, which lifts my spirits a little.
Me: I was pretty rough this morning, but my best friend is a personal trainer, so she came over and helped me sweat it out. I’m feeling much better now. I was thinking I would come out and meet the rest of your friends.
Jesse: Cool to have friends like that. A good workout after a big night is always a good way to get past a hangover. I did the same thing this morning myself.
Jesse: I’d love it if you came out. It’s just me, Ryder, Franco, and James.
Jesse: I can’t say I’m sticking to water, but I’m definitely taking it easy tonight.
Me: Yeah, I will be too.
Jesse: So I’ll see you soon?
Me: In just a few minutes. Leaving now.
Instead of typing a reply, he merely sends a looped gif of Carlton from Fresh Prince of Belair doing the Carlton Dance, which makes me snort in laughter as I get into my car.
I park in the middle of the Billy Bar lot, next to Jesse’s truck—which is the fourth in a lineup of big, masculine trucks decked out with racks and lights and toolboxes and, in Franco’s case, a bed cap. I assume the one truck I’m not familiar with is Ryder’s. Instead of a big, rugged pickup, Ryder’s is a classic 1940s Chevy box truck, heavily customized and beautifully restored. I remember Jesse saying Ryder is an electrician, so it makes sense he’d need a special truck to hold all the special equipment.
Next to their big butch man-mobiles, my little red 1998 Toyota Camry looks like a Matchbox toy.
I’ve driven past Billy Bar a zillion times, having been born and raised in this area, but I’ve never been inside—it’s just not the sort of place I, or anyone I know, would typically go. When you think of a local dive, Billy Bar is the kind of place you think of. It’s an old Pizza Hut building that was converted and renovated into a bar when I was in high school. It will forever be a Pizza Hut building—there’s no disguising that unmistakable roof. I’m not sure what to expect inside, but my Judgy McJudgerson instincts have me expecting the worst—dank, dark, sticky, smoky, and possibly featuring a stripper pole in the back, with lots of neon everywhere.
Inside, it’s well-lit, clean, smoke-free, stripper pole-free, with zero neon. Instead, the walls feature a lot of huge beer company mirrors, posters of classic motorcycles and hot rods, posters for car parts and oil and transmission fluids, and even an antique gas pump mounted on the wall. On another wall is what looks like a deconstructed transmission or something, with each piece mounted in place a few inches from the adjoining parts. The bar stretches along most of the length of one side of the building; the bar top itself is a single enormous piece of polished and stained hardwood, mounted on a long series of truck bed gates. The stools are motorcycle seats complete with old license plates and tail lights, mounted on giant springs. The owners left the windows in place, so there’s actually natural light coming in, as well as plenty of warm, soft incandescent lighting; they got rid of the original can lighting and replaced it with hanging light fixtures made from old steering wheels strung with loose, dangling Edison bulbs. There are booths lining the walls, each made from the benches of old cars and trucks, complete with seat belts and buckles, and there are a dozen or so high-top tables in the middle, also crafted from car parts and other industrial materials. The whole effect is rugged and masculine and inviting and cool. In a back corner by the entrance to the kitchen there’s a pair of pool tables, a handful of coin-op arcade games, and a dartboard, which is where I find Jesse and his crew.
