Page 15 of The Bad Girl List

“I’ll bet she included them.” Auntie Helen is always thorough. She would have researched bars knowing that Annika and I would want to go out at night. “Found it. Yep, there are bars on the list.” I scan it. “Zeke’s looks like the best place. Their Cosmos are only six bucks each. Oh, my God, there’s another place that has Cosmos for eighteen dollars each.”

“Zeke’s it is.” Annika types the name into her phone. “I might complain about our dumpy VRBO, but that doesn’t mean I want to bleed money at a bar. I can get drunk on cheap liquor.”

“But not cheap wine?”

“Don’t be a blasphemer. You know I never drink cheap wine.”

My phone buzzes with a reply text from my mom. Drive safely. See you in the morning. Check your phone for tomorrow’s schedule. Breakfast is at eight. I relay the message to Annika.

“Good thing I packed Tylenol,” Annika says. “You’re going to need it for your hangover tomorrow. I’m serious about crossing number one off the list, cuz. Ooh, what if we get you laid tonight, too? Maybe we can cross two things off the list on the first night!”

Despite myself, I laugh at the enthusiasm in her voice.

“Feels good to be a bad girl, doesn’t it?” Annika asks.

* * *

We follow the GPS to Zeke’s. Instead of taking us into downtown Healdsburg, we find ourselves driving on a two-lane road that snakes through the vineyards.

There are no street lamps out here. The vineyards are drenched in black, the only source of light from Annika’s Honda Civic.

“No wonder the Cosmos are so much cheaper at this place,” Annika says. “We’re in the middle of Bumfuck, Egypt. How much further?”

I check the phone. “ETA is three minutes.”

“If this place sucks, we’re going to the place with the eighteen dollar Cosmos,” Annika says. “We get one drink to check the vibe, then decide if we’re going to stay.”

Light appears up ahead. It comes from a low-roofed building in a long gravel parking lot that edges up against the vineyards.

“I think that’s it,” I say.

“Doesn’t look very busy for a Friday night.” Annika pulls up into the parking lot. “We’re definitely not going to score you a vacation fling if there's no one here.”

“Let’s just work on getting me drunk.” I still haven’t completely reconciled myself to the idea of a casual vacation fling. I’m going to have to do it eventually if I want Annika to let me move into her studio, but I’m going to give myself a few days to work up to it. “I can’t remember the last time I was drunk.”

“Me, either,” Annika says. “You’ve been too busy for the past two years being Damn Perfect Dominique for that soul-sucking design firm and your asshole ex.” She switches off the engine and we get out, heading to the bar.

Zeke’s is fronted by a long wooden porch and railing. The doors are wide open, spilling inviting light across the gravel parking lot. Open windows in the back illuminate the vineyards behind the bar. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots.

I immediately know I like this place. It’s nothing like the financial district bars back in the city that Oliver loved. Those places were crammed with clones, everyone in suits and pencil skirts and twenty-seven pounds of make-up with their overpriced martinis. I hated those places, but Oliver thrived in them. He always said they were great for networking.

Which is what he usually did when we went out, while I often ended up sitting alone.

Outside this musty old bar with warm lighting, I feel at home in my baggy pants, simple cotton tee, and makeup-free face. My hair is twisted up into two messy buns on either side of my head.

There may not have been a lot of cars in the parking lot, but there’s a decent number of people inside. There’s one thing that immediately strikes me as odd, though. Save for the bartender, who’s a perky, adorable twenty-something with tattoos and a nose ring, everyone in this place is–

“Oh, my God,” Annika hisses in my ear. “It’s the fucking geriatric bar.”

I smother a laugh against my palm. She isn’t wrong. Most of the people in this place are men, and every last one of them looks old enough to be a grandpa. They’re dressed in dirty jeans, rumpled button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and old leather cowboy hats.

“I think this is the place where locals hang out,” I whisper.

“Old locals, yeah.”

“I like it. I want to stay.” I take a few steps toward the bar, pulling Annika with me.

“Really? Why?” Her eyes narrow. “You think this is getting you a free pass on the vacation fling, don’t you? You know there’s such a thing as age-gap dating, right?”

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