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He does as he’s told with smirk, his lips stained from my lipstick. I don’t tell him.
Payback for the cheek smudge he didn’t tell me about at the hotel.
“I don’t remember you having an aversion to facial hair,” he teases, then scrunches his nose as he gets used to the feeling of a small rat draped over his mouth.
“That was before I knew it came from a dusty old box in the death room.”
He chuckles and says, “Touché.” Then pushes another button to turn off the car. “You ready?”
My gaze sweeps to the front door of Southern Roots, and I can’t help but feel all giddy inside as the low thrum of an acoustic guitar manages to make its way into the car.
We get more bar time tonight. Me, drinks, music, the Tiger King with red-stained lips…and hours of bad decision-making. It’s what we do best.
“Yeah,” I say, my stomach fluttering.
He gives me an elaborate wink. Flips his ridiculous mullet over his shoulder. “Then let’s get going, little lady.”
We find a high-top table in the back-left corner and situate ourselves in for the night. When the waitress with the too-tight shorts on comes to take our order, Jake dips his head to shield his face with the rim of his hat, and I instinctively place our orders: “A gin and tonic for me, a Jack and Coke for him.”
She nods and breezes off.
“You know her?” I ask.
“No, but everyone around here knows me.”
I tug on a lock of the mullet wig. “I think you’re covered.”
“Instinct, I guess.”
Fair enough. He doesn’t want to take any chances. Besides…the mustache and mullet are arguably inferior in quality to the beard he had on a year ago. Look too long, and you’ll know they’re fake.
The speakers on stage blare to life, and the band cranks up the volume. The lead guitarist strums another series of chords and blows into the microphones to make sure they’re on. Some random “Whooos!” roll in behind it from the bargoers who are already buzzing. A guy next to us thrusts his beer into the air and amber liquid sloshes from the neck.
Watching everything unfold and reveling in how good it feels to have another night like this with Jake, I loop my purse on the back of the chair and get comfortable. Flash him a contented smile when I realize he’s watching me instead of the growing crowd.
He flashes a smile back, and my heart kicks. Neither of us can manage to look at anything else. We’re like two comets, Jake and I, who, despite all the space in the universe to roam, always manage to find a way to collide. Bright and violent. Blinding, this wonderful yet disturbing alchemy we possess. Or maybe it possesses us.
His hand finds mine under the table and gives it a gentle squeeze.
Yes, it’s going to be another good night of drinks and bad decisions. I can feel it in my bones. In the cosmic energy pulsing around us.
And I’m okay with that.
