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“Where the hell have you been? You gotta catch up!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Gavin says, taking a seat. “Everyone, this is my buddy, Dillan. Dillan, this is everyone.”
Greetings are exchanged, and I’m introduced to the guys. Colt is as talkative as Gavin, and the second we sit down, the two of them are deep in conversation. There’s one dark guy with a ton of tattoos who isn’t drinking and seems quieter than his friends.
I learn his name is Jorge. He has a chill-as-fuck vibe about him and is content to just sit back and relax.
“How do you know Gavin?” I ask, pulling him into a conversation when it’s clear the other guys are spouting off some gibberish about people and places I don’t know.
“Through Colt,” Jorge says curtly.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Okay.”
“We met a few years ago but lost touch when I went away to get clean.”
“Good for you, man. So, what do you do?”
“A little bit of this, a little bit of that.” He smiles.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” His answer is purposefully vague, which makes me wonder what the hell Gavin is tied up in. “What about you?” he asks.
“Doctor.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jorge nods without a smile. “Okay.”
“I’ve got my own practice,” I add.
“Nothing beats being your own man and doing your own thing.”
I hold up my glass in a toast. “I’ll drink to that.” In my mind, I can already picture the moment I’m reluctantly roped into patching up injured mob bosses.
We fall into comfortable silence, occasionally breaking it to make a joke or comment. The dancers are skilled, though my attention on the stage is only half-hearted. I enjoy the music, filled with saxophone riffs and featuring a range of songs from the 1920s to the 1950s, such as “Why Do Fools Fall in Love” by Frankie Lymon, followed by “Earth Angel” by The Penguins. Except for the smoking ban, it feels like I’ve traveled back in time to the last century, with a blend of decades that’s hard to pinpoint.
“You don’t really seem like you wanna be here,” Jorge comments after he takes another sip of his non-alcoholic ginger beer.
I shrug, continuing to observe the room and relax. “I don’t mind it,” I tell him. “It’s a pleasant distraction, no doubt. Watching the women dance is fine, but it’s never really been my thing.”
“Mine neither,” Jorge admits, admiring the dancers as they walk by, hips swinging. “One-woman man.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Did the guys drag you out?” I ask.
“Not exactly.” He shakes his head. “Colt and I were going to be here already.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“Colt wants me to fix up his bike, so we decided to grab a drink and a show first.”
Colt joins the conversation, and we talk about the bike he bought and what they plan to do to get it working. It feels damn good sharing drinks and talking about motorcycles. The evening seems poised to be quite enjoyable, even without the anticipated performance featuring the oversized martini glass.
12
LIZZIE
