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Chapter Two
Samantha
Mallory hesitates at the door to Silvy’s Bar and Grill, and I know exactly what she’s worried about.
The swivel.
No matter what you look like, male or female, the second you walk into a small bar like this, all heads turn to see who walked in. So many eyes, sizing you up and either finding you lacking, mentally stripping you, or just turning back to their conversations after satisfying their curiosity.
“Come on, we’ll grab a table, have some drinks, it’ll be fun,” I coax, stepping through the door.
Nodding, she follows me inside and to a table. “Quite a crowd,” she remarks, taking a seat.
“Nothing else to do on a Friday night in this town.”
It is pretty crowded, but we lucked into a good spot, a corner booth where we can see the stage beyond the small dance floor, and the bar along the far wall.
“What do you want to drink?” I ask Mallory as a waitress approaches us.
“Strawberry margarita sounds good.”
I order one for both of us, but the sudden anger on Mallory’s face draws my attention. “Wait,” she calls as the waitress is leaving. “Give me a shot of tequila too.”
Well, alright then. I hold up two fingers to the waitress, and she nods with a smile.
“So, I guess we’re getting fucked up tonight. What changed your mind?”
Mallory gestures with her chin. “End of the bar.”
I have to look twice because I barely recognize him. “Is that Dennis?”
“Yes,” she hisses. “He’s over there trying to talk up college girls.”
This might not go well. I guess I should’ve known him being here was a possibility since it’s the only bar in Morganville, but he was never the bar hopping type. Neither is Mallory though, so fair enough.
The waitress drops off our drinks and hurries to her next table.
“Do you want to go somewhere else?” I didn’t bring her out to torture her by watching her soon to be ex-husband drool over co-eds.
“No, he’s not dictating my life anymore.”
“Fuck no, he isn’t.” I hand her a shot. “To freedom.”
“And to getting laid by someone who can actually get me off.”
Laughter nearly makes me choke, and the tequila burns its way down my throat.
“I have to ask, what the hell is on his head?”
She snorts and takes a drink of her margarita. “He wanted to get a toupee before, and I told him it’d look ridiculous.”
It looks beyond ridiculous. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a man wearing a hairpiece, anymore than a woman wearing a wig. To each their own. But what he’s wearing looks like it was found on the street.
“It looks like a dead ferret.”
Grinning, she drains her drink. “I hope it’s neutered.”
“The ferret or Dennis?”
