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“What was that, Broussard?”
“No take-backs.” His voice was deep and seductive, his hazel eyes molten with desire.
“I’m not that kind of girl. What I say, I mean. But it’s a trade. You have to do your part first.”
He huffed out a laugh. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Then he took my hand and hauled me inside.
The Drunk Pelican was known for three things: insanely delicious fried shrimp po’boys, cheap draft beer, and their weekend nighttime entertainment. It flip-flopped each weekend, Trivia Night one weekend and Improv Night the next.
According to my sister, Emma, Trivia Night was hella competitive. She liked to join her friends and beat the crap out of everyone else. I’d never been to Trivia or Improv Nights, patronizing the Main Street café solely for the fried shrimp po’boys and jalapeno cheese fries.
A short, scuffed, well-worn bar sat on the exposed brick side of the café. The dark-stained beams in the ceiling and wrought iron light fixtures set the ambiance level to cozy/casual. The round-top tables were scattered around the smallish pub-style room. The “stage” was no more than a ten-by-ten raised dais about a foot off the floor.
Bennett and I settled at an empty table off to the left. I could already see his brows pinching with anxiety. As soon as the waitress stopped, I ordered a couple of beers and reached for Bennett’s hand under the table.
“This is going to be fun. Just relax.”
He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“I promise.” I couldn’t help but laugh at the absolutely miserable and sour expression on his handsome face.
“You don’t have to get up there,” I reminded him.
His gaze turned sharp, predatory, “Oh, I’m going to. I have a bet to win.”
The waitress returned with our longnecks as the MC walked onto the stage and picked up the mic.
“Welcome, everyone. Looks like we’ve got some regulars.” A hoot came from the right side, where a ten-top was filled with a rowdy group. “And some new faces.”
Bennett’s thigh tensed underneath my hand.
“Awesome to see you all for Improv Night. Why don’t we start with a warm-up of one-minute monologues? This will be a round of celebrity impressions. All volunteers raise your hands.”
Bennett’s hands were firmly on the table and strangling his beer. Several from the ten-top shouted and raised hands.
The MC told them all to come up. The volunteers drew slips of paper from a mason jar on a stool next to the stage, apparently each choosing a celebrity to reenact. We were then entertained with a mediocre impression of Deadpool, a fantastic one of Ron Burgundy, and a terrible one of Professor McGonagall.
“I could’ve done a better Deadpool,” Bennett murmured as we clapped and they exited the stage, his expression relaxing.
“Well, you missed your chance on that one.”
“Now it’s time for our ‘awkward situations’ portion of the night,” said the MC. “Any volunteers?”
I shot my hand into the air.
“Shit,” Bennett hissed before blowing out a heavy breath and raising his as well.
I beamed at him.
When the MC pointed to us, I clapped with a little hoot and grabbed his hand to haul him up there. Bennett joined me easily, smirking down at me as I bounced in place, waiting for whatever assignment we were about to be given.
The MC greeted us and tucked his mic into his side. “So you guys are new to this, right?”
“To improv, yes,” I blurted giddily.
Bennett rolled his eyes at me.
“So, you’ll pick a scenario from the hat, then you have three minutes to reenact. There are no limits. Improv Night is adults only. So cursing, sexual references, whatever you want is a go.”
