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You know, if Katie were a man, we’d be formidable together. One of those power couples. We know each other, get each other. Why the hell don’t guys get girls?
Why are guysguys?
But that’s a moot point, and Katie and I clink glasses and drink. Awesome. The best margarita I’ve ever had. And it’s damn strong. “You’re going to get me wasted,” I say, but it’s a compliment, not a protest, because I’m going to need to be a little loopy to wear fishnet stockings, black boots, a leather G-string, and a bustier that presses my breasts up toward my chin.
“Good.” Katie knocks a little salt from her glass. “Hopefully you’ll have fun.”
“I’m going to be sitting with my boss. In what amounts to leather underwear.”
“Could be awkward, but I think you’ll handle the challenge beautifully.”
“Hmph.” I glower at her and then at the gray light coming through the kitchen window. The shorter days have arrived, and setting the clocks back an hour last Sunday didn’t help.
“Kirk will be there,” she reminds me. “You said you like him.”
“Yeah, I do like Kirk, but I still wish you were coming.” It’s going to be an incredible party. Katie would love it. She’s so much wilder than I am, and I’ve heard all the stories, how people parade around the decorated convention center like something from a twisted play—drag queens and divas, dominatrixes and sexual playthings. There are whips. Chains. Boots. Heels. Masks. And that’s just the beginning.
“Maybe next year.” Katie tops off our drinks, draining the blender. “You’ll just have to tell me the stories tomorrow when we meet for brunch.”
I nod. “You still want to go to the movies afterwards?”
“If you’re not too hung over.”
“I won’t be.”
She makes ahmphingsound, and I shrug.
“Okay, I might be a little buzzed, but I’ll be fine. Especially since we’re going to see Orlando Bloom’s new movie. I loved him inTroy.”
“I liked him inPirates of the Caribbeanbetter. He seems more innocent.”
“You like innocent?” I ask Katie as I lick my finger, sticky from the margarita.
“It’s sexy,” Katie answers.
“I like wicked.” I lick the other side of my finger. “I would have loved to be a pirate.”
“Apirate?”
“You didn’t ever want to be a pirate?”
“No.”
“How aboutdoa pirate?”
Katie groans. “You’re really buzzed.”
“I’m serious.” I lick the other side of my finger. “I’d love to be a pirate. Be a bad girl. Break all the rules. Fly in the face of convention.” I nod, thinking about it, picturing myself on a big ship flying over white-tipped waves, sails snapping, wood creaking and groaning. I’d be free. So free, and no one, noone, could tell me what to do. How to act. How to speak. “It’d be great.”
“You’re not a pirate kind of girl.”
“I could be.”
“You like nice things.”
“True,” I say, and yet I know I’d look damn good in long, tattered skirts and my leather bustier, big gold hoop earrings, and a knife tucked inside my boot. Maybe I’d even wear an eye patch. Have a parrot on my shoulder. I’d swagger, swear, spit. Sit with my legs far apart, and sip straight rum from a split coconut. “I could still have nice things. I’d buy nice things with my share of plunder.”
“Your plunder.” Katie’s trying hard not to laugh in my face.
