“You. Me. Grace. Drinks tonight.”
“It’s not girls’ night.”
We have a weekly mandatory girls’ night.
“Yeah … and? We don’t only get together on girls’ nights.”
“I know.” I yawn. “I changed into comfy clothes and was about to order food and call it a night.”
“Lame,” she sings out. “Let’s go out. Eat bad food. Then we can call it a night.”
“Fine,” I groan. “But I’m not dressing up, so pick somewhere chill.”
“That makes two of us. Wear sweats. Wear jeans. Wear a onesie. I’ll pick you up. Drinks and dinner are on me.”
I change into leggings and a sweatshirt, throw my hair into a ponytail, and wait for Georgia to pick me up.
Georgia and Grace have been my best friends since I moved to Anchor Ridge in high school. I was the new girl at their school. We met at a party, where I witnessed Grace turn a guy down. He gave her a hard time, so I stood up for her. After that, we became inseparable, forming our best-friend trio. I don’t know what I’d do without them.
We come from different backgrounds, and our personalities are diverse, but I could never see myself without them in my life. I’m private yet mouthy and sarcastic while Georgia is in your face and loud. Grace is quiet, soft-spoken, the girl-next-door type. Our differences balance each other out.
“Seriously?” I ask when Georgia pulls into Luna Bar’s parking lot.
She whips into a space, shifts the car into park, and peers over at me. “What?”
I’ve never had an issue with Luna Bar. We’ve hung out in what I’d consider the mid-grade bar a few times. Cohen always discounts our food and liquor, and there’s a sense of security with him watching over us. But after the Silas situation, I’m not sure how seeing him will be. Since he works at Luna, I should’ve thought twice before giving him a fake number. After our conversation the other day, there’s no doubt he’ll give me shit if he’s working tonight.
I hold back the urge to ask Georgia if he is. She’ll think I’m interested.
“Oh, nothing,” I mutter. “I just thought we’d mix it up tonight.”
“You said casual, and this is pretty casual.”
Fingers crossed that Silas isn’t working tonight.
Too bad, deep down, I’m secretly hoping he is.
Chapter Five
Silas
I grin cheesier than I should when Lola plops down on a stool at the bar. Like last time, I ignore customers and head directly to her. “Aw, babe. You came to see your boy.”
Screw tips.
I’d rather hang out with her.
The desire to sleep with her is now off the table. I want to keep it strictly platonic. Not only do I not want her to hate me, but I’m also a little scared of her being around my dick. She might chop it off or some shit.
Thou shall not risk your manhood for crazy chicks, even if you think they’d be an amazing lay.
Grace and Georgia take the seats on each side of her. They were cool at the barbecue, much nicer than Name Swapper. Grace is a bit shy, and her striped dress fits her personality. Georgia is quite the smart-ass but not as evil as Lola and reminds me of a damn flower child every time I see her.
But I have no desire toward them—only Lola. I guess evil is my type. I’d be the first to die in a horror movie. I’d go straight to the serial killer if she had dark hair, a glare that I found sexy as fuck, and a body that put an hourglass to shame.
That excitement rises at the realization she’s sitting on my side of the bar, not Cohen’s. Technically, there aren’t any available stools on Cohen’s side, but I won’t allow that detail to ruin my Lola high. I’d bet tonight’s tips that she could ask any dude to give up his stool for her, and he would.
She laughs at my greeting. “You wish.”
I nod toward her messy ponytail and casual outfit. “I see you dressed up for the occasion too.”
That comment results in her flipping me off.
The night we met, she was in a short black dress.
She wore black shorts, a crop top, and wedges at the barbecue.
And tonight, even in her baggy sweatshirt and tangled hair, she’s just as gorgeous.
I motion toward Cohen, who’s busy shaking a martini. “Why are you not sitting over there then?”
“Faster drinks. We figured fewer people would be on this side of the bar.” She bites into the corner of her plump lip. “Word is, you make watered-down margaritas, and Noah could mix up better drinks than you. I’m steering clear of that, and I’ll have a simple glass of wine. Surely, you can’t mess that up.”
“An order of hot wings and onion rings for each of us too,” Georgia adds, draping her purse along the back of her stool. “We’re starving, and Lola gets meaner when she’s hungry. You’ve been forewarned.”
“First off,” I say, pointing at Lola, “I’m frightened of a meaner version of you. Second, even though I’ve concluded that you three are monsters, I will not allow wings and onion rings to be served alongside wine.” I shudder at the horrific combination. “Wings and onion rings go well with margaritas. I’ll prove your drink slander wrong.”
Lola shrugs. “Fine, but don’t let us down.”
“I’ve never been known to let a woman down.” I wink.
Georgia scoffs, “Pickup lines that lame won’t work on her. Do better than that. Assholes are Lola’s kink.”
Grace nods in agreement.
“Yep,” Lola says. “Cutesy isn’t my thing.”
I smirk. “Lucky for you, I’m not cutesy, sweetheart.”
“Sweetheart is a cutesy sentiment,” she fires back.
“Fine, I’ll make your pain-in-the-ass self a drink. How’s that for cutesy?”
“Doing better.”
I walk away to start their drinks. It’s a weeknight, so we’re slower. Slower means fewer tips but more time to bullshit with Lola.
You can’t have the best of both worlds.
I use every skill I learned during bartending school to make their margaritas and spend more time on them than I should. Hell, I didn’t try this hard when I made last year’s Super Bowl MVP a drink.
There are a few secrets to creating the perfect margarita: chill the glass for five minutes, use fresh lime juice—none of that imitation shit—and always add top-shelf silver tequila. To spruce it up, I add strawberry, grapefruit, and basil.
Pride rolls through me as I hand them over, giving Lola hers first. I stand in anticipation, waiting for her to taste it.
She takes a slow sip, shuts one eye as if in deep concentration, and then takes another. Licking her lips, she says, “Not too bad.”
“Not too bad?” I make a chef’s kiss gesture. “It’s perfection.”
“Aw,” Lola says mockingly, her eyes meeting mine in amusement. “Does that upset your ego?”
“It does actually because there are two things I’m known for—my drinks and making women come back for more.”
She scrunches up her face. “Cheesy and cutesy. Ew.”