“Eh, a little. You?”
“Chevelle, first of all, you remember me from day one. I don’t ask shit that I don’t mean. I’m good. If I weren’t, I’d tell you. So, what is it?”
“Just missing Leith.”
She doesn’t respond with the usualwhite people problemssince my husband works far from home. Justice asks, “Alright, is this a cognac-and-a-shoulder kind of night?”
“Did I say all of that?” I reply, head cocked. “I just want a girls’ night. Can you do that?”
“Before I put all these heavenly curves into some Spanx, are we hitting up El Toritos? I have a few coupons.”
“Damn, they have the best salsa. But, nah, we’re going to Michie’s.”
“Now, why would I visit my job if I’m taking the night off? Fine ass Asian aside, Chevelle, make itmakesense, girl.”
“Because I’m making El Cheapo give us an even better discount.”
Chapter 22
Chevelle
The aestheticsof Michie’s lounge always wowed me. When I was younger—too young to bartend—sleazy bar managers would hire me. The second Leith came into the place, either they’d cut my hours, wondering if Nan sent me, or they’d fire me right off the bat. The underworld can be a bizarre place.
When Leith went off to MIT, I had my bartending license. I soon stumbled into Michie’s. I fell in love with the fluidity. The daughter of a once high-powered Chicago attorney finally knew what she wanted to do with her life.
The day I came in, Michie stood in the shadows. Pushing a long, sleek, jet-black strand behind his ear, the bastard had the nerve to tell me he didn’t hire fish outta fresh water. He even said it in a calm tone. I told him I had been bartending since I was sixteen. He snorted how I didn’t look a day over twenty-one, wiggling his fingers as if that should send me along.
Now, he drums the quartz countertop. He’s got a bit of salt in his pepper hair and dark eyes that smile at you. Justice and I have seized a place at the bar, though the best seats are in the shadows.
With a smooth tone, he jokes, “The two of you keep stealing cocktail umbrellas, and you’re gonna find yourselves outside on those pretty little asses.”
Justice and I both look at one hip and then the other before laughing with each other.
“Who's he talking to, Justice?” I cock a brow. “I’ve got thighs as big as my dreams.”
“Humph. Can’t be me. This right here is the wam-bam combo!” she exclaims, gesturing to each of her thighs.
“Girls, we’re playing that game, eh? Justice, where should I send your last check?” He winks again. Dammit, if it were anyone but him, this flirting would have gotten old.
“I hate to do this, but,” Justice holds her hands up, “it’s all Chevelle.”
“Damn, straight under the bus,” I mutter. “It was a team effort. Thank you very much. But if your tight-fisted ass is begging to be paid back, Michie, I’ll work Justice’s next shift. Don’t pay me. Momma is damn good at stashing tips.”
Leaving the Resnov vodka, he retreats, muttering in Japanese about hiring a MacKenzie.
“That’s a no?” I lean forward, calling after him. Since I’m leaning all the way over, I think, why not?
Justice and I giggle as I grip the nozzle of a top-shelf whiskey and pour another round. A little while later, we enter the second phase of our drinking session. Round one was for laughing and shit talking. This is the one where it’s easier to open up. I wait until Michie and the other male bartender are on the opposite side of the room. Sighing, I mutter, “Leith’s keeping something from me.”
“Ohhhh, no,” Justice groans.
I appreciate having this sisterhood. Though I love my huge MacKenzie family, Justice and I fix each other’s crown without telling the world that they're crooked.
“He’s away, and then he’s home. While he’s home, he’s far away,” I slur in contemplation.
“See, I can’t with white people. How do you—”
“Justice,” I stress.