“Okay, that’s enough,” I growl, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back. She cries out in sudden fear, a sound that snaps me out of my vitriol. I let her go immediately, and say, “Unless you want to work with your mouth taped shut, I suggest you shut the fuck up and get back to sewing.”
“Fine.”
She’s right about one thing: I haven’t visited Lance. It’s shitty of me, I know. I’ll have to rectify that soon. Hiding my embarrassment behind a stony poker face, I realize what a fool I was for conversing with her like this. Of course she thinks she’s blameless — I shouldn’t have given her a chance to spread her lies. At least no one heard them but me — that’s a small mercy.
What really gets me is how convinced she is of her story. How can she really believe Lance had an accident? If she hadn’t attacked him, he wouldn’t be in a coma — it’s that simple. She would have attacked me just now too if she could’ve. She may be small, but she’s violent.
Then, Quinn isn’t the first woman to get into an altercation with Lance; he did rub some of them the wrong way, if I’m being fair. None of them put Lance in a coma, but I can think of one who probably wanted to…
—
Lance barrels out the door of my Jeep before I’ve even shut the ignition. Neon beer signs blink through the windows of Champs & Tramps, casting a crimson glow against Lance’s pristine, white polo shirt and pink shorts. He keeps his sunglasses on, though it’s close to ten, and his short, platinum blonde hair stands in stiff spikes. He drenched it in so much product, I had to roll down a window on the drive.
“Dude, hold your fucking horses,” I say, jogging to catch up. Travis and Glenn take their time, still talking about the party at Lance’s dad’s house last night. I tune them out, and swallow my annoyance that no one invited me.
It wasn’t Lance’s party; it was the congressman’s. No shit, you weren’t invited.
Still, not cool.
I get in the door only seconds after Lance, but already he’s at the bar, cash in hand, angling to get the bartender’s attention. Tall, thin and stacked, she wears black spandex shorts and a tight, yellow tube top, and covers her hair in a backward hat. So does the other bartender, and the waitresses. Champs & Tramps charges too much for beer and the food sucks, but no one here cares. No one who works here rates lower than an eight.
High-end flatscreens hang from every inch of wall available; right now they’ve got on baseball, hockey and boxing, and every few minutes there’s a surge of cheers and chatter from the crowd. Electric jangling occasionally cuts through from the bar’s arcade machines; a modern jukebox flashes a strobe light, but largely sits ignored in the corner.
“Hey, get me a pitcher,” Lance shouts out over the noise.
The bartender waves her hand at the line of people around the bar and holds up a finger.
“Fucking bitches,” he gripes as I edge in next to him. He doesn’t lower his voice.
“Chill, dude. It’s cool. They’re not running out of beer.”
He keeps staring at the bartender. “Yeah, it’s fine. I could watch that ass all night.”
I might not say it out loud, but I don’t disagree. We watch her work for a few minutes before she finally pours Lance his pitcher.
“Fifteen,” she says, setting the beer down.
“Start a tab, babe,” Lance says. “We’ll be back.”
“You got the money in your hand,” she points out.
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” he says. “Would you believe me if I told you I could pick up the tab for everyone here?”
Smirking, she asks, “You want to? I’ll ring it out right now.”
Lance picks up the pitcher and empty glasses. “Keep these coming, I’ll think about it.”
“Thanks,” I say, patting Lance on the shoulder and pointing to Travis and Glenn, who have found an empty booth and are watching us like prairie dogs.
He’s not joking about paying for the whole bar — he could. His dad’s fucking loaded. Mr. Prescott would probably chew us out for an hour if he did it though — how would it look on the news, especially with an election a month away? Not that he’s worried about losing — but still. Lance and I have given him enough headaches.
At the booth, I pour the pitcher out for us, and sip mine slowly. I tune out their talk about the party and drink.
“She wasn’t that hot,” Lance says, shrugging. “Not like these chicks. But it wasn’t that kinda party, so I thought, whatever. Apparently she’s like a state senator’s daughter, I don’t remember. Gave good head though.”
Travis and Glenn laugh. I finish my glass. Lance holds up the empty pitcher until a waitress waves at him. We all stare as she struts up to the table with a fake smile.
“Here you go, boys,” she purrs.