“No!” I protest. “He wouldn’t have sex with me. He stopped us—stopped me. Said he wouldn’t start something with me when we were both half-drunk. And I—I got mad. I was so horny, Audra, you don’t even know! But I didn’t realize how drunk I really was until I woke up this morning. He left mad last night because I was a bitch about it. And now I’m hungover and I’m scared I ruined things.”
“First, did he drive home?”
“Nuh-uh. He left his truck here and walked home.”
“Honestly, Imogen, I’m impressed. It takes a man with serious integrity and fortitude to turn down a girl who’s throwing herself at him when he’s as in the bag as she is. I think a lot of guys would have gone with it. It’s not like you were wasted and he was sober. It would have been informed consent, right?”
“Absolutely. But it wouldn’t have been what it should be, and that’s exactly what he said to me.” I sniffle. “And I was such a bitch about it.”
“Okay, a couple things, here. One, stop beating yourself up. He’ll understand. If he was willing and able to stop you both while under the influence, that means he’s really into you. So he’ll understand. Second, you need to sober up before you try to talk to him about it.”
“I’m trying. I ate, and I’ve had a boatload of coffee, and a lot of water.”
“You do know what the best cure for a hangover is, don’t you?”
I groan. “Don’t say it.”
“You need to sweat it out.”
“That sounds like a special circle of hell.”
She laughs. “I know, but trust me, it works.”
“I hate you.”
“Can you drive, or are you still too fucked up?” she asks.
“I don’t think I should. I’m still a little unsteady.”
“Okay, then just wait for me. I’m working at the gym across town today. I’m done with this client, and I have some time before my next one, so I’ll come over and kick your ass.”
“I don’t wanna,” I whine, only partially joking.
“I know, but it’ll do you good, and you’ll feel better when I’m done with you.”
“Fine,” I grumble. “But I’m gonna hate it.”
“You’ll thank me later. Now get that big beautiful ass of yours into workout gear. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“Big?” I squeal. “You think my ass is big?”
Audra sighs. “Imogen. This is not news to you. And it’s a good thing—I guarantee you your sexy Mr. Tighty Blackies harbors a deep and eternal appreciation for the size and shape of your derrière.” I hear gym noises, and then parking lot noises, and then her car door open and close and the dinging as she starts the car. “But, if you’re really feeling self-conscious about it, come into the gym with me a few times a week and we can work on toning it up.”
“It’s not just my butt that needs toning, unfortunately,” I lament.
A laugh. “No, it never is. But fortunately for you, your best friend is a master personal trainer. Commit the time and effort to me, and I’ll have you in killer shape in no time.”
“If by killer you mean kill me, then yes,” I say, in a droll tone. “Love you,” I intone in a nasally drawl.
“What would you do without me?”
“Let’s not find out,” I say.
Audra arrives ten minutes later. She’s decked out in workout gear—hot pink Lycra capris, a thin white hoodie zipped less than halfway up, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, nothing on beneath it but a royal blue sports bra, and cross trainer shoes that look like Jackson Pollock got hold of them—an explosion of colors in drips and stripes and dots and smears. She pops her trunk and pulls out two black kettlebells, closes her trunk with her elbow, and carries the weight to the middle of my front yard. I’m in all black—full-length yoga pants, black sports bra, black tank top, and my trusty old New Balance running shoes.
For the next forty-five minutes, Audra tortures me to within an inch of my life, all with a single 25lb kettlebell—she makes me swing it, hold it and do squats, press it over my head, bend over and row it, sit and do twists with it, stand and just hold it as long as I can. She doesn’t allow me any rest, either, or very little. Just enough to catch my breath, and then she’s slave-driving me on to the next movement, until I’m whimpering from exhaustion and sweat is dripping in buckets from every pore.
When she finally tells me we’re done, I collapse onto my back in the grass, gasping raggedly.
She sits down beside me, barely breathing hard and with a dainty sheen of sweat on her forehead. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I rip a handful of grass out and toss it at her. “You suck.”
She just laughs and tickles my nose with a blade of grass. “You secretly love it, don’t you? That feeling of exhaustion after a hard workout is addicting, isn’t it?”
I laugh. “I don’t know about that, Audra. I mean, yeah, I do feel better now, so it works as a hangover cure, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be addicted to working out.”
She just pats my thigh. “We’ll get you there.”
I sit up, groaning a laugh at the soreness in all my muscles. “I can’t believe I got that drunk,” I say, grimacing at Audra. “It was so not cool of me.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Imogen. You were excited and nervous, and it’s been over ten years since you’ve had to worry about how to figure out a relationship with a new guy. Overindulging a little in response is perfectly normal.”
“So should I just, like, call him? Or have him come over so I can apologize in person?”
“Definitely don’t call him,” she says, weaving blades of grass together. “Or rather, don’t have that conversation over the phone. But don’t apologize, either. Just make it clear you haven’t changed your mind about what you want, that it wasn’t the booze talking.”
I frown, disagreeing with my friend—and not for the first time. “I overindulged by a lot, and was a super bitch when he was being the amazing gentleman he is. I’m apologizing. I owe him that much at least.” I feel my cheeks heating. “But I’ll definitely be making it clear that I haven’t changed my mind about what I want, and that it wasn’t the booze making me so horny.”
Audra grins and wiggles her butt with her arms over her head, doing a seated version of an erotic dance. “Get—it—on, girlfriend!”
I slap her on the arm, but I’m laughing with her, because that’s exactly what I plan on doing. After I make amends for my idiotic behavior.
Putting her kettlebells back in the trunk of her car, Audra leaves, after eliciting a BFF-double-pinkie-promise from me that I’ll start working out with her at least twice a week, if not three times.
With Audra gone, I head back inside and clean up from last night, and spend the afternoon on additional house chores—deep cleaning the baseboards and dusting in weird places and scrubbing the shower. When my house is as clean as it can be, I finally take a long, leisurely, scalding hot bubble bath in my clawfoot tub; the tub was one of the main selling points of this house for me, along with the backyard and the plentiful windows. When I’m clean, shaved, and trimmed, I do something I haven’t done in quite a long time: I brush out and curl my hair into loose spirals, put on makeup, and zip myself into my favorite going-out dress, a little red dress with a mid-thigh hemline, a plunging neckline, a low back, and plenty of cling on my generous curves. My gold heels and some understated jewelry completes the outfit, along with a little clutch containing my wallet, phone, lip gloss, and the other essentials.
By this time it’s past eight in the evening, and I opt to text Jesse instead of calling him: Are you and your friend at Billy Bar?
He answers a few minutes later: Yep. You feeling okay? ;-)
The winking face makes me think he may not be too mad at me, which lifts my spirits a little.
Me: I was pretty rough this morning, but my best friend is a personal trainer, so she came over and helped me sweat it out. I’m feeling much better now. I was thinking I would come out a
nd meet the rest of your friends.
Jesse: Cool to have friends like that. A good workout after a big night is always a good way to get past a hangover. I did the same thing this morning myself.
Jesse: I’d love it if you came out. It’s just me, Ryder, Franco, and James.
Jesse: I can’t say I’m sticking to water, but I’m definitely taking it easy tonight.
Me: Yeah, I will be too.
Jesse: So I’ll see you soon?
Me: In just a few minutes. Leaving now.
Instead of typing a reply, he merely sends a looped gif of Carlton from Fresh Prince of Belair doing the Carlton Dance, which makes me snort in laughter as I get into my car.
I park in the middle of the Billy Bar lot, next to Jesse’s truck—which is the fourth in a lineup of big, masculine trucks decked out with racks and lights and toolboxes and, in Franco’s case, a bed cap. I assume the one truck I’m not familiar with is Ryder’s. Instead of a big, rugged pickup, Ryder’s is a classic 1940s Chevy box truck, heavily customized and beautifully restored. I remember Jesse saying Ryder is an electrician, so it makes sense he’d need a special truck to hold all the special equipment.
Next to their big butch man-mobiles, my little red 1998 Toyota Camry looks like a Matchbox toy.
I’ve driven past Billy Bar a zillion times, having been born and raised in this area, but I’ve never been inside—it’s just not the sort of place I, or anyone I know, would typically go. When you think of a local dive, Billy Bar is the kind of place you think of. It’s an old Pizza Hut building that was converted and renovated into a bar when I was in high school. It will forever be a Pizza Hut building—there’s no disguising that unmistakable roof. I’m not sure what to expect inside, but my Judgy McJudgerson instincts have me expecting the worst—dank, dark, sticky, smoky, and possibly featuring a stripper pole in the back, with lots of neon everywhere.
Inside, it’s well-lit, clean, smoke-free, stripper pole-free, with zero neon. Instead, the walls feature a lot of huge beer company mirrors, posters of classic motorcycles and hot rods, posters for car parts and oil and transmission fluids, and even an antique gas pump mounted on the wall. On another wall is what looks like a deconstructed transmission or something, with each piece mounted in place a few inches from the adjoining parts. The bar stretches along most of the length of one side of the building; the bar top itself is a single enormous piece of polished and stained hardwood, mounted on a long series of truck bed gates. The stools are motorcycle seats complete with old license plates and tail lights, mounted on giant springs. The owners left the windows in place, so there’s actually natural light coming in, as well as plenty of warm, soft incandescent lighting; they got rid of the original can lighting and replaced it with hanging light fixtures made from old steering wheels strung with loose, dangling Edison bulbs. There are booths lining the walls, each made from the benches of old cars and trucks, complete with seat belts and buckles, and there are a dozen or so high-top tables in the middle, also crafted from car parts and other industrial materials. The whole effect is rugged and masculine and inviting and cool. In a back corner by the entrance to the kitchen there’s a pair of pool tables, a handful of coin-op arcade games, and a dartboard, which is where I find Jesse and his crew.
They’re crowded around Franco, who is hunched over a pinball machine; the boys are all shouting at him in what sounds like a mixture of insults and advice. As I close in, I can see why they’re all so excited—Franco is within a thousand points of the high score, set by JB, with the second highest score set by JON, which I assume is James Bod and Jesse O’Neill. As I watch, Franco passes the high score, and then taps out less than a hundred points past the high score.
“Boom, bitch!” Franco says, smacking the side of the machine, and then whirling to face James. “Beat you!” And then he dances over to face Jesse. “And you!”
James swigs from a bottle, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Oh ye of little faith. You know you can’t top the pinball master for long.”
Jesse snorts. “Okay, pinball master. The only reason my score is second highest is because Ryder’s clumsy ass spilled his beer on me. You know I’d have smashed that high score otherwise. I’ve been beating you in pinball since third grade.”
“You mean we’ve been going back and forth since third grade,” James shoots back.
“Sure, go ahead and think that. But let’s review the facts. Who still holds the high score on the Voltron machine at Electric Ed’s back by our old high school? That’d be me. Who holds the high score in the bar we went to in college? Oh, that’s right! That’d be me. I’ve been to both places recently, and I’m still on top, baby!”
I laugh, startling all of them. “Arguing about pinball game scores? At your ages?”
They turn away from the game and Franco chuckles. “You have no clue who you’re talking to, do you? To these two yokels, pinball isn’t just a game, it’s a religion.”
Jesse and James bump fists. “Pinball isn’t just a game,” Jesse reiterates, “it’s the ultimate test of focus, reflexes, and manual dexterity.”
When the laughter dies down, the handsome redhead in the group turns to me.
“Ryder,” he says, in a deep, silky voice. “You must be Imogen.”
“My fame precedes me, I see,” I joke. “Nice to meet you, Ryder. Hi guys, good to see you again.”
James and Franco I’ve both met, but Ryder I haven’t, yet. He’s a redhead, complete with pale skin and freckles. His hair is short on the sides and messy on top, with a full beard trimmed close, somewhere between too long for stubble and too short for a true beard. He’s just as good-looking as his three friends, and just as different in build; Ryder is the shortest of the four, only a few inches taller than me, but he’s impressively and scarily muscular. He has a calm, warm air to him, though, and his smile is bright and eager, and his grip as he shakes my hand is gentle.
“Your fame does indeed precede you,” Ryder says, laughing. “This butthead won’t shut up about you.” He finishes this with a jerk of his thumb at Jesse.
Who, I believe, just might be blushing under that bushy beard.
“I talked about her one time, dude. Once. Hardly counts as won’t shut up about her.” Jesse narrows his eyes at Ryder. “And you’re one to talk. The last girl you dated, you were all ‘Elizabeth this, and Elizabeth that’ for three months straight, until you realized she was batshit crazy and dumped her loony-ass.”
Ryder shrugs. “Loony, yes, but her ass was also tighter than a fuckin’—” he cuts off with an embarrassed grin at me. “Uh, I mean—she was…she had a…umm…”
“Hey, you’re a group of guys at your local place. No need to filter your conversation for my sake,” I say with a laugh. “Besides, it’s not like I’m unaware of how men talk.”
Jesse just guffaws, smacking Ryder on the back. “Tight ass or not, she was a nutjob.”
I drink a couple beers with the guys as we talk, and it’s surprisingly fun and easy to hang out with them. They had lots of funny stories about various construction jobs and I had a few stories of my own about the crazy stuff that can happen in the medical business. After a couple of hours, James and Ryder excuse themselves to go to the bathroom, and Franco heads outside to return a phone call, leaving Jesse and me alone. The music in the bar is loud enough to drown out the conversations around us, but not so loud that we have to shout to be heard.
I trace the rim of my glass with a fingertip. “So, about last night—”
Jesse holds up a hand. “Imogen, I know you’re probably—”
“Wait, wait, please—just hear me out first.” I cover his hand with mine. “I wanted to apologize for how I acted. I was a lot more drunk than I thought I was, and you were just being a gentleman and doing something amazing, and I was an ornery bitch to you. So, I’m sorry. And thank you. Thank you for being you, for taking care of me and being honorable and a gentleman even when I was being…well, the way I was.”
“No n
eed to apologize, Imogen—I just don’t want you to think I didn’t want—”
I lean close and speak over him, keeping my voice low. “I have absolutely zero doubts about that, Jesse.”
“You seemed pretty pissed. I was worried you’d still be mad.”
“And I was worried I’d ruined things with my drunken idiocy. But to answer your question, the instant I woke up, my first thought was ‘oh shit, I’m hungover,’ and my second thought was, ‘oh shit, I really messed up with Jesse.’”
“So you understand why I stopped us?” he asks, his hands engulfing mine.
“I’m glad you did what you did, Jesse. I’m grateful. I was so horny I couldn’t stand it, and I wanted you so bad, and I just wasn’t thinking straight. After you left I stood up, and that’s when I discovered exactly how drunk I was.”
He breathes out sharply through his nostrils, jaw flexing. “Not taking you when you were offering yourself up to me like a gift-wrapped present was, very literally, the second hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
I tilt my head to one side. “Second hardest?”
He nods. “The first hardest is connected to that situation I don’t like talking about. It’s a major downer, and I’m a lot more interested in this conversation.”
“Then forget I asked.” I gaze up at him through my eyelashes, shifting my weight forward and squeezing my tits together with my arms as I lean toward him. “The only real difference between last night and tonight is that tonight I’m totally sober.”
“In that case, I just have two questions for you. One, do you work in the morning?”
I shake my head. “No. Well, not early, at least. I go in at eleven.”
“Good, because that leads me to my second question.” His thumb rubs circles against the back of my hand, and his eyes flick between my eyes and my cleavage. “You want to get out of here?”
12
Jesse doesn’t even bother saying goodbye or making excuses to his friends—the moment I whisper, “Yes,” he takes me by the hand and hauls me faster than my heels will safely allow out of the bar to his truck. My initial impression was that we’d get in our separate cars and drive back to my house, since that’s where we’ve always spent time together. But no. He’s got other ideas.