Page 32 of Him
I shake my head. “Never have wheels, so I always drink in town.”
“We’ll give it a try,” he says.
13
Jamie
There are a million cars outside Lou’s because the place shares a parking lot with a Dairy Queen. We park on the road and walk through the cricket-filled darkness to the decently sized roadside bar.
Lou’s has an Adirondack theme, and they’re working it pretty hard. The requisite old wooden paddles hang from the paneled walls. An inverted canoe is suspended on hooks from the ceiling. The drink specials are named for nearby peaks.
Of course they are.
“Okay, so you’ll have the Nippletop, and I’ll have the Dix Mountain.” Wes is already enjoying himself.
“Dude, if the Nippletop has peach schnapps in it, I will hurt you.”
He grins, and it’s wicked. “How do you feel about elderflower vodka?”
“Not funny.” I wave down the bartender. “I’ll have a Saranac IPA. Thanks.”
Wes flips the drink menu onto the bar. “Make that two, please.” He puts a twenty down, and when I reach for my wallet, he waves me off. “I’ll get these.”
We take our beers to a high table, both of us doing a little people watching. I don’t see any girls I want to chat up, but that’s fine because that’s not what I came here for, anyway.
Wes fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Should have shut this thing off,” he says. Then he squints at the screen.
“What?”
“It’s a Brandr notification. Somebody’s trying to chat me. And it says ‘less than 100 feet away.’”
I almost choke on a swallow of my beer. “Some guy in here?” Then I’m swiveling my head in every direction, wondering who it is.
Wes kicks me under the table. “Cut that out.”
But it’s too late. At the far end of the room, there’s a guy in a Fugees T-shirt looking this way. He’s watching me. Then he smiles.
“Oh, fuck,” I hiss out.
Wes is laughing. “Dude, you just picked up a guy.”
“What?” I’m sweating now. And I can’t beat the crap out of my best friend because the guy has almost reached our table.
“Hey,” he says, giving me a grin. Then he looks at Wes. “Wait.” He chuckles. “Which of you…?”
Oh my fucking God.
“It’s my profile,” Wes says, and I can tell he’s trying very hard not to bust a gut. “You like?”
“You fishing for compliments?” The guy winks. He’s a few years older than us, with dark, shiny hair. “I need another beer. Can I buy a round?”
“I’m good,” I say quickly.
“One for you, then,” he says, pointing at Wes. Then he slips away to the bar.
When he’s gone, Wes puts his face in his hands and laughs. “Jesus, the look on your face!”
Ugh. “Why did he think it was me, anyway?”
