Page 24 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
Blue, massive and silent beside me, just nods. He gets it. With all the meditating he does, he’s practically a Zen master by now, and Zen masters know something divine when they see it.
Sheisdivine, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t the tiniest bit relieved when she’s finished murdering Duran Duran’s legacy and shouts, rock-star style, “Thank you, Metairie! You’ll be glad to hear that I willnotbe up here again tonight!”
“Thank God!” an old man nursing a Gecko Glitter Bomb shouts from the bar.
“I think that gave me a fresh case of PTSD,” another old-timer in a POW hat heckles from the line to donate blood.
“And a concussion!” someone else hollers.
“Be nice or I’ll put my name in for ‘Eye of the Tiger,’ you filthy animals,” Makena says, flipping the peanut gallery the bird. The crowd erupts in laughter and drunken applause. She takesan exaggerated bow and hops off stage with more grace than someone who’s had two Trash Pandas and a sip of Blue’s Angry Goose should possess.
“Well, that was fun,” she says breathlessly as she slides into the booth beside me. “I mean, for me. Sorry the rest of you had to hear that.”
“It was brave all right,” Nix says, toasting her with his stank ass drink.
It wafts too close to my nose, and I fight the urge to gag.
I hold up my hand, shooing him away. “Fuck, man, keep that shit to yourself. What were you thinking, ordering that?”
“That Pepé Le Pew Pew was a funny-sounding drink,” he says, taking a sip of the black poison still lightly smoking in his goblet, thanks to whatever dark magic Cobb worked on it behind the bar.
“Pepé Le Pew was a skunk,” I remind him. “You didn’t stop to think your drink might end up stinking up the joint?”
Nix shakes his head pleasantly. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t think even a weird dive bar would serve you something this foul. But it’s not nearly as awful as it smells. It’s actually pretty tasty. The more I drink it, the more I like it.”
Makena grins. “Classic Brass Monkey. Cobb makes the drinks so strong, you have no choice but to fall in love. Even with the disgusting ones.”
“Yeah,” Nix agrees, nodding as he takes another sip. “Though I kind of wish I knew what was in it. Like…just to be sure I’m not ingesting actual poison.”
“Charcoal vodka, black currant liqueur, a drop of roasted garlic oil, maple syrup, and something brined at the bottom,” Makena rattles off, making all our brows shoot up.
“What?” I ask, playing up my horror. “I thought you were a Trash Panda girl.”
“I am,” she says, snagging the last Slim Jim garnish from her glass with a grin. “But I’m also a chef, and a game of ‘guess the ingredients’ is too much fun to resist.”
She glances over her shoulder to the bar, where Cobb and his husband are slinging drinks as fast as their muscled arms can mix, stir, and shake. “But I’m worried about Cobb. It’s legitimately illegal not to list the ingredients on your menu. And yeah, he always asks people about life-threatening allergies, just in case, but sooner or later, a health inspector is going to find their way out here, and he’ll get a nasty fine.”
“Maybe he’ll get lucky and not get caught,” I say. “I once knew this woman who lived in her restaurant illegally for almost an entire year without anyone finding out about it. Slept on a shelf and everything.”
Makena’s gaze slides back to me, her eyes narrowing. “Touché, road meat.”
I arch a brow as I murmur, “I thought I wasn’t allowed to be road meat. Because I’m just a baby boy. And we’re roommates. And you’re saving yourself for the next finance bro with a mullet who brakes for you on the highway.”
Her jaw drops. “Oh my God, you stalked my ex?”
“I didn’t stalk him. I did some light internet investigation.” I sniff as I collect my Slim Jim from my now-empty glass. “And I barely had to exert myself at all to find half a dozen red flags on old Chuck. You really should do your research before you start dating someone, Mack. Especially a guy with a mullet.”
“It isn’t a mullet!” she insists. “It’s just the tiniest bit longer in the back.”
“And yet you knew exactly who I was talking about,” I counter, pointing my meat stick her way.
“And yetyouhave no shame about being a stalker who stalks,” she shoots back, meeting my challenge with an “en garde” of her own Slim Jim. She swats my jerky with hers as sheadds, “And I already told you, Chuck was a mistake. I was lonely and tired from working too hard, and my car had just died on the side of the road. He pulled over to save me and bought me donuts. What was I supposed to do?Notfuck him?”
“Yes,” I say, slapping her meat stick sharply on both sides.
“They were Voodoo Creamery Dark Chocolate Raspberry!” she cries, parrying my attack.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, meeting her swat for swat. “If women keep rewarding men with mullets with sex, then that horrible fucking hairstyle is just going to keep coming back from the dead.”
