Page 33 of All That Glitters
“I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do I,” Veronica said. “We’re just using it as a prop. It’s mysterious, and guys love it. It’s like a phallic symbol or something. Studies have shown that something like ninety-nine percent of guys’ brains are geared towards sex. So to them, theysee a cigarette, and it unconsciously reminds them of sex. I mean, hell, you could probably sneeze and it would remind them of sex.”
Debbie considered this. “Maybe I should just go over and sneeze on that guy. It feels more on-brand for me.”
“Debbie.” Veronica took her by the shoulders, forcing her to meet her gaze. “You can do this. It’s just practice. A warm-up. Like downing a shot before you sing karaoke. Just go over there, light up, make some eye contact, smile mysteriously, and let him do most of the talking.”
“And if he asks me something?”
“Give vague, intriguing answers. Be alluring. Be the woman of mystery.”
“I’m about as mysterious as a golden retriever,” Debbie muttered.
“It doesn’t matter. You look hot. Now go.” Veronica gave her a little shove that nearly sent Debbie careening into a nearby table. “Shock and awe, roomie. And stop tugging down your hem.”
“I hate you,” Debbie called back over her shoulder as she stumbled forward.
At the bar, Mark the Mustache finished his neon-blue drink and plopped the glass down, signaling the bartender for a refill. Debbie took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then walked up with the stiff-legged gait of someone walking a gangplank.
She slid awkwardly onto the stool next to him, immediately tugging down the hem of her dress. Mark glanced over, trying for a look of smooth, casual interest that came across as slightly predatory. His mustache, waxed to precise points, twitched with anticipation.
Debbie mustered her courage and dug the cigarette from her tiny purse. It emerged not as a sleek white cylinder, but as a sad, broken L-shape. Oh well. Commit to the bit. She stuck it between her lips anyway. Backwards. The filter side pointed out. Shefelt a crumb of tobacco on her tongue, recoiled, and pulled the cigarette out to not-so-discreetly spit the speck onto the floor. It landed on her shoe instead. She sighed and slipped the cigarette back in her mouth, the right way this time, then began digging through her purse for a lighter she didn’t own.
“Allow me,” Mark said, his voice a low purr that made her skin crawl. He produced a gold-plated Zippo from his pocket, flicking it open with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this for countless other women, and touched the flame to the tip of her cigarette.
“Uhm. Thanks,” she mumbled around the filter.
Mark waved down the bartender with the casualness of someone who’d done this a million times. “Todd! Why don’t you fix the lady a vodka. She looks like she could use it.”
The bartender nodded and reached for a bottle.
Debbie, feeling the performance pressure from both Mark and Veronica, who Debbie spotted watching her from across the bar, took what she hoped was a tentative, sophisticated drag. But her lungs, apparently, hadn’t gotten the memo. An eruption of coughs racked her entire body like a small earthquake. Her elbow swung and nailed the glass of vodka the bartender had just placed in front of her, sending it splashing across the bar in a sticky stream.
“Oops,” Debbie wheezed between coughs.
“Can we get another vodka over here, Todd,” Mark said, patting Debbie on the back with a little too much familiarity. “New smoker, I take it?” he asked her.
“Very,” she wheezed, her eyes watering and throat on fire. “Very, very new.” She glanced over at Veronica, who mouthed either ‘Sexy!’ or ‘Sorry!’.
“Pro tip,” Mark said, leaning in. “It helps if you blow the smoke out instead of, you know, trying to digest it.”
She nodded, then broke into another fit of coughs that made her eyes water and her mascara run. So much for looking mysterious and alluring. She probably looked like a raccoon caught in a rainstorm.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” Mark said, laying on the charm despite the disastrous opening. “You come here often?”
She shook her head, still coughing. “First time.” She scooted the ashtray over and, without thinking, spat out another piece of tobacco that had somehow found its way onto her tongue. Mark actually looked a bit embarrassed for her, his smug confidence wavering in the face of her spectacular ineptitude.
“My name’s Mark,” he said, trying desperately to salvage what was rapidly becoming the most disastrous pickup attempt in human history. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Debbie,” she managed to get out between coughs.
Debbie decided to give it one more try at looking sultry and mysterious. She took another drag, smaller this time, but her lungs were having none of it. She broke into a huge, hacking cough, and the lit cigarette, its ember glowing red hot, shot from her mouth like a tiny missile. It flew through the air and landed with a sizzle right in the middle of the puddle of spilled vodka.
A thin line of blue flame raced across the polished wood of the bar.
“Oh, crap,” Debbie gasped, watching the flames spread. “Crap, crap, crap.”
Debbie’s brain was running now on sheer panic and reflex. FIRE! Her brain screamed at her. THROW LIQUID ON FIRE! This would have been a great idea if the liquid in question had been water instead of what was essentially rocket fuel in a fancy glass. She grabbed the first glass of liquid she saw, which happened to be Mark’s freshly refilled glass of vodka, and threw its entire contents onto the flames.
