Page 21 of Real Dirty
My eyebrows shoot up. “Blow as in ...”
“Yep. Coke. And not the kind you’re drinking.”
“But he’s an accountant. How does that make any sense?”
Hope straightens and laughs. “Honey, it doesn’t matter if he was a priest. Everyone’s got a vice.”
A tourist in one of those straw cowboy hats hollers from down the bar, while Hope’s three other bartenders are hustling drinks and putting on a show tossing bottles here and there. Just the thought of taking a chance of breaking one is enough to make me cringe.
“I gotta sling some more drinks. I’ll be back when I can.”
Wednesday night is the slowest night of the week for the Fishbowl, which makes it perfect for my one day off. Before my last boyfriend and I broke up, I’d usually stay at his place on Wednesdays, but that ended months ago. He was pissed I couldn’t make more time for him, and I thought he was playing a double standard since he was gone every weekend playing drums with different bands, trying to make it big.
Hope used to give me shit about Joey, saying I was bending my anti-celebrity rule, but I disagreed wholeheartedly. Sure, he’d get women hitting on him just like any band member did, but it wasn’t because of who he was. It was only because they saw him onstage. It’s not like anyone actually knew his name when they saw him play, and certainly no one would ever remember him five minutes after he stepped away from his drum kit.
I’ve never quite understood the allure of banging a guy in a band. So what if he’s in the spotlight for a few sets? Why does that make him any more attractive than a guy in the crowd buying you drinks and having a good time?
“Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here. What with you being the anti-fun.”
Brandy’s smoke-roughened voice cuts into my semi-intoxicated contemplation.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Her cackle sets me on edge. I swear, my aunt must have done drugs or drank while she was pregnant with Brandy, because the girl just isn’t right. I want to say it’s not her fault, but the nastiness she displays isn’t an accident.
“Why do you think?”
She shoots me a look, and it doesn’t take a genius to fill in the blanks. I’m sure there are plenty of clueless tourists here to buy her drinks while she feeds them some bullshit story about trying to make it in Nashville. Cue eye roll. Then I remember I’m pissed at her for a specific reason instead of my normal general annoyance.
“Well, Pop’s not here to narc to, so clearly that’s not it.” I reach for my drink and tip the rest of it back.
Brandy glares at me. “He should know what’s happening. It isn’t my fault his daughter is a complete screwup, running the Fishbowl into the ground.”
Her insult stings when it lands, and I desperately want another drink. Thankfully, Hope spots my anxious look and comes down the bar toward us.
“Is there something I can get you, Brandy? Or are you just here to take up space while you wait for some poor bastard to buy you a drink like you do every other time you show up?”
Brandy rolls her eyes. “Give me a shot of 151.”
Hope’s nose wrinkles, and I have to believe mine does the same.
Brandy scoffs at both of us. “What? If I’m buying, I gotta make it count. It’s not like Ripley pays enough for me to buy the good stuff. Guess I should’ve gotten more money out of—”
My arm swings out and I knock my glass over with enough force that a remaining ice cube flies straight into her cleavage.
“What the hell!” Brandy screeches, attracting an audience to watch her fish the melting ice from between her mostly exposed boobs.
Hope shoots me a questioning look and raises her brows.
“I’ll tell you later.”
She nods. “Another?”
“Make it a double. And maybe a shot.”
An apologetic look settles over her features. Hope knows how much putting up with Brandy stretches my patience. Before she turns to make my drink, she ducks her head close to mine.
“Babe, you know that anytime you want to jump ship and let your pop figure out his own mess, I’ve got you covered. You could make more in one shift here than you pull down in a week.”
