Annette:Excuse me, what?
Brooke:That's what I thought.
Annette:What are we talking about?
Brooke:I need to get laid. Like, immediately.
Annette:Brush your hair and go to the Galley. It's apple, pumpkin, and leaf peeping season. I bet there are some tourists in town.
Brooke:The Galley? Really? Isn't that a little too close for comfort?
Annette:Allow me to stress this point one more time—pick up a tourist, not a townie.
Brooke:Yeah yeah I get that. But townies hang out there. Lincoln's ass print is permanently carved into his seat at the bar.
Annette:So what?
Brooke:So…one does not simply initiate a one-night stand with a Greek chorus of locals watching.
Annette:One is more concerned with neighborly gossip than self-care.
Brooke:We're calling hookups self-care now?
Annette:You need to take some time for yourself. You know what they say about oxygen masks.
Brooke:The bag might not inflate, but air is flowing?
Annette:Yours first, everyone else second.
Brooke:You're sure about the Galley?
Annette:Believe me. You'll find someone there.
Brooke:If I don't, can I borrow Jackson?
Annette:I'll share just about anything else with you, but not him.
Brooke:It would make things so much easier…
Annette:I know you think so, yes.
Chapter Two
Brooke
Derivative: a financial contract whose value is determined by the fluctuations in the value of underlying assets often used as an instrument to hedge risk.
”Don't even think about it."
I stopped drumming my fingertips on my lips at the sound of his voice behind me. Rolled my eyes. Thought about throwing an elbow in his direction. "Think about what, exactly?"
Still concealed over my shoulder, he replied, "Whatever the hell you're cooking up, don't do it. Stop cooking. Give it up and get the hell outta my tavern."
I turned my head, but this dim corner of the Galley between the now-empty pay phone nook and restrooms didn't reveal more than JJ Harniczek's silhouette. Dark jeans, dark shirt, dark boots, dark mood. "You won't sell much beer with an attitude like that."
"I don't have the patience for games tonight, Bam Bam."
That goddamn nickname. It was my mother's fault. She was nearly six years gone, but I still blamed her for this shit. She'd been fanatical about initials. If there was a bare inch of fabric, metal, or glass, she wouldn't rest until it got a serving of initials. I could've lived with this fanaticism, but my name was Brooke-Ashley Markham and she had B.A.M. embroidered on my backpack, lunch box, scarves, mittens, socks, sweaters, everything. There was no escaping it, and even in first grade, JJ knew a tease-worthy nickname when he saw one.
