Austin misses the bar twice, swearing under his breath that the Monkey Bar’s entrance is practically invisible. To be fair, the placeistucked next to a rundown convenience store on thecorner of Wilmot and 22nd. If it weren’t for the neon beer bottle sign protruding from the wall, he’d probably still be looking.
Finally, he swings into the lot beside a greasy Filiberto’s and pulls into a spot. The four of us climb out, shoes clicking and laughter trailing after us as we straighten out our outfits and fluff our hair. From here, we can already hear the unmistakable sound of someone absolutely butchering a Celine Dion song inside the bar.
Austin leans out the driver’s side window, eyes scanning us one last time. “I don’t care what time it is—just call when you’re ready to bounce, and I’ll come get y’all. Got it?”
“We will! I love you!” Marlena sings as she blows him a kiss and skips toward the entrance.
I glance toward the bar’s glowing sign, take a breath, and follow the girls inside.
Inside, chaos is already in full swing.
A guy on the other side of the bar, where the karaoke is being held, is absolutely butchering a Slipknot song, the mic in his hand swaying like he’s fronting a stadium tour. His voice is off-key, but the crowd doesn’t care. A few people cheer him on while others throw back shots and laugh into their cocktails.
Khloe and Tessa immediately drift toward the singing area, heads bent over their phones as they scroll through the Karafun website, whispering excitedly about what song to queue up. Marlena trails behind them, already dancing to the beat.
Me? I head for the bar. If there’s even achanceI’m singing tonight, I’m going to need a few drinks first. My sober stage presence is nonexistent. Zero confidence. Negative charisma. I’d rather be tipsy and shameless than clear-headed and dying of secondhand embarrassment.
I squeeze into a narrow opening between two guys dressed in matching dingy gray shirts and tan cargo pants. One is shouting hoarsely at the flat-screen mounted above us—some baseballgame I can’t pretend to care about. He’s waving his beer bottle like it’s a magic wand that might make the batter hit better. The other guy doesn’t even glance at me; he’s too busy nursing a double whiskey, staring into the glass like it holds the meaning of life. Neither pays me any mind, which is just how I like it.
The bartender—Cole, according to the crooked name tag pinned to the chaos of orange and blue hibiscus print on his half-unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt—glances my way and grins over his shoulder. His whole look is peak tropical dive bar: thick, black-rimmed glasses perched on a tan, round face, a light dusting of stubble that softens his jawline, and blonde hair slicked back with an absurd level of commitment, like he’s moonlighting as a surf rock frontman.
The shirt is offensively loud, something you’d expect to find buried in the clearance bin of a beachfront souvenir shop—and yet, somehow, it works on him. He radiates effortless charm, and his whole demeanor exudes a laid-back, flirtatious quality.
“Hey, hon,” he calls out, voice rising easily over the layered hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and a butchered rendition of a Lizzo song starts up from the karaoke stage. “Gimme one sec, and I’ll get ya taken care of.”
I offer a polite nod, resting one elbow on the sticky bar top and half-listening to the chaos behind me as he wraps up the current drink he is making. He garnishes the drink with a dash of Tajin, then hands it off to the guy at the end of the bar before turning back toward me, a grin stretched across his lips.
He leans over the bar, folding his arms atop the counter to get close to me. I can smell his cologne the moment he leans in. A combination of sandalwood, citrus, and coconut hit my senses, overpowering the multitude of scents that waft through the bar.
He flashes me a slightly crooked smile that showcases a chipped front incisor. “Alright, gorgeous,” he says, voice low and playful. “What can I make for ya tonight?”
“What’s the go-to tonight?” I glance at the laminated specials card wedged behind a plastic tiki bobblehead near the tip jar.
Cole chuckles, following my gaze with a smirk that’s one part bartender charm and two parts mischief. Khloe would love this man.
“Blue Hawaiian’s been the favorite so far,” he says, his fingers tapping idly on the counter as I grab the card. “It’s a fruity cocktail made with vodka.” He winks. “But I can whip up whatever your heart’s set on, darlin’.”
I skim the card. On one side is a list of drafts, and on the other side are the cocktails and margaritas. “Blue Hawaiian it is,” I say finally, setting the card back behind the figurine. “And throw in a Blue Kamikaze shot while you’re at it.”
Cole gives me an approving grin and pushes off the counter. “Coming right up.”
He turns toward the wall of liquor with the easy rhythm of someone who knows every bottle by touch. As he starts pulling ingredients, the girls appear at my side in perfect synchronization. Khloe wedges herself between me and the whiskey guy and plucks the menu from its spot. Tessa slides in on my other side, looping an arm around my waist as Marlena lingers just behind them, her focus glued to the open Karafun queue on her phone.
“Song picked yet?” I ask, pulling my wallet from my bag. I slide my ID and debit card onto the bar as Cole tosses ice into a shaker.
“Khloe’s doing ‘Final Girl,’” Tessa says, nudging her shoulder with a grin. “Marlena and I are still debating—either Disney or pop. We’ll see.”
Marlena lifts her gaze, eyes glinting with playful amusement. “What about you?”
I snort. “I need at least two drinks before I eventhinkabout a mic.”
Right on cue, Cole reappears, expertly balancing a tall, ocean blue cocktail with a tiny pink umbrella and a neon bendy straw, plus a bright blue shot glass that is filled to the brim. He places both in front of me with flair, then glances at my cards—but instead of reaching for them, he slides them back toward me with two fingers and that signature crooked grin.
“On the house,” he says with a wink.
I blink. “Oh. Um… thanks.”
“Anytime, gorgeous,” he replies smoothly, already moving down the bar to take another order.
