Jean-Pierre clinks the neck of his beer against Earl’s. “Ain’t dat da truth?”
“You’re takinghisside?” I scowl at Jean-Pierre. “Traitor!”
“Me, I just calls dem like I sees dem.”
“Well, the next time you call them like you see them,” I warn, “I’ll stop helping you with your Christmas shopping.” Every year, I drag Jean-Pierre to the shops on Royal Street to pick out gifts for his family. I was always under the impression that gay men were supposed to be good at shopping, but Jean-Pierre is completely and utterly useless.
“No, ya won’t.” He grins. “Hearin’ how much my mawmaw and pawpaw love dem gifts puts too big a smile on your face.”
Dang it. He has me there. I do enjoy seeing the pictures of his grandparents happily brandishing the presents I help him select. And since I can’t argue, I employ the only weapon left at my disposal—I deepen my scowl.
“So,” Earl says, “back to your sex life.”
“Hopeless.” I shake my head. “The both of you.”
Moving down the bar, I fill drink orders and keep my eye on the couple at the end who are signing their receipt. As soon as they get up, I pull out the A-frame Reserved placard.I only ever use it to save Earl’s spot, so it feels weird putting it on the other end of the bar.
When two guys try to sit down, I wave them off and point to the sign. Raising my voice above the din, I tell them, “I have some friends coming in, and these are their seats. Sorry. But hey! I’ll buy y’all a couple of drinks on the house to make up for it. A gin and tonic and a rum and Coke, right?”
“Why doesn’t anyone carry Pepsi products down here?” one of them asks, his accent placing him far north of the Mason-Dixon Line.
That’s right. He didn’t originally order a rum and Coke. He originally ordered a rum and Pepsi.The savage.
“Because here in the South, Pepsi is considered a sin against God,” I inform him, moving away to make their drinks.
When I set the finished cocktails in front of them, I notice the one on the left is wearing a black T-shirt with the wordRAVEprinted across the front in tie-dyed letters. A smile flirts with my mouth because it reminds me of the private party Cash threw for me on my sixteenth birthday and the one-year anniversary of us “officially dating.”
I wanted to go to the rave Jessa Bryant was having in her father’s empty warehouse. The talk around school was that it was supposed to betheparty of the year. And for the first time since my parents died, I actuallywantedto do something normal and teenagery and fun. But Cash refused to take me.
“You won’t be missing anything worth anything, Maggie,” he said. “Take it from me. A rave is nothing but Molly and glow sticks and body glitter.”
No matter how much I begged and pleaded, he didn’t budge. He told me I was a naïve girl who didn’t know what I was in for. I accused him of being a heavy-handed a-hole who didn’t have the right to say what I could and couldn’t do. Then I swore I would go to Jessa’s party on my own.
That’swhen the fight was on.
It was the first real disagreement we ever had. In the heat of the moment, we said things we didn’t mean. And then we didn’t speak for two days, during which time I oscillated between crying my eyes out on Luc’s shoulder and blistering his ears by cursing Cash to hell and back.
Poor Luc. Always stuck in the middle.
But on the night of the rave, Cash showed up with spiked hair, glow sticks, and an apologetic smile. He didn’t take me to Jessa Bryant’s dad’s warehouse. Instead, he drove me out to Luc’s swamp house. He’d moved the furniture against the walls to create a dance floor, hung up some psychedelic posters, and plugged in a black light.
In between laughter and kissing and long moments of touching, we danced to the music shouting from his cell phone. And after a few hours, when the kissing and touching heated up, he laid me on the floor, carefully removed my clothes, and painted me head to toe in pink body glitter. He used my naked skin as a canvas, his fingers reverent and purposeful, his eyes alight with so much hunger that I felt like the most beautiful girl in the world.
That night was the first time we went to third base. I would’ve happily allowed him to steal home, but he laughed and kissed my nose and told me he was happy with a triple.
Sighing at the memory, I check the clock on the wall above the cash register. I swear, ten minutes feels more like ten years.
By the time Luc and Cash push into the bar, I’m so anxious that Earl accuses me of having ants in my pants. Waving them toward the seats at the end of the bar, I yell over the dull roar of the crowd, “What’ll it be, Luc?”
“Just a beer for me,” he says. “I’m driving home after this.”
“One Abita it is.” I pop the top on a bottle and set it in front of him.
“And speaking of driving home,” he says, “I parked Smurf down the street, but I didn’t wanna leave my guitar inside. Is there room for it behind the bar?”
“Hand it over.” I makegimmemotions with my fingers, and he passes his guitar case to me. I find a safe spot for it in the corner where I keep the box of lost-and-found items. Then I turn back to Cash.
It’s weird. The obvious question would be,What are you drinking?But…
