San Francisco was a sprawling city hardly known for its friendly vibe, so creating a social life had proved to be difficult. Sure, my hometown was redneck as all get-out, but at least in Pelville people would smile as you passed them on the sidewalk instead of going out of their way to avoid human contact at all costs. It was depressing to think about. If it wasn’t for Liz, I probably would have lost my mind from isolation long ago. One didn’t need to have a degree in psychology to recognize that the way I’d been living wasn’t healthy or sustainable. I was long overdue for a change in lifestyle. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the resources to make it happen for the time being.
“They’ll have just as much reason to be embarrassed for being there, so it’s not like they’re going to blab to the whole world about it,” Liz countered. “Besides, I doubt anyone from hoity-toity Dewhurst would ever be caught dead in that place.”
“I can’t afford to go out boozing,” I whined desperately.
“It’s my treat, so you won’t pay a dime.”
“I can’t let you—”
“I insist,” she said with a mischievous grin. “It’s two-for-one drinks for ladies on wet t-shirt nights, I’ve been told, so it’ll be cheap for me, anyway. So, it looks like you’re all out of excuses.”
I regarded the thick bundle of bills sitting on the table. I sighed heavily. “I seriously cannot believe I’m going to say this . . .”
She raised her eyebrows hopefully. “You’re in?”
My answer was a string of profanities, but she caught my drift.
3
Stinking of desperation, cheap booze, and stale body odor, the crowd at Shwilly Pete’s was a motley mix of drunken students and middle-aged barflies who jostled one another like sugar-high ants in hopes of getting a better view of the tacky PG-13 show coming together onstage.
Unfortunately, I was about to be a part of that show.
A grand total of thirteen individuals, including myself, had entered the wet t-shirt contest: ten women and, unexpectedly, three sweaty, loud-mouthed men who’d cried sexism when they’d initially been barred from signing up. Their beer guts were so large I had to hold my tongue from asking them when they were due, yet a woman even half their size undoubtedly would have been booed right off the stage for having the audacity to be so self-confident about her body. Being as concerned with equal rights as these three were, they were probably brooding over the same thing. Right.
I’d been worried it was going to be the sort of deal where we’d have to take the stage one at a time, an act that would have required a level of boldness I wouldn’t have been able to manifest due to my swelling mortification. But that was not the case. Our emcee—DJ Swashbuckler, whose pirate persona was embellished with a gold tooth, eye patch, live exotic bird, and antique wood prosthetic leg I suspected he also used off-duty—directed us “mateys” to dump a pitcher of ice water down the front of our Shwilly Pete’s branded shirts at the sound of his whistle. Easy, sleazy.
Looking for reassurance, I nervously scanned the crowd for Liz, who I saw was being smooshed against the edge of the stage by a mob of onlookers growing impatient. Not that she seemed to notice; she was too busy gesticulating at me like an X-rated version of a stage mom, shouting, “Shake what your mama gave ya’, Olivia!” as she cupped her hands under her breasts and made them jiggle. So much for anonymity. I mouthed for her toshut it, which only added fuel to her fire. I made a mental note to strangle her once we got home.
What happened next, I can remember only as a blur—selective memory is a wonderous thing. I heard the whistle, felt an icy surge of liquid on my chest, then the crowd’s hoots increased to deafening proportions. Moments later came a slap on my palm, the angry protests of my male competitors lending background noise to the cheers.
Confused, I gawked at my hand, the air whooshing from my lungs as I saw the neat little stack of hundred-dollar bills grasped in my fingers. “I . . . won?” I asked DJ Swashbuckler, who gave confirmation by placing a pirate hat on my head.
I was ordained “Captain Titty” of Shwilly Pete’s, an accolade that would never, ever, grace the Awards and Achievementssection of my professional resume. Liz suddenly materialized at my side, beaming as if I’d just won a Nobel Prize. Ignoring my dripping front, she wrapped her arms around me and gave me a hug.
“I’m going to need a drink,” I said while tucking the cash safely inside my purse. “A big one.” We’d arrived only minutes before the contest started, so I hadn’t had a chance to sling back any liquid courage. I was as sober as a nun but nervy as hell, an uncomfortable sensation I was in urgent need of quelling.
After the crowd dissipated, DJ Swashbuckler anxiously informed me that he’d be needing the hat back, as it belonged to the club. He seemed to think I was going to put up a fuss, like I’d intended to proudly display in on a mantel at home. I was more than happy to hand it over, because no.
Lacking the patience to deal with the long line developing in front of the women’s bathroom at the far end of the club, I ducked behind a large speaker to remove my soggy t-shirt, figuring modesty was pointless at that stage. I changed back into the nude bra and button-down top I’d worn to the club, despite Liz earlier saying it was clothing somebody would wear to sell real estate—her way of telling me that I looked dull and would never get laid if I kept it up. I’d pointed out that it was probable, no,guaranteed, that I wouldn’t find a single man in Shwilly Pete’s worthy of my loins, which even she had to agree with. Though she did beg me to never again useloinsto describe my “hooha,” as if her childish term was any better.
We made a beeline towards the bar, ignoring the screaming morons attempting to congratulate me with aggressive high-fives. DJ Swashbuckler started playing an insufferable remix of a boy band tune from the nineties, making it difficult to hear my own thoughts. Probably a good thing, since none of them were particularly upbeat at that moment.
Liz, gorgeous as ever in a simple black dress, was oblivious to the jaws dropping at her splendor. Heads rotated as she passed, one-by-one, like leering human dominos. Even if they weren’t total cheesedicks, she wouldn’t have given any of them the time of day. Though she always downplayed it when I teased her, she only had eyes for David. They were the kind of couple you couldn’t imagine ever breaking up.
We finally made it to the bar when Liz did a little jig and pointed to her crotch.
“What—”
“Oh my God, I just started my period!” she screeched. A guy standing next to her glanced at her sideways and she snarled, “You got problem with that—you scared of pussy, little boy?”
I burst out laughing as he swiftly moved away. “Looks like he just remembered that parking meter he forgot to feed!” I shouted. “You want a gin and tonic?”
Liz made a move to take out some money and I swatted her away with a command to go take care of her business. She gave me a thumb’s-up, embarking on the arduous journey back the way we’d just came. Despite the massive crowd, there were only two bartenders working, so I’d probably still be waiting for drinks by the time she returned.
My man Swashbuckler must have been exhausted after all his hard work hosting the wet t-shirt contest and spinning shitty tunes because he cut the music and went on break, improving my disposition dramatically. “And people say miracles don’t happen,” I muttered.
“Silenceisgolden,” a deep voice from my right agreed with a chuckle.
