“It’s fine, hon,” she says. “Keep your money. And you’re welcome back any time. Just, maybe, take it a little slower with the tequila and whiskey shots next time.”
The very mention of tequila sends bile up my throat. I swallow it back.
Katie smiles knowingly. “And you may think you’re Gina Gershon, but maybe leave the dancing on bars to the pros.”
I give her a blank look.
“Showgirls?” she prompts. “Best bad movie ever made? The chick fromSaved by the Bellfakes an orgasm in a pool . . . sounds just like a dolphin?”
“Tiffani Amber-Thiessen?” I say.
“No, the other one. Anyway, you should watch it sometime. Otherwise, you’re really missing out on a classic.”
I smile, even though I’m feeling another surge of nausea. “I will.”
“Wait right here,” Katie says, and brushes past me. The smell wafting from the garbage bag doesn’t help with my nausea. She heads over to the alley next to the bar. I hear the garbage land in the dumpster with a heavy thud. A minute later, she returns and motions for me to follow her inside.
I walk into the bar. It feels weird being here when it’s not filled to the rafters with boisterous firemen and their dates. There’s a sour smell of stale beer, peppered with notes of body odor.
“Sit,” Katie says, pointing at the bar.
I comply.
She goes behind the counter and starts bustling about. My eyes are drawn to her cleavage again. There’s something hypnotic about the way they jiggle while she works. Opening drawers. Grabbing this and that. She’s got a fresh cigarette going.
Without looking up from what she’s doing, she says, “Yes. They’re real.”
“What? I —”
“It’s okay,” Katie replies. “You’re allowed to stare. Just don’t touch. Besides, I noticed yours too. Own it if you have it, right?”
I feel myself blush. I’m definitely proud of my body, but it’s still been hard since . . . the breakup. Hearing Katie speak so candidly is nice. I clear my throat nervously. “So . . . are you allowed to smoke in here?” I regret saying it immediately. So lame.
“Technically, no. But . . .” Katie grabs a bottle of Pedialyte from the mini-fridge just visible under the counter, and slams it down in front of me. “. . . I do as I please in here. Besides, this is Chicago. You slip the right cash to the right guy, and boom, they leave you alone.”
“Who’s the right guy?”
Katie doesn’t answer, and just gives me a sly wink. Then she whips out a packet of Emergen-C and a packet of Alka-Seltzer. Pours the contents of both simultaneously into the wide mouth of the Pedialyte. The powders drift and fizz inside, dissolving into a swirling mist.
“Is that for me?” I say. I can’t decide if I’m impressed or grossed out.
“Yep. It’s a game-changer.”
I reach for the drink, but Katie slaps my hand away. “Not yet,” she says, before crouching down to retrieve something else from the mini-fridge.
A carton of Chinese food. She sets it down next to the Pedialyte.
“Okay,” she says, as she stubs out her cigarette in a nearby ash tray. “This is what you’re going to do. Take a big swig of this, and then a big bite of that. Repeat till both are gone. Got it?”
“Um . . . can you heat up the Chinese first?”
She shakes her head. “No can do, hon. It’s got to be cold for it to work.”
“Work?”
“Cure your hangover.”
I raise my eyebrows in skepticism.
