Page 3 of Spiced!

“Courtney said ten-thirty at the latest.” He shook the drink. “She called it a ‘hard out.’ It’s on the schedule.”

“She told me there might be a midnight set. I don’t think they’ll ever leave. Courtney even amended her schedule to reflect that.”

“Courtney,” Benji said, with far too much admiration, “is a force of nature. I respect her completely. She may become my new bestie. We’ll see how the night goes.”

I shattered Rod’s sigh-record at that.

With one final glance at the women, I snuck away to change; but before I made it past the counter, the bride caught my eye. A grin split her face, and she wiggled her fingers in greeting. I gave her a respectful nod in return.

“Jesus, take the wheel,” I muttered.

The back room was quiet, which was the thing I usually loved about my pre-shift hour. While the bar settled into itself, the hum not yet at full volume and the whole evening still theoretical, I could prepare in peace. I changed into my work Speedo, drank half my orange Fanta in one go (because the situation called for it), and stood at the mirror for a moment and assessed the evening before me.

Fifteen bachelorette party members.

Courtney with her laminated schedule.

A bride already on her second drink—probably her sixth—at six-forty-five in the evening.

And a bar beginning to fill with regulars who would either love the intrusion or abandon us for one of the other joints down the street. It would be my job to keep the boys in their seats no matter what craziness our rhinestone-covered friends threw at us.

Fine.

I had danced in worse conditions.

I had once danced through a fire alarm test.

I had performed ballet during a power outage that lasted four minutes.

One memorable night, some dude brought an emotional support parrot into the bar. The bird screamed vulgarities every thirty seconds throughout my set, but I never missed a beat. Trust me, nothing screamed professional performance like a parrot squawking, “Sloppy pussy,” every time I shook my butt.

When I returned to the bar, the bachelorette party had reorganized themselves into a configuration with the bride directly in front of the bar so she had a clear sightline to the performance area. Courtney was photographing said performance area from three different angles.

Yes, she’d brought three tripods and three cameras.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, most of their food was gone, their tables were cleared, and the women of the bachelorette party had crossed from pre-game into something considerably further along the spectrum.

They were also decidedly drunker.

Rod’s food had been declared “super sick” by unanimous vote, and much to my chagrin, the bar hop plan was being discussed in the past tense. Madison leaned forward on a stool at the bar telling Benji her entire love story from the beginning. Benji was listening with his elbows on the bar and his full attention because he genuinely wanted to know. I was fairly certain I was witnessing the bonding between a gay and his new gal pal.

With barely a glance back, Benji handed me a fresh Fanta as I passed the well.

“She moved the garnish trays,” I said, scanning the bar top.

“I put them back,” Benji said.

“She must’ve moved them again,” I countered.

“I know. We’re in a negotiation. It’s sensitive.” He gave the bride a “give me a second” finger, then turned back toward me. “Also, Madison’s been watching your Instagram for two years, and she’s very excited. You’ll probably have to sign her boobs before the night’s over. I have a permanent Sharpie standing by. You should personalize it so it’s special for the groom on their wedding night, but they’re not that big, so you’ll have to write in really tiny letters.”

I wanted to laugh or chuckle or whatever one did when told he had to sign women’s personal parts, but I was so numb at that point that nothing came out.

I looked at Madison.

Madison waved at me with both hands, her eyes like blinky full moons.

I waved back.