Page 49 of Best Man on Campus

“We’re at some townie hangout called The Bald Man’s Bar. She insisted—”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Do not let her leave.”

Chapter 11

Jazzy

My hand shakes as I grab Dooley. I don’t care what he thinks of me, I understand his reasons for coming along with me.

Some bald bearded guy dressed in tattoos and a leather vest touches my arm saying, “Hey honey,” as I walk by, making me flinch and spin around to him.

Baring my teeth, I pull my arm away and get ready to haul off and slap him, but the surprise on his face stops me and I realize he’s harmless.

Then I look at Dooley and realize he isn’t going to save me from a brawl the way Ben could, ultimately with his fists. What even makes me think I can rely on Dooley, I don’t know. But I get him and he gets me. I know he’s not altruistic, that I represent social standing to him. I can deal with that. Plus he’s piss-funny.

I want to try out people, see if I can do it, be normal, be out and not worry. Dooley is my life jacket. He’ll use his outrageous wit to rescue me from anything terrible, like an awkward misunderstanding or crazy fight. Or heaven forbid, genuine interest in a friendship. If genuine interest exists. But can Dooley save me from hope?

Maybe I did a shitty job of choosing my protection tonight. But then Ben would never have come here with me in the first place. He’d have talked me into … never mind.

“Who wants to sing a song?” I shout over the general hubbub as I step up onto a chair then the table, ignoring the three guys sitting there. They look like young punk college kids barely old enough to drink—or probably here with fake IDs.

No matter, they’re as eager as the rest of the place to hear me—or at least to watch me—because I made sure I was watchable tonight. My jeans are tight with a tear down the center of my thigh showing skin, and my frail white tank top is tighter, my tits showing through like a shadow. No jewelry, but I piled on a mask’s worth of makeup.

Dooley pulls at my wrist, stage whispering, “What the F are you doing, crazy chick? We could get thrown out of here.” There’s a side of excitement mixed in with his fear and the avid smile on his face tells me he’s game for the risk. I wink at him and face the room, wishing I had a mic, but only for something to hold because I know my voice will fill this small shithole.

“Play it, Freddy,” I shout to the man in the opposite corner who’s supposed to be playing the gig. I gave him the music to my song. Ben’s song. And he starts up obligingly because I told him I’d give him any tips I get if he indulged me.

With energy and all my passion pouring through my lungs and throat because that’s the only way I know how to sing, I start the song.

“Not all boys are made for you…” I sing and get into the sensual feel of the song, my eyes closed as I move my hands over my body, barely aware of my audience response, but enough to keep going to finish the song on a shudder and then jump from the table.

Grabbing Dooley’s shoulder, I look around as whistles, shouts, and some clapping break out. I hear someone say, “She’s the one from the TikTok vid!” and excitement in the room rises. But before people can close in on me—because I can feel panic rising as my heart rate rises, the music and singing no longer protecting me—I use Dooley as a shield and head for a knot of young women who look like they could be college students if they weren’t piss poor and stupid.

Aware my attitude sucks as I approach them, I try for a smile, drawing on lessons from the acting class I was forced to take for my performance major, as if I want or need a degree.

“Ladies,” I say with an overdose of sarcasm that I’m not sure any of the three bitches gets.

“Some song,” one of them says.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” another one says, smirking at Dooley. “I figure it’s not him.”

But they don’t realize they can’t embarrass Dooley. He laughs loudest of them all.

“Hellfire no. What would I do with that? I mean, I don’t mind a good pair of tits, but…” He spreads his hands.

“Speaking of tits,” I say as a server walks by with a pitcher of beer, my imagination sparking to life at how to set this place off. “Want to be the life of the party?” I ask, meaning it as a rhetorical question, but the three not-ladies overdo their enthusiasm. When I snatch the pitcher of beer from the server’s tray, they’re shocked for a second and then they hoot.

Dooley narrows his eyes and hisses, “What are you doing, Jazzy girl?” He looks less enthusiastic now. Fuck him if he can’t take a joke. Feeling the walls of rage rising, I know I’m falling back into my old pattern, can see the train wreck coming, but I can’t turn off the need to do it, to make myself the center of a three-ring circus like an untamed tiger too dangerous to touch.

I lift the pitcher and pour it over my shirt and then shock the three girls when I splash them with it from their necks down.

Then I hand the pitcher to Dooley and he shouts, “Wet T-shirt contest!”

I laugh at him because he’s so quick to save it, to run with it. This time I climb on a bar stool and yank at the arm of the girl next to me. But she slaps at me.

“You bitch. You’re crazy.”

“Afraid you’ll lose the contest?” My grin is all teeth and no good humor as I see the bartender coming over. half lascivious stare, half frown on his face. My tits are big and bold and showing through loud and clear now, no more hiding in the shadow.