She smirked, but not the amused kind of smirk. More the one that says if you don’t stop talking to me, I’ll kill you. “You literally just told me I was boring you.”
“See,” I said, rubbing an eye, “that’s a medical condition I have. It’s called foot-in-mouth-itis. It’s very embarrassing at times, such as now.” I grimaced, making sure she noticed how painful this next part was for me. “Listen, I’m sorry. I really am. I have a hard time when people shove their opinions down my throat. I sensed the feminist train coming around the mountain, and my tongue outran my better judgment. It’s not that I’m anti-feminist, I just don’t really care what you are, and I don’t want to hear what you think.” It’s funny how my lips never stopped moving, even when there wasn’t a singular thought in my mind.
“I think I’ll pass on the drink.”
I groaned. “Don’t make me do it.”
Peering up from her phone, she asked, “Do what?”
I rocked back in my stool, and then quoted Margaret Thatcher like a complete tool. “‘If you want something said, ask a man. If you want something done, ask a woman.’ Or something like that.” I showed her my teeth. “See, I’m good at saying shit. But that’s not my favorite quote. That belongs to the great Jane Austen, and I butcher it every time. ‘I hate hearing you talk about women as if they were fine ladies instead of rational creatures. None of us want to live in calm waters our entire lives.’” I shrugged. “Or something stupid like that.”
“You did butcher it,” she said, almost reverently. She put her phone in her back pocket and stepped toward me, and then leaned over the counter that separated us, providing me an optimal vantage point to see down her shirt. A trap? I thought so. I kept my eyes on the prize… her face, that is.
“You learn those quotes for feminist debates like this?”
I snickered. “I learned them because I believe in them,” I said. “But I don’t give two shits about what you believe. Your thoughts won’t change my mind, nor will they even make me listen to you. So, there’s no need to jump into overdrive when I use a word I would use for literally anything else in the same situation.” I took a deep breath. “Now, i-e or y?”
“I-e,” she said, “and I’ll put it on the girl’s tab. We’ll chalk it up to the cost of standing on my bar.”
I clapped my hands together and rubbed my palms. “You pick the poison.”
All in all, our plan to harass women had worked, despite my initial bumbling and stumbling with Dakota. Nearly a decade of not talking to strange women at bars had spread a coat of rust over my abilities—and I didn’t have many women-oriented abilities to begin with. But with the help of tequila, I think I had navigated a major disaster quite well… especially with Elizabeth. The alcohol had loosened my tongue to near fatal levels, but it had also allowed me to pull some quotes that Callie and I had spent a lot of time discussing.
Callie was, by all measures, as opinionated and outspoken as they came. Did her eagerness bully me into listening to her ideas? Yes. Did her incessant need to discuss this shit grate on my moral beliefs that we shouldn’t live life shoving each other around with opinions? Yes, quite a bit. But she also had a good sense of humor and an open mind, so we discussed and debated and grew together. She didn’t overshadow me with her singular thoughts, nor did I freeze her out with my unrelenting stubbornness. We learned to adapt and understand the world through multiple lenses.
Fortunately, the quotes had worked on Lizzie, softening her to me a little. And why the hell not? I was, after all, quite charming when you got enough alcohol down my—maybe your—gullet.
“Charged her well-prices for something a little more top shelf,” Lizzie said, handing me another shot glass.
If I made a habit of pretty women buying me drinks, I would have to build my tolerance a little more. As it was, I still possessed enough clarity to keep my thoughts organized, but whether or not that affected my flapping lips was another story.
“To you, Lizzie,” I said. “And me.”
“To us,” she said, smirking like she knew something I didn’t—but I thought I knew what she thought I didn’t know, which was that she knew who I was but didn’t I knew who she was... wait, that’s hurting my head.
We shot the tequila.
“Excuse me,” someone called to Lizzie from across the bar—a portly gentleman with a doughnut body and jowls that would make a purebred boxer jealous. Lizzie peered at him from over her shoulder. “You,” he said when she regarded him. “You the only one behind the bar?”
“At the moment,” she said.
“Pretty lousy business practice, if you ask me. You’re taking shots with customers, sitting on your phone, and ignoring me. I shouldn’t have to wait this long for a drink.”
Lizzie gnawed on her lower lip for a second. “After one, we stop allowing new customers into the lounge,” she said, defending her actions for some reason. “The other bartenders are cleaning up, taking last orders, and counting inventory.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off her—not because of her mesmerizing beauty, though she was easy to look at. But because she had information about Mel, possibly about Callie, and I had to sit there and twiddle my thumbs and wait for a more appropriate time to speak with her. Well, to interrogate her. To possibly scar up that pretty face until she told me how to find Hecate. And until then, I had to pretend I liked her, all while tolerating some drunk ass-hat taking more of her time for no other reason than because
