“We don’t do Long Islands. All our drinks are house specialties.”

“Fine. Three of the strongest drinks you make.”

Rainey tosses down her credit card. The bartender snatches up the Visa and plunks down three cardboard coasters. Carson’s already perched on a barstool like she belongs here—and she sort of does, I suppose. She’s far more adventurous than I’ve ever been, and her rocker-chick vibe does her favors in this sort of environment. Tonight, she decided on a short denim skirt with fishnets and a Def Leppard T-shirt. When she leans in closer to the black lights, her dark hair looks almost blue.

I don’t see the drinks arrive, but when I look back at the bar, there are three tall glasses sitting in a row like good little soldiers. Well, if soldiers were fluorescent green and topped with a wedge of pineapple. And a miniature plastic skull.

“A toast,” Carson says, handing out the drinks. “To the women I love the most and the sisters I never had. May we always be happy, healthy, and kicking ass.”

“Amen!” I smile as our glasses clink and we all take a sip.

“Fuck me!” Rainey gasps, coughing a little. “That is strong!”

Even Carson, who can drink most people under the table, has a pinched look on her face as though she’s tasted something sour.

I, on the other hand, actually kind of like the taste. I mean, yeah, it’s strong—but it’s also fruity. And tart. Like a Jolly Rancher mixed with a Sour Patch Kid. I take another long sip.

“I think it’s good,” I say when I’ve swallowed.

The girls stare at me for a second, then Carson shakes her head with a grin.

“I should’ve known—one taste of the hard stuff and we’d lose this girl forever. Come on, let’s get out there and dance.”

“Ooh, yes, let’s!” Rainey says, hopping up from her stool. She points to the Dance Floor sign. “Time to make good on number two on the list, Cyn.”

I swallow more of my drink.

“No, you guys go—I want to get a little more liquid courage before I head out there.”

Carson cocks her head.

“Are you chickening out?”

“No—I swear, I will dance tonight. I just want to get a little more . . . acclimated to our surroundings.”

She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head.

“We’re not leaving you at the bar by yourself, Hyacinth.”

I give her a half shrug.

“I’m a big girl, Cars. Besides, I’m not by myself—I’m here with Mystique.” I grin, gesturing to our blue-covered bartender. “And isn’t the idea for me to meet a man? I can’t actually do that with you guys babysitting me then, can I?”

“Yeah, Cars. Don’t be such a cock block,” Rainey chimes in.

Carson rolls her eyes, but she’s already sliding off her stool.

“Okay, if you’re sure . . .”

“I’ll be fine.” I wave a hand. “Go. Dance. Come back in ten minutes when you think my drink will be done.”

Rainey chuckles. “At this rate, you’ll only need five.”

I shrug, then take another sip. “Well, then, when you come back, maybe I’ll have finished yours, too.”

She links an arm with Carson. “That would blow my mind—I say do it.”

I watch my two best friends march off in the direction of the dance floor. Once they’ve disappeared through the doorway, I dig my phone out of my purse and peer at the screen.

No missed calls from Holly Fields.

Is that bad? Why hasn’t Dad called? He said he’d call before he went to bed.

I don’t bother leaving the bar for privacy; I just push 1 on my speed dial and cover my free ear with one hand.

“Holly Fields Assisted Living.”

“Hey, Bridget, it’s Hyacinth.”

“Hey, Cyn!” I can practically hear her toothy grin through the phone. “How are you, honey? I never see you anymore.”

The music from the dance floor begins to pound with an even louder, faster beat, and I clamp my palm down tighter against my ear.

“Yeah—I know. It’s been crazy lately. Listen, my dad never called me to check in tonight. Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yeah, honey. You know those ridiculous men—up playing poker or watching some MVA fight.”

“MMA?” I ask, smiling. She sort of huffs, an exasperated little sigh.

“It’s all the same to me—plumb ridiculous, I tell you what.”

I shake my head, grinning. “Look, if you see him, can you just tell him I’m out with friends and I’ll call him in the morning?”

“Sure thing. And good for you, honey. You should go kick up your heels once in a while.”

“Thanks, Bridget. I’ll see you Thursday.”

I hang up, then rub my now-pinched earlobe. I know Dad wants me to have a life of my own, but I’m not sure I’m ready to let go of my responsibilities when it comes to caring for him. I look up at the ceiling and take another long sip of my drink. It was one of the reasons Brett broke it off with me in the end, I think. He hated the idea of being saddled with a girlfriend whose father might actually need more of her, as time went on, not less. He wanted to be able to travel and stay out late and be spontaneous. I was sort of the antithesis to that dream.

The sad truth is that most women my age are home right now with their boyfriends or fiancés or husbands.

But me?

No, not me. I just called to check in with my father from the bar on a Saturday night, when I should be finding someone willing to be a part of Carson’s to-do list.

“Let me guess—your husband?”

The husky voice makes me look up immediately, but it takes me a good ten seconds to process the words. For the first nine, I’m too busy staring into a pair of deep, denim blue eyes.

I’ve seen good-looking men before, of course. But this good-looking? Only Hollywood spawns men this hot. He’s got one of those faces that you’d call pretty if the edges weren’t so angular. His closely cropped hair and square jaw give him the look of someone you wouldn’t want to mess with, but the warmth and humor in his gaze makes me think he’s about to laugh at something.

Wait.

Is he about to laugh at me?

“What?” I ask him, finally managing to form words around my tongue.

“Your husband.” He gestures to the phone still in my hand. “Were you trying to explain to him where you were without saying ‘I’m at a sex club that promotes bondage and nudity’?”

“Oh.” I glance down at my phone, which I’m currently clutching as though it’s a lifeline. “Um, no. That was not my husband.”

“Boyfriend?”

I shake my head.

“Hmm.” His eyes sort of narrow. “Calling a cab, then? Trying to get rescued from the dog collars and glitter?”

I smile at that. “No—it’s not that scary here. It just takes a little . . . adjusting.”

“You’ve never been here before?”

I shake my head. “First time. I came with some friends.”

Blue Eyes nods, his gaze flickering up at the Dance Floor sign.

“Yeah, I know. I saw them.” His mouth kicks up on one side. “I saw you first, though.”

“Oh,” I say again, feeling my face warm. I try to busy myself by stowing away my phone in my purse and grabbing my neon-colored cocktail. I don’t even remember the protocol for when a man is talking to me. I was with Brent for way too freaking long.

“So . . . uh . . .” I look back up at Blue Eyes and clear my throat. “Um . . . do you want a drink?”

This time, his eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles. “Aren’t I supposed to ask you that?”

He is, isn’t he? Oh, God, I am the worst at this!

“Well, I actually have a drink,” I say, gesturing to my glass.

“Hmm.” He crosses his arms—tan and muscular—over his chest—also tan and muscular, or so it would seem from the V of skin peeking out from his shirt collar. “Seems like it’s getting close to empty, though.”

I rattle the ice cubes at the bottom and give him a little smile. “Hmm. Seems like you’re right.”

See, I can do this.

I can flirt.