Me: Isn’t that a biker bar? Are you sure you should be bringing the kids in there?

Jen: If you call them my kids again I will shoot you.

I stare at the screen for a while and then decide against a smart-ass answer. If my sister has reached the point of disowning her kids, Auntie May needs to swoop in and save the day, once again.

I stand up and sigh over the terrible burden of being so awesome, typing out my response as I make my way across the room to the front door.

Me: Fine. See you in 20.

Jen: Bring the Phoenix.

I pause with my fingers on the door handle. Phoenix?

As if he can sense it, my half-Chihuahua/half-Pomeranian furball perks up and rouses himself from his doggy bed to join me in the foyer. His tiny claws click across the tile floor. Felix is good for keeping the kids occupied so Jenny and I can talk. She often requests his presence when she needs to let off steam and doesn’t want the kids listening in.

“I think she wants me to bring you, Felix.” I grab my bigger purse off the rack at the door and throw my wallet, keys, and Taser into it. Even if I weren’t going to a biker bar, I’d add that last item to my bag; I was mugged once in college, and I’m never going down easy again. And if I do go down, I’m electrocuting a bad guy on the way. “Come on, little guy—up you go.”

He waits patiently for me to scoop him up and put him in the bag, back legs in first. Once settled, he pokes his head out of the top, and his tongue comes out to do a happy pant.

“Do not pee in my bag, Felix. I’m not kidding this time.”

As I slide my feet into my pink espadrilles, I check my look in the window’s reflection, smoothing down my shoulder-length brown hair, making sure it’s tucked neatly behind the light blue plastic hair-band that had gone slightly askew as I slept. My tailored, blue-striped blouse and beige pants are still crisp and clean, no worse for the wear after my little nap and a day’s work. Today was a studio job, so there was no need to wear a suit or dress, but I never wear jeans to work. I don’t want my clients thinking I’m a hack. I take my work seriously, even if it’s as boring as watching paint dry sometimes, so I need to look the part. I don’t need any more makeup than I’m already wearing; a little lip gloss and some eyeliner and mascara to outline my light blue eyes, and I’m ready to go. I’ll make sure nothing smeared during my nap out in the car, before anyone besides Felix sees me.

We walk out the door and get into my adorable cherry-red Chevy Sonic, heading downtown to a bar I’m absolutely sure my sister should not have gone into with her kids. Hopefully, I won’t stand out too much in my casual uptown outfit. I’ve never been to Frankie’s, but I have to assume it’s not the type of place I’d go to regularly. It gets mentioned in the news from time to time, and never because there’s something good happening there.

Me: We’re on our way. Hold tight. Don’t kill anyone until I get there.

Jen: No promises.

CHAPTER TWO

I’m parked in a lot mostly filled with old-school motorcycles and big sedans that probably should have been junked long ago. There are two pickup trucks, one of them new. Besides my car, it’s the only vehicle here I’d be caught dead in, and it’s a truck, for God’s sake. I hate trucks. They’re so . . . big and rednecky.

This has got to be the worst parenting decision my sister has ever made. What happened to her? It can’t just be the autocorrect on her phone. Her ex-husband Miles must have pushed her too far this time.

Felix and I enter the bar and stop just inside the doorway, getting the lay of the land. I’m trying to talk myself out of being nervous—after all, I’m a grown woman who’s been to plenty of bars, and I have no reason to fear anyone here—but it’s not working. My palms are getting sweatier by the second. My gaze roams the room, searching for the figure of a desperate woman with her hair mostly pulled out and her three young children swinging from light fixtures.

Instead, I see barstools with large male butts on them, their wallets chained to their pockets; pool tables with groups of men standing around holding cue sticks, all of them wearing leather vests and chaps; and a couple of women who I’m pretty sure get paid by the hour to practice the oldest profession in the world, straddling barstools in the corner.

I wonder for the briefest of moments if any of them need a wedding photographer. That’s my desperation talking, the part of me that is always thinking about my bank account and how little money I have in there. Then my rational brain takes over again, and I realize that if any of these people were to get married, they would more than likely do it in a city hall, followed by shots of whiskey to seal the deal. People who celebrate life events that way normally do not book photo sessions that involve clothed individuals.

Talk about being out of one’s element. I look down at my feet. Maybe the pink espadrilles were a bad idea. The narrow-eyed looks I’m getting from the people in leather are not helping my sweaty-palm issue one bit.

There’s an archway across the room from me that leads into another public space whose specifics I can’t make out from here. Since I don’t see my family members in this main room, I assume that must be where they are. I can only imagine what’s back there. Probably drugs. Probably more leather and more chained wallets. Now my armpits have joined the sweat party. Fantastic.

What was my sister thinking? She came into this bar and went into the back room? Nothing good could possibly be happening back there. Best-case scenario? Poker game. Her ex would have a field day over that one. He’s always more than happy to point out her failings as a mother. Adding gambler to the list would be bad. Now I feel terrible that I was messing with her on the phone. She was clearly walking a fine line between stressed momma and bat-poo crazy momma, and now I know she’s crossed over that line into a very dark place. My poor sister. Her poor kids!

I’ve never had to confront Jenny over questionable parenting choices before. She’s gotten stressed, sure, but she’s never gone completely off the range like this. When it got really bad with her divorce, she took a time out, but she arranged everything with me and the kids ahead of time and made sure we were all good before she took off for a week.

I’m not sure, but I think I can stage a one-woman intervention without letting everyone in the place know that I think they’re not the best of company for my sister—my poor, older but misguided sister who is so going to pay for dragging me into this place.

My feet are literally sticking to the floor. In order to move forward, I have to peel them off the . . . what is it . . .? Carpet? Linoleum? It’s impossible to tell. I shudder with the thought of how much bacteria I’m collecting on my person right now. I’m totally leaving my shoes outside my front door after this trip. I should probably just burn them to stop the spread of contagions. That makes me sad because I love my pink espadrilles.