Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(9)

“I thought you really liked him,” Iris says.

“I did,” I say. “I do.” I look up at Brice, a little uncomfortable talking about anything in front of him, but he’s got his eyes on the TV above the bar. Good boy.

“So give him a chance,” says Iris. “When was the last time you actually liked a guy?”

It’s been a while. “I know,” I say. We both drink from our beers, and then Iris changes the subject.

“How was your day?” she asks. When we created the Mom game, “how was your day” was very important. Mothers always ask about your day. Apparently.

“I was on a body. A woman. She was naked.”

“You saw her?”

I nod. “She was just lying there, in this crane. In the cold. And there were all these men around. Oh, and there were Jews.”

“Jews?”

“Like, my mom’s Jews. With the…” I make a spiral motion with my finger indicating sidecurls.

“Really? Did you talk to them?”

“I talked to a little boy, actually. Just for a minute.”

Hannah comes back and takes her seat. Iris straightens from her Mom posture; our game wasn’t a secret the year after her mom died, but four years later, I think we might both be a little sheepish about how much we still rely on it.

Right behind Hannah comes a group of men. They squeeze in next to Brice, one snagging Jenny’s stool.

“Excuse me,” says Hannah. “This seat is taken.”

“I know,” says the new occupant, a big guy with a goatee. “By me.”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” she says, snapping instantly into bitch mode. Hannah raises the left corner of her upper lip and reaches her arm across the bar, in some attempt to keep him from ordering. “My friend is in the bathroom and this is her seat.”

“Look,” says the man, turning toward her in his enormous puffy coat. His eyes are bloodshot and he smells like dust. “I’m f*cking beat and your friend didn’t leave no handbag.…”

“She didn’t need to leave a handbag,” says Hannah. “I said I’d watch her seat.”

Now the man’s friends are watching. I’m trying to figure out how to avoid becoming involved. Brice steps back, probably thinking the same thing. Iris and I angle away, sipping our beers and watching.

The man sighs. He looks exhausted. “Well, you did a shitbag job, lady.”

Hannah puffs out her chest. “Lady! Don’t you f*cking…”

“Look, hon, all you had to do was ask me to move. I’m not a pig. But I don’t take orders from no bitch. Not today.”

Hannah’s mouth hangs open and for a moment, she’s speechless. And then Jenny comes back from the bathroom.

“Uh, hello!” shouts Jenny, taking long, uneasy strides toward the bar. She’s moving so fast, she stumbles and plows right into the man in her seat, spilling a pint glass of beer she must’ve swiped from some pushover Florida boy all over him. The man jumps up, and as he tries to wipe the liquid off his lap, shoves Jenny, who falls dramatically to the floor.

“Oh my God!” she screams.

“Did you see that?” shouts Hannah.

Jesus. I hop off my bar stool and kneel down beside Jenny. “Come on,” I say. “You’re fine. It’s okay.”

“He f*cking hit her!” shouts Hannah.

“He didn’t hit her,” says Iris, but not loud enough that Hannah pays her any attention.

The man is wiping beer off his jacket, unzipping the front and shaking out the cuffs. His friends have backed away. Tony appears and offers Jenny his hand to get up.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “She’s fine.”

But Hannah’s not done. “Excuse me! Excuse me!” she calls to the bartender. “Did you see what just happened here? I was saving my friend a seat and he took it and then … now … he just pushed her!”

The bartender stares at Hannah. She rubs her forehead with nicotine yellow fingers and looks to Tony.

“Can I get a towel, Maureen?” says Tony. Maureen tosses him a towel.

“Here you go, man,” he says. “This round’s on me.”

The wet patron nods and wipes off his coat.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, putting my hand on his back. Tony smiles at me and winks.

“Why are you saying sorry?” says Hannah.

“Can I get you ladies another couple drinks?” asks Tony. It shouldn’t surprise me that he’s good at managing drunk people, but the ease with which he’s taken control of the situation, careful not to imply fault or favor, is suddenly incredibly attractive. We f*cked on our first real date, and it was pretty awesome. He made me come with his hand and afterward, when I turned my head to see his face, he had this enormous smile spread across it, like he’d just won the lottery. Then he slid inside me and made me come again. Could I just drag him into the bathroom right now and spread my legs and get f*cked against the tiny sink? I slide my hand down his back and touch his ass through his jeans. He looks down at me, surprised, and pleased. Standing beside him now, the fact that I’d been irritated by his interest in me seems very silly. I hope he forgives me.