Bad Girl Reputation (Avalon Bay #2)(77)

“I’ve given some thought to sticking around too.”

I snort a laugh. “Why?”

Trina always hated this town. Or rather, the people. She loved her friends fiercely, the few she kept. Beyond that, she’d have lit a match and never looked back. Or so I thought.

We’re briefly interrupted when the waitress finally makes it to our table. She looks young and flustered, a new hire struggling through the waning weeks of the summer crush. I order a club soda and ignore Trina’s judgmental eyebrow.

“I don’t know…. This place is a drag,” she says. “But it’s home, I guess.” There’s something in the way her gaze drifts to the soggy coaster, the way her fingernail picks at the corners, that suggests a deeper explanation.

“How are things?” I ask carefully. “LA not agreeing with you these days?”

“Eh, you know me. I’ve got a four-second attention span. I think maybe I’ve seen and done everything worth doing in that city.”

Only from Trina would I believe that. “You still working at the dispensary?” The least surprising part of her West Coast move was getting a job doing stuff that, around here, still gets you thrown in jail.

“Sometimes. Also bartending a little. And this guy I know, he’s a photographer, I help him out now and then, too.”

“This guy …” I watch as she dodges eye contact. “Is that a thing?”

“Sometimes.”

The conundrum of Trina is a bitter one. Few others I know manage to suck as much out of every minute of their lives as she does—eyes open and arms wide, try anything once, twice as much—and yet, at the same time, be so utterly unfulfilled. There’s a hole in the bottom of her soul, where everything good leaks out and all the worst, thickest, blackest muck clings to the sides.

“He’s an artist,” she says by way of an explanation. “His work is important to him.”

Which is the kind of thing people say when they’re making excuses for why their needs aren’t being met.

“Anyway, I didn’t tell him I was coming here. Probably still hasn’t noticed my stuff is gone.”

A wave of sympathy swells in my chest. I felt like that for a long time. I kept grasping for anything at all to satisfy me, whether it was good for me or not. How could I know unless I found out for myself, though? It takes a lot of trial and error to realize all the good advice we ignored along the way.

When our drinks arrive, she drains the last of her previous beer and gets a start on the next. “Enough chat,” she announces, running a hand through her hair. She’s wearing it shorter these days, which gives her even more of a tough girl vibe. “I’m bored with myself.”

“Okay. How shall we entertain ourselves?”

“If I remember right, you owe me a rematch. Rack ’em up, West.”

I follow her to the pool table, where we split two games and call it a draw. From there, we barhop down the boardwalk, with Trina ingesting a quantity of shots and beers that would kill a man twice her size.

It’s a relief, actually. A taste of the old life without the accompanying blackout. And it’s incredible the things you notice when you’re not wasted. Like the guy who hits on Trina at the second bar. She thinks he’s twenty-five, but really, he’s pushing forty with a spray tan, Botox, and a tan line from his missing wedding ring. Still, he’s good for a couple drinks before she instigates him up to the karaoke mic for shits and giggles, as if he’s her personal court jester. I’d feel bad for the dude if I wasn’t sure there’s a kid at home somewhere, whose college fund will be a little lighter after this midlife crisis.

“He was not forty,” she insists too loudly when I inform her, as we trudge down the boardwalk in search of our next venue. “It was the lighting!”

“Babe, he had white chest hairs.”

Trina shudders, a tremble of revulsion that vibrates through each limb. She makes a dry gagging noise while I howl with laughter.

“No,” she moans.

“Yes,” I confirm between giggles.

“Well, where were you? Tell a girl next time. Throw up some hand signals or something.”

“What’s sign language for pendulous, sagging testicles?”

Now we’re both doubling over in hysterics.

The boardwalk at night is a drag strip of lights and music. Shops with neon signs and bright window displays. People pouring out of bars with the competing soundtracks mingling in the humid salt air. Patio restaurants bursting with tourists and souvenir cups. Every dozen steps or so, a young guy is barking about two-for-one drinks or free cover.

“Live music,” one of them says, shoving his arm out to give Trina a pale green flyer for the music venue around the corner. “No cover before midnight.”

“Are you in a band?” A flicker of interest brightens her eyes.

Trina has this way about her. Flirtatious in a vaguely threatening manner. It’s hysterical when she’s had a little to drink. When she’s had a lot, it’s not dissimilar to a lit firecracker that’s stalled. You stand there. Waiting. Watching. Certain the moment you try to intervene, it’ll explode and take your fingers and eyebrows with it.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, hiding his fear behind an alert smile. Some guys like the hot, scary ones, and some have a sense of self-preservation. “I play bass.”