A night out with Miranda always ended in one of two ways: either she found this week’s love of her life right off the bat and I caught an early cab home for a night of popcorn and bad cable reality shows; or I spent the entire evening fending off the smitten males whose pheromones went on high alert the moment her big toe entered the room.
This night was going in the direction of option number two. I didn’t see any hot prospects at first glance. McGinty’s Bar was the place to be in Springfield, Massachusetts on a Saturday night. The place was packed with the crowd spilling onto the back patio to enjoy the warm summer night, and the music was thumping at a gotta-shout level. All eyes turned to the door when she walked in. A path cleared as six-foot-tall Miranda, platinum-blond hair hanging past her curvy hips, wiggled her way onto the dance floor.
I followed, because she couldn’t get her groove on without me. I’m a better dancer than she is and she steals all her moves from me. It’s true. I’ve got that going for me, at least—not that anyone notices her five-foot-four, dark-haired friend with the thick ankles. Her shadow certainly swallows me whole, but hey, not everyone wants to be in the spotlight. Suits me just fine.
We boogied to the hip song of the moment and soon enough, a few gutsy gals left the security of the scattered tables and joined us. Then the drunker of the men crowded the floor, probably wondering if they should shoot for the top and approach Miranda or pick one of us “lesser” girls—like they could flatter us into bed by flirting with us first. For the most part, men at bars are idiots. Newsflash, I know.
“You with the hot chick?” a short, curly-haired guy asked, bumping his hip into mine in some pretense of a dance move.
I bumped back hard enough that he had to catch his balance. “If you mean the tall blonde, yes, I am.”
Out came another bad dance move, with him jiggling his hands like he was shaking a Martini. “She available?”
I shook my head and gave him the bad news. “Not exactly. She starts her prison sentence tomorrow. This is kind of a last hurrah.”
His bushy eyebrows scrunched as he recalculated his plan of attack, not quite ready to give up the chase. Perhaps prison stripes are a turn-on for some guys.
I shrugged. “I suppose she could use a pen pal. Although her ex might be writing to her, too. He seems to have gotten over the whole stabbing thing. You really only need one testicle, right?” I boogied away from him and started getting my excuses ready for the string of men who would soon be lining up to meet the second most appealing woman in the bar—the hot chick’s best friend. Always a good girl to know when trying to make your move. At least, that’s what the men seemed to think.
A group of college guys had separated me from Miranda, but she seemed to be enjoying herself between two of them, so I made my way over to the bar and collapsed on a stool.
The bartender came over and I asked for a Coke. Bras dangled in a rainbow of hues and sizes from a crisscross of beams above him. We’d been there before and I was surprised Miranda hadn’t added to the collection. Not me, though. Bras are expensive, and with a good-sized chest myself, I didn’t usually go walking around without one. I’m classy like that.