Bar Crawl (3 page)

I
kept my eyes on Frankie’s face as we sat across from each other, waiting for our orders to be called. I knew she’d expect me to be looking anywhere else, and I expected that of myself, too. But she’d turned me down
twice
already, and I wanted to avoid having lunch thrown in my face as she screamed “Pig!” if she caught me looking at her curves. I’ve had enough of girls’ lunches on my clothes for one lifetime.

The bitch of it was she
did
have some
banging
curves. Those hips were a siren’s call for my hands, but there was more to her than that. Much more. When I’d tried to put the moves on her in a bar in Falmouth a couple of months before, it was like she didn’t take me seriously—the way she sarcastically said “Okay” before rolling her eyes and returning to conversation with her friends. I knew I’d try again, but I had to bide my time.

“So,” Frankie said somewhat impatiently, “what’s up?”

I realized that, while I hadn’t been staring at her body, I’d been staring at her face for what must have been an uncomfortably long time.

“What’s your deal?” I chuckled and leaned back in my chair.

“My
deal
?” She scrunched her forehead, causing her freckles to fold in on each other. “You stalked me on the internet, tracked me down at my weekend job, and dragged me to lunch to ask why my
deal
is?”

The freckles scattered across her cheeks were soon highlighted red as she seemingly grew flustered. I grinned. I couldn’t help myself.

“What’s so funny?” she demanded softly.

I shrugged. “Look, I just thought it would be nice to get to know you…”

“Ha!” Her laugh was so sharp and loud, it caused the people next to us to look up from whatever they were doing. “Get to know me, that’s rich.”

I pressed my forearms into the table and leaned forward. “What is that supposed to mean?”

She echoed my stance, challenging me as she encroached on my space. “I mean,” she whispered, “it seems that all you’re interested in
getting to know
about women is how their breasts feel in your hands.”

I bit the inside of my cheek as she seemed to have read my most intimate thoughts word for word. “Well, look at you, making assumptions.” I swallowed hard, wondering how many times she’d watched me at different bars before I’d noticed her. Once or twice and I might be okay. More than four and I’d be screwed.

Frankie tilted her head, the light catching some red highlights streaked through her brown hair. “So…you
don’t
comb the bar after your sets looking for your next
date
?” She put air quotes around the word “date.”

Before I could answer, the pimple-faced teenager behind the meat case called our order. We both rose, neither offering to get the other’s food. Once we were seated again, I studied the food in front of her: An enormous salad filled with beans, a crumbled cheese, and nearly every vegetable imaginable.

“Problem?” she asked, gesturing to her plate.

“Don’t you want salad dressing?” I was used to watching girls methodically dip their forks into the little dishes of dressing before plunging it into the leaves.

Frankie stuck a fork full of garden in my face. “It’s on it already. See?”

She hadn’t asked for the dressing on the side. It seems so insignificant, and I’m aware of that, but that one choice said more about her than anything else I’d seen anyone do on a date. It told me she really didn’t seem to give a shit what I thought. I liked that, and it scared me.

I cleared my throat. “I’m just used to everyone ordering the dressing on the side when I’m on dates. What the hell is that all about, anyway?”

She shrugged and chewed slowly, her glossed hips curving around her food. “Calories, I guess,” she admitted once she swallowed. “And, this isn’t a date.” She winked and resumed her meal

“We’re eating food together, aren’t we?” I challenged.

She didn’t look up as she picked through her salad. “Sure, but I eat with my coworkers every day, and I don’t consider
those
dates.”

I sighed. “Sure, but I don’t typically eat meals with women.”

Frankie looked up, a horrified and amused look on her face. “Well, lucky me, then. You should brush up on what a
date
is, though. Don’t stalk the person at work, for one. And, it’s typically nice to offer to pay for the meal.”

I chuckled. “Would you have let me pay for your meal?”

“Nope.” She smiled and put a forkful of salad in her mouth.

Her quick wit excited me, and proved I needed to be on my toes if I was going to make it through even one date—or non-date—with her.

“You didn’t answer my question, about your bar activities,” Frankie said after a few more minutes of silence.

I took the final bite of the first half of my BLT and sat back, raking my hand through my hair, grumbling loudly. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I’m someone I’m not. I like women, okay? I love them. And I mainly work in bars, so where else would you suggest I look for them?”

“It’s not that you can’t look for women in the bar. But why are you always with a different girl? Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

“Sure, I’ve had—”

“I mean one at one time,” she interrupted.

I growled louder, looking to the ceiling. “What do you want from me?”

“What do you want from
me?
” She set her fork down and leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms as she waited for my answer.

Shit.

“I…I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

Frankie dropped her arms from across her waist and resumed eating. “Look, CJ, there’s a chance that you’re a decent guy. I’m not basing that on much, but I’d like to assume there’s a chance. The problem, though, is I’m not going to be a character in your personal rom-com where you try to get the girl that turned you down just to validate your masculinity or whatever.”

Heat rose through my neck and into my cheeks. I couldn’t tell if I was insulted or embarrassed. She was wrong, but I’d need to craft my next words carefully.

“I think…” I paused and took a deep breath. “I think you know a lot less about me than you think you do.”

“So tell me something about you that no one else knows,” she challenged. It was a test, and one I’d better pass if I wanted this lunch to lead to another one. The problem was, most of the things people didn’t know about me they didn’t know for a reason.

I smacked my lips as my eyes widened. “My best friend is a girl. And,” I added in before she could cut me off, “we’ve
never
slept together. And never will. We’ve been friends since high school and she’s engaged to my cousin.”

“Does she have a name? This freak of nature?” Frankie teased.

“Georgia.” I missed G and Regan like crazy, and was looking forward to their wedding on the beach in Provincetown in a couple of weeks.

“
No one
knows she’s your best friend?” Frankie asked skeptically. “Certainly she knows, and at least your cousin knows?”

“Oh, come on!” I pleaded. “You know what I mean. Do you think anyone in their right mind would think I’d have a girl as a best friend?” I stood on my womanizing reputation as a means to highlight the unlikely nature of this information.

She grinned. “One you’d never slept with? Not a chance in hell. I guess I’ll accept it.”

“Now I want you to tell me something.”

Frankie shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“What is your name short for? All the stuff on the school’s website had
Frankie
.”

She chuckled, setting her fork on her now-empty plate. It was refreshing to watch a woman finish her meal, even if it wasn’t one I’d paid for. “That’s it.”

“What?” I asked, crumpling my napkin and tossing it on my plate.

“Frankie is my name. It’s not Francine or Francis or whatever the hell else. It’s…just Frankie. What does CJ stand for?” She eyed me carefully.

I shook my head. “Sorry. Question and answer time is over. You asked one, and I asked one. That’s the end.”

She laughed. It wasn’t the sarcastic chuckle I’d become used to during our meal. It was light and airy. “God, is it something horrible? Like Carol?”

I kept a straight face and widened my eyes slightly, for effect.

“Oh no.” Her face turned pale as she covered her mouth. “It’s Carol? Shit, I’m sorry!” She lowered her head so her shoulder-length hair covered her face.

I couldn’t hold out any longer. A laugh broke through my facade, causing her to look up.

“You’re kidding?” she asked, still looking mortified.

I nodded as I stood, still laughing. “I’m kidding. It’s not Carol, but the look on your face was
priceless
.”

“You’re an asshole,” she mumbled as we cleared our plates and made our way to the door.

“Eh, I’ve been called worse. Hey, I’m playing at Upper Deck tonight. You should stop by.” I know how lame it sounds to ask a woman to come see me play. Really I didn’t care if she was there for the set at all, I just wanted to talk to her afterward. It was obvious I couldn’t tell her that, though, because she wasn’t likely to believe me given my usual activities after my sets.

Frankie looked into the sun, squinting her grey eyes. “Maybe. I’ve got papers to grade.”

“What kind of papers?”

“Short stories on their feelings about heading into the next school year.”

I nodded. I wanted to ask about ten more questions, but I didn’t want to give myself away. “Well, consider it. We don’t get to play outside much because of all the
racket
.” I put on my best old geezer voice. “But it’ll be fun.”

“I’ll consider it,” she agreed as she opened her door. She granted me a polite smile before ducking into her car. “Thanks for lunch.”

“Thank
you
.”

I watched her car drive away before I turned for mine. I drove to the warehouse where we practiced and beat the hell out of the drums all afternoon to try to work out exactly
what
it was I wanted…from Frankie and myself.