Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 151044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
I looked out the window as we traveled under an overhang for the trains rushing above. The buildings had shrunk from skyscrapers to two-story storefronts. Most of the windows were covered with metal cages for the night.
“Where are we?”
“Queens.”
The commercial district was clogged with small delicatessens, nail salons, and check cashing stores. The buildings were underwhelmingly brick and concrete, and every free-standing street sign had a bicycle locked to it. We had definitely left the posh luxury of 5th Avenue and Manhattan’s Upper East Side.
“Pull over up here.” Barrett reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.
“Do you know where we are?”
“I told you, we’re in Queens.”
I followed him out of the cab. “What now?”
“You said you wanted to disappear. Now we disappear.”
We walked into a small corner bar. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the patrons didn’t look up when we entered. Our attire was an extreme contrast to the casual dress of the other patrons.
“Two beers,” he ordered, sliding onto the stool directly in front of the taps.
I climbed onto the seat beside him. “Have you been here before?”
“No.”
The bartender dropped two napkins in front of us then covered them with two beers. I looked around at the patrons piled in the booths. A television screen displayed a bright blue background with a music note and a man did something on a laptop to the left. A microphone stood like a lone flagpole at his side.
My gaze moved to the special’s board. “They’re setting up Karaoke.”
Barrett followed my stare. “You want to sing?’
“God, no.” But also…kind of yes. “I mean… No. Never mind.”
“Chicken.”
I scoffed. “Would you sing?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
I glanced back at the man with the laptop. He had a pretty thick binder of song options. Maybe belting out my frustrations was exactly what I needed. That and perhaps something stronger to drink.
“I’d need more than beer to get up there.”
He pulled out his black card. “Are we going to Russia or Mexico?”
“Huh?”
“Tequila or vodka? Pick your poison.”
The logical voice in my head reminded me that I had a fiancé to worry about and responsibilities in the morning. A sensible bride would get back in a cab and return to Manhattan to face the music. But karaoke dude had music right here and that somehow felt safer than the music waiting at home.
“Let’s run for the border.”
Barrett whistled at the bartender and held up two fingers. “Two shots of your finest tequila.”
There was no Casa Dragones Blanco here, but that was fine. The bartender delivered the shots with a shaker of salt and two questionable lemon slices. I debated briefly if I was going to regret this.
“Let’s go, Meyers.” Barrett grabbed my hand and slathered it with lemon, then sprinkled the wet mark with salt. “Bottoms up.”
I licked, drank, winced, and bit. All while making unpleasant grunts for each increasingly tart step of the way. We slammed down our empty glasses and gasped.
Barrett coughed. “Every time you and I hang out I wake up with rot gut.”
I washed the citrus taste down with a swig of beer. “I guess that’s our thing.”
He laughed and clanked his mug to mine. “The drunken duo.”
Forty minutes and several shots later, we were at the microphone belting out the lyrics and yodeling to the Cranberries’ Zombie. No one clapped when we finished. Nor did anyone ask for an encore. Luckily, we were feeling generous so they didn’t have to.
Barrett told Darnell—the guy running the karaoke—to play another one.
As soon as I recognized the beat I cheered, “Ohhhh shit!” My hands were over my head as I swayed to the background shoops and shut my eyes, channeling my inner Salt-N-Pepa. No lyrics were needed for this one.
I looked up at Barrett and asked, “How you doing, baby?”
He frowned, not knowing Shoop as well as I obviously did. “Huh?”
“No, not you.” I pushed him out of the way and grabbed the guy at the bar. “The bow-legged one.”
The man grinned the moment I started dancing in his space.
“What's your name?” I sang, knowing the lyrics by heart.
“Brian,” he shouted.
This wasn’t about Brian. This was about shooping. I’d gone to the place of no return and there was nothing to do but sing the song to its entirety, so off I went. “Damn, baby, that sounds sexy.”
“Uh, Rayne.” Barrett tried to pull me away, but I was too far gone. “Sorry, man, she’s had a long night.”
I spun and shouted into the mic just as the beat picked up. “Here I go!”
Salt-N-Pepa’s timeless lyrics belted from my long-term memory with precision borne of alcohol and accuracy no one sober would trust. But to my ears, I sounded Grammy-fucking-tastic.
As I danced around the bar, sticking the microphone in the face of any woman over thirty, they jumped in. Our rap skills were magically delicious. My moves were on fire. My voice was a derailed locomotive grinding down the tracks with the melodic grace of an asthmatic smoker. But everyone loved it. Or at least I loved it enough not to care if others were enjoying the show.