Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

“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.”

He’s cute, in a Disney Channel punk rock sort of way. The kid who grew up with parents that encouraged his creative endeavors and put out a plate of fresh-baked cookies while he did homework. I’ll never understand the well-adjusted.

“Oh.” Trina’s carnivorous grin flattens to a grimace. “Well, no one’s perfect.”

We take the invitation, nonetheless, if only because it’s the closest restroom that doesn’t require a purchase in advance. Together, Trina and I stand in line down a dingy hallway covered in framed concert photographs and graffiti. It smells of cheap liquor, mildew, and perfume-scented sweat. “You realize you’ve probably jinxed that poor guy, right?” I tell her.

“Please.”

“Seriously. You just put ten years of bad mojo on him. What if he was supposed to become the next great American bassist? Now he’s going to end up vacuuming baseboards at the Spit Shine car wash.”

“The world needs bass players,” she says. “But I can’t be responsible for their misplaced notions of fuckability.”

“Paul McCartney played bass.”

“That’s like saying Santa is fuckable. That’s nasty, Gen.”

Six women stumble out of the single-toilet restroom, sloppy and laughing. Trina and I take our turn. She splashes water on her face while I pee.

After we’ve both finished up and washed our hands, Trina pulls a small compact out of her purse. Under it is a little plastic baggie of white powder. She dips her finger in to gather some in her nail and snort it up her nose. Takes another up the other nostril, then spreads the excess on her teeth, sucking them dry.

“Want a bump?” She offers the compact to me.

“I’m good.”

Cocaine was never my vice. I smoked plenty and drank like a sailor. Dropped acid every now and then. But I was never tempted by the harder stuff.