by Masen, Kat
I fold my arms across my body in defiance. “What’s so funny?”
“Your attempt at an Irish accent.”
His accent is strong. I may be drunk, but he sounds distinctively Australian.
Either way, it doesn’t matter, he’s an asshole for laughing at me. A hot asshole.
“Well, your attempt at an Australian accent is just as bad.”
He cocks his head to the side, shaking it as his lips press into an annoying smirk. Ignoring me, he tightens his grip around the tall glass, drinking the remnants of his beer before ordering another.
“Typical American girl,” he mutters.
I stand taller, practically stumbling, until he catches me around my waist, annoyed at my clumsy fall.
“Excuse me?” I pull his hands off me, staring into his deep green eyes. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”
“That’s a big word for someone intoxicated.”
“Intoxicated is a big word for someone who is a jerk.”
“Oh, so now I’m the jerk? I thought I was the hot asshole?”
Holy crap! Did I say those words out loud? I knew it was a stupid idea to go out. Not only have I made a fool out of myself, I am now starting to feel incredibly ill and lightheaded.
Just power through, one more drink, and you’ll be fine.
“Bartender,” I yell, impatiently. “My beer?”
Pulling a glass from the tray, he tilts the nozzle of the tap and pours me a beer, placing it right in front of me. I pull out my purse, only for the asshole to throw a twenty on the countertop.
“It’s on me,” he tells the bartender.
“Um… no.” I take the twenty, shoving it into his shirt pocket. His hard chest lays flat beneath my palm, and for some unknown reason, I take my time pulling away. “I can pay my own way. I am an independent woman, and no man will tell me what to do.”
Thank you, Tiffany.
“Calm down, okay? I just want to see you chug a beer. In fact, I place all the money in my wallet that you can’t finish that schooner without throwing up all over those sexy shoes of yours.”
I scan my shoes, noticing him eyeing them at the same time.
“Arrogant much? You’re on! Show me what you got.”
He pulls out two hundred dollars from his wallet, placing it flat on the bench.
Damn! Now I have to prove him wrong.
Something about him irritates me. Perhaps it’s his arrogance or the way he expects me to cave like a girl. He has no clue who I am, therefore, I can be anyone right now. And anyone is the girl who chugs the whole glass without hurling on the sidewalk.
Either way, I have no choice but to finish. I won’t back down.
Bringing the glass to my lips, I see him out of the corner of my eye staring at me with amusement.
C’mon, Gabriella, you can do it.
Three.
Two.
One.
And drink.
Oliver
It was a great night until she walked in.
A few blokes sit around me watching an old Manchester United game airing on the flat-screen television located above the bar. We bonded over beers, our frustration over the penalty kick, and despite my initial hunt to get laid tonight, I am content just drinking a schooner and unwinding with same-minded company.
Jerry, the Irish backpacker with the mouth of a sailor, decides to take a piss leaving the barstool beside me empty. Honestly, I am beginning to enjoy the break from his profanity, until she stumbles into the bar wearing a tight little black dress and high heels that ride up her lean legs just shy of her knees. Her long reddish curls bounce as she moves around, making every man and his dog turn their eyes toward where she stands.
She has an infectious laugh, unaware of her grand entrance along with her group of friends is causing a scene. None of them seem fazed with the attention, especially the redhead with the short, white dress and sash, who practically throws herself at the bar and demands a drink. She turns to face me, flashes her tits to catch my attention, but I don’t waver. It seems to piss her right off.
I don’t do fake tits, sweetheart.
Then, curly pulls up beside me oblivious she’s standing so dangerously close to me that I can practically smell her skin. It smells fucking good, something girly but oh so fucking sweet.
In the corner of my eye, I can see she’s struggling to compose herself, barely able to stand straight, relying on the bar for support. Judging by her indecisive nature to order a drink, I assume this is common behavior for her. A typical American girl. I bet she’s going to fangirl over my accent and throw herself at me.
Until she doesn’t.
She has a chip on her shoulder, and it’s a large one at that.
I’ve rubbed her up the wrong way, and when it comes to playing the game of cat and mouse, you’re dealing with the master.
I throw down a twenty, paying for her beer until she voices her offense at my rude gesture which then forces me to up the ante. Now, to be clear, I have no idea if she will chug the whole glass to prove a point. I assume she will do that girl pout thing then call defeat.
Fuck, was I wrong.
I pull out the money I owe her after the bet, reluctantly handing it over which she happily accepts.
“You know, it’s rude to assume my accent is fake. As an Australian, I’m offended,” I retort, watching her lick the remnants of the glass.
“Fine, then, let me test you?” She places the glass on the countertop, flicking her hair away from her face as she gazes at me with curiosity. “Do you put shrimp on the barbie?”
My expression remains flat. A pathetic first attempt. “Firstly, we call them prawns, not shrimp. And secondly, I like to throw a good snag on the barbie.”
“Snag?” She laughs, almost snorting. “What kind of made-up word is that?”
“S.A.U.S.A.G.E.S,” I annunciate. “It’s an abbreviation.”
“Fine, so while you’re eating your ‘snags’…” she uses air quotes, “… do you cuddle with your pet kangaroo?”
I roll my eyes. This girl is a piece of work. “Sure, if I want to get throat punched. Sweetheart, give up now while you still have some dignity.”
Her laughter stops, and she slows until she looks ready to hurl right in front of me. The color of her face drains, almost to a pale white.
“You okay?”
“What do you care?” she bites back. “I’m fine.”
When a woman says she’s fine, she is so far from fine it’s not even funny. She’s North Pole to fine. And curly here is anything but fine.
“How about you ease up on the beer? You’ll pay for it tomorrow.”
“Maybe I want to pay for it tomorrow.” Her hazel eyes flicker with anger. “Maybe I need to live a little because a hangover will be a nice change from a world I don’t want to be in.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to respond, stumbling off the stool and crashing into a bloke beside her. She asks him to dance, glancing at me to goad some sort of reaction. I’m not going to give it to her—talk about high maintenance.
The corner of the pub has a small dance floor with a DJ playing pop music. The music isn’t exactly what I would listen to, yet I can appreciate the sounds of Will Smith’s ‘Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It.’
Sitting at the bar, I watch them despite my reluctance. It’s the train crash waiting to happen, and no matter what you do, you can’t avert your eyes.
The last fifteen minutes involves a woman who has belittled my accent, thrown shade to my culture, and cost me two hundred bucks. Yet, for some reason, I’m glued examining the way her hips moved in sync with the beats, how her hair bounces around, cascading against her olive skin, and how her dress rides up her toned thighs as she dances. She has a fantastic body, I’ll give her that.
In the pit of my stomach, there’s an unsettling sensation. I try to ignore it along with a stir of anger beginning to boil inside of me when the dum
b bloke puts his hands on her arse. She appears to be having fun until he gets too grabby, and her hands push him away.
The idiot doesn’t appear to listen, and when I see her struggle, I feel compelled to rip him off her and tell him to back the fuck off. So, I make my way through the now busier crowd. When I reach them, I tap on his shoulder intending to warn him to respect her wishes. He doesn’t waver, purposely ignoring me and grabbing her with an even stronger force.
I can immediately see the struggle in her eyes, and with one swift move, I pull him off her until he loses his balance, falling butt first onto the hardwood floor.
“Oi, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he yells, pulling himself up.
The dickhead is slightly shorter than me, and considering I’m six-foot-two, he still has an overpowering stance compared to a lot of the men around us.
You can take him, Olly. You’ve taken on bigger blokes than this dickwad.
I’m about to punch him straight in his smug face until she shakes her head, begging us to stop. Immediately, my focus shifts to her, noticing her eyes filling with tears. I can’t help but be distracted by her emotional plea for us to stop the madness, that is until a fountain of vomit flies into the air, landing all over the bloke’s white shirt.
Damn, that has to completely suck.
He yells, dry retching as I grab her hand in a mad rush to pull her outside. Absolute perfect timing as her body falls over the railing and the remaining contents of her stomach spill into the bushes.
Attempting to pull her hair out of her face, she cries, “Leave me alone.”
“I’ll leave you alone once you can walk in a straight line.”
“Go away. I’m already humiliated. I don’t need you making it worse.”
“I would go, but my kangaroo hasn’t arrived yet. He was my ride back home.”
In between her heavy breathing, I could have sworn I saw a smile, but it fades rapidly, overshadowed by the cold, harsh reality of drinking too much alcohol.
“Why did you help me?”
“Well, you didn’t seem too pleased with his hands all over your arse, and my pa always taught me to respect someone’s arse. So, yeah.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t believe my pa said that?”
“No,” she mutters, her breathing slowing down. “I don’t believe you would respect someone’s ass. Far from it.”
She says the word ass with her accent lingering, no trace of the missing letter ‘R’ which us Aussies are so fond of. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, having been here for a few days, but I was so far from home. Talking to her was different than talking the girls back in Australia. Suddenly, that dreaded homesickness consumes me. I miss people pronouncing the word arse correctly. I miss Pa and his stupid Dad jokes. I miss Ma’s homemade lasagna with the double layer of cheese and garlic bread which has way too much butter on the top.
I pull away, creating distance between us. “You okay to get home?”
“Why? Let me guess… you want to make sure I’m okay. Then invite yourself in for a nightcap, which ends up overnight because I’m drunk and have no clue who’s in my bed.”
“Actually, no,” I correct her. “It’s not safe at night, and I just want to make sure you can get home.”
With a downward gaze and flushed cheeks, she crosses her arms, angling her body away from me. “You know what? I’m fine. Go back to whatever you were doing. I’ll be fine.”
Wow! A double fine.
In a panicked frenzy, she unties the top of her laced heels, sliding her shoes off until her bare feet are firmly on the pavement. Without the height of her heels, she falls below my chin. Much smaller than she appeared to be.
Without a goodbye, or a gracious ‘thank you for helping me not vomit in my hair,’ or ‘go home loser who doesn’t understand the word no,’ she walks down the path with her back to me.
Part of me wants to yell out ‘thanks’ until she stops mid-step and turns around to face me one more time. There is something in the weight of her stare. It’s unexplainable, drawing me in, but I have no idea why. Perhaps I’m being an idiot—take her home. Yet, some voice inside of me warns me to stay away. She has her own problems, and I surely have mine.
Before I call it a night, I stumble back into the pub, apologizing to Dan for the altercation and offer compensation for the mess. This night has turned into one financial disaster after another. I may have money, but throwing it all on some stupid bet is very unlike me. I can almost hear Ma’s voice berating me from the other side of the world.
With the clock striking midnight, I make my way home, or whatever you want to call it, to drown in my homesickness in some much-needed sleep.
Just shy of the front door, it dawns on me—I never even got her name.
I’ll name her curly, not that I will encounter her again.
Some things are never meant to be.
Gabriella
According to the internet, the best way to avoid a hangover is by consuming a large amount of water, coffee, and painkillers before heading to bed. One website even went as far as downing a whole burrito with extra jalapenos.
My stomach flips into a nauseating circle at the thought of eating a burrito.
The last time I drank myself into a stupor would have been college. Even then, I don’t recall the aftermath anywhere near as bad as this.
Lying in bed, the aching in my skull ebbs and flows like a cold tide. No matter how I position myself, it doesn’t go away. Ripping the sheets off, I stumble out of bed and into the bathroom. The pit of my stomach swirls, and without any further warning, I drop to the ground clutching onto the side of the toilet bowl as last night projectiles out.
I reach for the flush, leaning back onto the cold tiled wall. I feel only slightly better, enough so I can rinse my mouth out with mouthwash then climb back into bed. Once there, this stupid hangover consumes me, again. It’s as if the blackest of clouds are hovering over my head with no intention of clearing anytime soon. I’m living in regret, swearing never to touch a morsel of alcohol ever again. What was I even thinking? I’m too old for this. Last night was college behavior. There is nothing wild about lying in bed with a throbbing headache and upset stomach.
It’s around mid-morning when I actually drag myself out of bed. Despite another hour’s sleep, my head still feels like an ax was planted in it. Even my normally soft pillow feels like I am sleeping on a pile of bricks.
My eyesight struggles to cope with the daylight, and I fumble tying the belt on my robe.
Nothing seems to compute.
I am dying.
Stupid Redheaded Sluts.
The balls of my feet ache with every step to the kitchen.
Never, ever, wearing those heels again.
Blisters forming from the new leather and my desire to dance the night away removed all my senses and obviously my pain threshold.
Inside the small kitchen, I turn the Keurig on and wait to drink the strongest coffee known to man. The choice of décor inside the kitchen is rather dated—yellow cupboards and one of those refrigerators which date back to the 70s. The dishtowels hanging from the oven handle have images of boats. I hadn’t realized until now that the fabric matches the tablecloth sitting on the round dining table in the middle of the room.
My coffee’s ready, and knowing I should also stomach some food, I settle for a piece of toast with a thin layer of butter plus two Advil tablets.
“Hey there, neighbor.” Aubrey’s voice travels through the back door.
I move slowly, opening the screen door, letting her in. For a Sunday morning, she looks nicely dressed in an ivory halter top and cargo skirt. Her hair is placed into a side braid away from her face. She lays her eyes on me and breaks out in laughter, the noise causing my head to throb once again, so I wince.
“Big night?”
I nod, it’s all I can muster.
“Okay, r
eally big if vocal cords are tapped out.”
I hadn’t noticed the silver canister she’s carrying she places on the table in front of me. “Here, drink this. According to Chance, it’s the best hangover cure.”
I’m afraid to ask. “What is it?”
“Smoothie...”
“Just a smoothie?”
“With ah… raw egg.” She coughs, trying to disguise the ‘raw egg’ part.
My stomach does that thing again—a vicious swirl of sensations causing an internal struggle to keep things down. I swallow the giant lump inside my throat. I’ve done enough vomiting in the last twenty-four hours to last a lifetime.
“I thought the same thing.” Aubrey screws up her face sliding it directly underneath my mouth. “But he insisted.”
“Um… the gesture is great. Thank you but—”
“No buts, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
I wish this headache away.
Nope, didn’t work.
So, for the sake of Chance and Aubrey’s relationship, I give it a try. Either it’ll cure the raging hangover, or I will vomit trying.
Opening the canister, I block my senses not to smell the contents and drink as much as I can in one go. Surprisingly, my immediate reaction doesn’t involve me bending over the kitchen sink.
“So, tell me. Last night was—”
“I don’t remember,” I lie, avoiding the humiliation of my actions.
Aubrey scans the room in a frenzy. “Oh shit, is he here?”
“Is who here?”
“The guy you brought back home?”
“I did no such thing,” I’m quick to respond defensively. “Besides, no one would want me the way I was acting last night. Have you ever made that big of a fool out of yourself that you wish you could climb into a hole and die?”
“Ah… yes. Hasn’t everyone?”