by Zoey Derrick
IRELAND
“Sweet Home Alabama” - Lynyrd Skynyrd
The main building of Blu Phoenix isn’t all that big. It’s longer than it is wide, and while it’s big enough to manage a smaller summer crowd, it’s prime season now. The cooler ‘winter’ months. Summer in Phoenix is brutal and I’m sure all bars suffer during those few months. Hell, lots of businesses suffer because no one wants to be out in one hundred ten degree heat. Let alone drinking in it.
Inside and to the left of the door is a small stage and a wooden dance floor that is littered with tables on nights like tonight when there’s a live band playing on the much larger back patio stage. The inside bar is all the way to the right of the door. Far enough away from the stage that you can put some distance between the speakers and a place to sit and drink during live performance nights. When the interior is void of live music, the bulk of the tables are spread out throughout the interior and then there are several out back as well. Across from the main entrance are the back wall and the doors to the fenced in patio area. The previous owner actually had a mechanical bull area set up back here and that was the source of entertainment for the country bar it once was. The new owners took out the pit and put in a ton of concrete, a sandpit for the ‘on the beach’ feel and a huge dance floor around it. It’s early February and the weather is perfect for a party on the patio.
Tonight there is a local band playing and they’re pretty good. I’d recognized the name when I checked the bar’s website, but I’ve never heard them play live before. When we first started coming here about a year ago, we figured out that checking the online schedule was important. There are often private parties taking place inside the bar and when you’ve got plans to hang out with your friends, you’re crushed when you show up and are turned away at the door. We’ve been turned away enough to double check before showing up.
Becca and I step up to the outside bar and grab two rounds each. We find our favorite table empty and we snag it. We’re close to the bar, but it provides the best view of the band and stage. The dance floor is right in front of us to, giving us the perfect vantage point for people watching. What else are you going to do in a bar besides pick up guys, which is more Becca’s thing than mine?
Becca is very attractive. She’s a leggy blonde, super skinny, small chested, with green-brown eyes. She’s gorgeous if you want the truth of it, and men always seem to flock to her, which suits her just fine.
Tonight is no exception and it takes all of twenty minutes before Becca is off dancing with some cute guy and I sip my second Jack and coke while dancing in my chair to the music being played by the band. They have a female lead singer and she’s pretty damn good. Her blonde hair and punk rock style reminds me of Gwen Stefani, and I really start to get into the song, then before I know it, it’s over.
The next song they start to play has very familiar guitar chords that the crowd automatically recognizes. Who wouldn’t know this song? The familiar chords of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” start to fill the air and my blood runs cold.
I’d been doing everything I could to rid my mind of all things Dyson, but my mind quickly flashes back to ten years ago, the summer before Dyson moved away. Dusty, Dyson and me hanging out. I remember it like it was yesterday, the smells, the warm summer night, not at all unlike tonight. That was the night Dyson Cole finally seemed to really notice me. It was also the night he ‘asked me out’. Ironically, I didn’t say yes right away. Dyson was my brother’s friend. I didn’t know how my brother would feel and I didn’t want to become one of the girls Dyson talked about behind their backs.
We’d been friends for years, compliments of his friendship with my brother, but I also had a front row seat to his courting of girls around town. I watched him take girls into private bathrooms, barns and wherever else he could manage to get them alone. I was too young to understand what was happening behind those doors, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t making me jealous.
With his penchant for women came his whining and complaining to my brother with each and every one. He’d bitch about how they were too clingy or they kept calling him afterwards and how much it drove him crazy. He wanted to do his thing and be done. It didn’t matter what my brother told him, or how many times he tried to talk him out of his ways, he still kept doing it. I remember feeling so jealous of all those girls. They had the attention of the enigma that was Dyson Richards. But then I would feel angry toward him for how he talked about them behind their backs to my brother. He never seemed to like any of them and I don’t know that I ever heard the same name twice. I never really understood why he did it, but I could understand why the girls clung to him, Dyson could tell a woman anything she wanted to hear just so he could get between her legs.
For me it was different. Yeah, we all say that, but he did things with me I’d never seen him do with anyone else. Sure, I never went to school dances, parties held by the popular crowd, or hung out after the football games – that would mean I actually had to go to one of them. But I never saw him hit on a girl, or at least not the way he did with me. The girls did all the hitting. It seemed like any girl who paid Dyson attention, got his attention in return. Except for me. I never purposefully tried to give Dyson attention and I think that was part of the challenge. And maybe even part of the reason he said what he said when he was done with me. He’d reached his goal, no matter the cost, and he was satisfied with the result.
There was always a constant flow of girls hanging on him at school. He was, after all, the star receiver for our football team. He could have any girl he wanted and here he was hitting on me? He always seemed to throw up little signs that showed me, in his own way, I was different from the other girls. But at some point I came to wonder if the attention he was lavishing on me was for the sake of saving face with my brother. I always felt different, special even. It took him that whole summer to convince me he wanted me; the plus-sized, bright red-haired, green-eyed freshman to be.
Turns out, all he wanted was one more notch in his belt.
Chapter 11
Ireland
“So What” - P!nk
“Where’d you go?” Becca asks as she returns to the table and “Sweet Home Alabama” comes to a close. I shake my head. “You’ve been awfully spacey these last few days. You alright?”
“Yup.” I hop off my stool. “Just peachy. Want another?” I lift my empty cups. Two down, a whole lot more to go.
“Definitely.” She polishes off her second piña colada, hands me her empty cups, and I head toward the bar. I purposefully ignore the guy she brought back to the table because she’s ignoring his attempts at trying to lick her face off.
I didn’t tell Becca what was on my mind because the Dyson is a story from my past that I’ve never shared with anyone. It’s too embarrassing for me. Given the circumstances and looking back on it over the years, I was an idiot for thinking someone like Dyson could really be interested in someone like me. Well, the me I was then. Who I am now wards men off without even trying. Becca asked me once if I was a lesbian and I’d scoffed at the idea at the time. But it kind of made sense she would think that. I’m not the girly girl type like she is. I like my jeans, my Chucks and my bad t-shirts, plus she’s seen me talking to guys, maybe even flirting with them, but I never got the butterflies. Unlike when you’re looking at Dyson. That little voice inside my head is doing all she can to remind me of the one person I really need to forget. Ten years, girlfriend… ten damn years and you ain’t forgotten him yet.
My mind wanders back to that time while I wait for our drinks to be made.
Dyson leaving town caused uproar in the school with the girls. Aside from leaving the football team high and dry, he left his bevy of bimbos behind too. It didn’t take long for me to deduce that there was hardly a girl in our school he hadn’t successfully managed to charm into bed. That’s when I became nothing but a number, another notch, another scratch in his long list of girls he screwed. My self-esteem plummeted to the b
ottom of the barrel. But somewhere in my lowest point I found the strength I needed with me to do something about it.
After he ran out on all of us, really, I was determined to win him back, prove I was the girl he was meant to be with. It was stupid of me to think I was something more than a girl he screwed as he passed through town. But the idea gave me motivation and I started running, eating healthy and by the time I graduated high school, I was a total knock-out rocking a size eight versus the size eighteen I was when he left me naked, scared, hurt and alone in the barn.
By the time I reached knock-out status, we’d all lost touch with Dyson. Even my mother and his mom didn’t talk anymore.
That’s when things really started to fly. I graduated high school and realized I needed to find it in myself to let him go. I did the best I could before my life brought me here to Phoenix. When I stepped on campus, I was a new woman. Self-confidence, good looks and a newfound decision driving me forward. It was a whirlwind of new friends, new school, career choices and busting my ass for my diploma. Coming to Arizona was the fresh start I needed, and coupled with the pact I’d made with myself that summer to forget Dyson altogether, it worked. Dyson’s name never left my lips, but he never wandered far from my mind.
On lonely nights when my friends were out partying and I’d done something responsible, like picked studying over drinking, or when I would crawl into bed after a party left me wanting more, I thought about him. It was hard not to. I imagined running into him again, then I’d think about all the things I would say to him if I ever saw him again.
Eventually the hope of seeing him, finding him, faded. Though I never actually went looking for him, I kept hoping fate would intervene and I would run into him. It finally did, but is it too late? Now I have my chance, but with the events of the last couple weeks, I hardly have the strength to consider what it is I will say to him if I’m ever given the chance.
While I’m standing there, consumed with whether or not I should give Dyson a piece of my mind, I ignore everything else around me. I love coming here and over the years I’ve becoming a little more outgoing, meeting guys, talking to them, flirting with them and even dancing with them on occasion, but the reality is, I never go home with any of them and I never give out my phone number. I usually pacify them by ditching them completely, or giving out fake digits.
As the bartender finally slides my drinks over to me, I decide that all things Dyson need to be wiped from my mind before I return to the table. I need to have a good, stress free, enjoyable night. I can do this.
“Here, darlin’.”
“How much?” I ask.
“Already paid for.”
“What?” I ask, my eyebrows knitting together and she points to her left, my right, and I follow her finger. I reach her intended target just in time to see Dyson Cole turn away from the bar and my heart sinks into my stomach. So much for leaving him out of the rest of my evening.
I quickly ponder my options and the way I see it, I have three choices to choose from.
First, ignore him completely. Be a total bitch and not thank him for the drinks. This is the total cop-out option in my opinion. I know this isn’t much of an option because it will spoil my night no matter what. If I attempt to avoid him altogether, I know I’ll still be looking for him, watching for him everywhere I go, everything I do. In the end he’d get his own little bit of satisfaction out of it. He wins, no matter what. I might as well go home and save myself the trouble. Then I’ll wear myself ragged wondering what would’ve happened if I’d chosen one of the other options, because I’m masochistic that way.
Would this option lead him to assume I know who he is? If I avoid him altogether, he could easily make that assumption and I might never get to say my piece, or rather scream it at him at the top of my lungs.
Second choice, I can be nice, sweet and thank him for the drinks. Play the innocent card like I don’t know who he is. Would he confess? Or would he leave me guessing? I guess there is potential for the opposite. What if he were to pursue me again, not realizing I know who he is, or I pretend like I don’t know who he is? Would it be different this time? Not likely, I already know who he is. Then again, no, he knows exactly who I am. He’s had the pleasure of actually hearing my full name. His reaction in that conference room says it all.
He seduced me once. I have no doubt he could do it again.
Or three – which is my favorite, let the cat out of the bag. Make sure he knows I know exactly who he is. Give him a piece of my mind that’s been brewing for nearly ten years. Finally give in to what it is I’ve wanted to say to him. Why on earth can’t I find it in myself to be angry with him anymore?
The second choice is the one that’s more appealing. Thank him, be kind to him and in the end he won’t know I know who he is and I manage to save face with someone I’m going to be working with. I grab our drinks off the counter and head to our table. The pondering of my options has forced me to lose track of him and I don’t really want to look like an idiot wandering around the bar trying to find someone I don’t even know is still here. For all I know, he bought the drinks and walked out the door. “Yeah right,” I snort. I couldn’t be that lucky.
This is such a bad idea.
I should have gone after him but Becca spots me and smiles before I can change course. The guy she’d been dancing with earlier has disappeared. How unfortunate for her.
“What happened to that guy?” I ask as I hand over her drink.
“Meh, he was cute, but kinda brainless.”
I snort. “Since when does that stop you?”
She sips her drink but smiles at me around the straw. “It doesn’t.” She sets her drink down.
“You wanna dance?” she asks me as the band switches over to a new song.
I hesitate then I hear the song they’re playing and I smile, “alright.” I say with a little bit more enthusiasm than I feel. But I can’t help wondering if he’s actually watching me and small part of me hopes that he is.
Becca and I hit the dance floor and line up.
The band has been playing a mix of country and rock songs and even some rock-country and this one is one of my favorites to dance to. We hit the dance floor and line up with the rest of the crowd. Mostly girls, but a few guys are there too and we start dancing to Footloose.
I get so into the song that Dyson completely slips my mind until the hair on the back of my neck stands up and I smile to myself, but refuse to look around for him. I will not give him the satisfaction.
When the song comes to an end, I’m sweating and I want another drink. The band kicks over to a song I don’t recognize, probably one of their own, and I tell Becca I’m going get more drinks. “Get me one?” she smiles but keeps dancing to the new song.
I nod and head back to the bar.
I order our refills and this time I pay for them myself. Thank god. Maybe he left once he realized I had no intention of talking to him tonight.
I grab our drinks and return to our table, which, surprisingly, hasn’t been taken. I slide up to the high top table and set down our drinks. I start to look around, not admitting to myself that I’m really looking for Dyson. When the song changes again, I expect Becca to come back to the table for her drink. Especially once I realize it’s a slower song. Not Becca’s speed when it comes to clubs and dancing. Sure, she’ll dance with guys but she prefers the sexier version of dancing. Usually using men as stripper poles.
I don’t see her and I shrug it off. The slow songs are always good for clearing out the dance floor. Girls run to the bathrooms, guys run to the bar for more alcohol. This song is no exception when the line between me and the dance floor starts to part ways. That’s when my eyes land on the man I was inadvertently looking for. He’s dancing with someone, but I can’t tell who or even what she looks like, but there are definitely arms wrapped around him. My blood runs cold. He’s either that short-minded or he’s playing me. When I finally get an eyeful of the blonde woman he’s dancing wi
th, I know he’s fucking playing me.
Son-of-a-bitch.
Why, in all my infinite wisdom, did I not consider he was here with someone? Or that he wouldn’t pick up someone else? God, I’m an idiot. Then they turn again, and as if it was previously coordinated, someone blocks my line of sight. I stand on the rung of my chair, hoping for a much better look at whoever he has in his arms.
That’s when I see her.
Fire burns through my veins. Anger unleashes inside of me like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
Either this son-of-a-bitch has no clue who I am, or he doesn’t give a shit because he’s dancing with a leggy blonde, better known as my fucking roommate.
I sit down, weighing my options.
Leave.
Stay.
Ignore it…no, I know I can’t do that because I know Becca too well.
I shudder at the thought of Dyson sleeping with my roommate. Better fucking not.
The idea of Becca bedding Dyson, and certainly never the other way around because that’s the kind of control freak Becca is when it comes to men. Her rules, her terms, nothing less. She will drive men to the point of madness to get what she wants. I’ve seen it too many fucking times.
With that knowledge, I slam back my brand new Jack and coke and grab Becca’s untouched piña colada off the table and I walk toward the dance floor.
I squeeze my way past a few people then I have an unobstructed view of him. My clear view gives me a solid eyeful of Becca giving him her best impression of a slut, which I know is Becca speak for ‘take me home’. I can’t hear their conversation but she is starting to rub all over him.
Why do men think that’s attractive? She looks like a desperate whore.
The jealousy burning hot and heavy in my veins drives my anger up a notch. If he truly has no clue who I am, then fuck him, I’ll make sure he knows exactly who I am. If he does know who I am and he’s been watching me tonight, then he knows we’ve been hanging out and he can go fuck himself.