Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) Read Online Free PDF Page B

but about the logistical specifics of how to get into a bar with my student I.D.. Fast-talking myself into an opportunity or out of a predicament had never been a strength.
    “We’d better wait outside,” I whispered to Macy. “Don’t want to look suspicious, like we’re casing out a room to rob.”
    A soft night breeze cleared my hesitations. I determined I’d be fine once I held a drink. This was college life. I was supposed to get my party fix. In four years, I could leave my wild ways behind to become a responsible adult and contributor to society, or some bullshit like that.
    Macy tucked her red bra strap under her black shirt and hooked an arm in mine. “I’ve got something in my purse to occupy us.”
    “You scare me when you say things like that.”
    She unzipped her Gucci. “Cigarette?”
    I hesitated. “I’m not a smoker.”
    “Take one. It’ll relax you.”
    Outside the lobby doors, Macy and I huddled near a raised planter window box where I flicked ashes into the overgrown ivy that choked pink geraniums.
    “For God’s sake, Rachael,” she scolded. “You’re in tobacco country. Don’t mock them. At least make an attempt to smoke it.”
    Up until now, I’d only inhaled second hand smoke from Aunt Gert’s pipe. Knowing my mother would be mortified if she knew and trying to save face from Macy’s verbal scolding, I sucked hard on the white filter until I gagged and hacked like an old man dislodging a lugie.
    Katie Lee emerged from the revolving glass door and pinched the cigarette from my fingers for a drag. “Y’all know these things will eventually kill you.”
    “Thanks for the newsflash. Where’s the fucking bar?”
    “There isn’t access from the hotel. It’s a basement bar. The entrance is on the outside, around the corner.”
    A narrow, cement staircase led to a lime-colored neon sign. We were just a few feet away from the entrance of “The Lounge,” and my heart palpitated in a synchronized rhythm with my flip-flops. With his back against a door, a bouncer with clip on shades rested one leg on the ground and the other on the crossbar of a barstool. Max, according to his nametag, bore a resemblance to a neighbor in Canton. Every Halloween, the house three away from ours, turned their lights off and blocked their front door with garbage cans. I worried he could be a distant relative and deny me access to this drinking hole. Knowing he held the power to make or break a night of drunken fun, I held my breath. Not bothering to look up from his movie trivia crossword puzzle, he asked, “Who wrote A Clockwork Orange ?” This had to be a trick question.
    “Anthony Burgess,” Macy said. Max thanked her and penciled the name in his crossword. We were in.
    With a name like “The Lounge,” I expected mirrored walls and purple velvet high back booths. My mind threw a complete miss. Hunter green and mauve parrot decor mimicked an aviary.
    I’d worked up a thirst for drinks garnished with fruit and although thankful to be in a bar, whispered, “I can’t believe he didn’t check our I.D.’s,” wondering why I’d parted with a twenty at the Registrar’s office.
    Katie Lee led the way to the bar and Macy, and I followed. A window air-conditioner hummed, sending beads of rust-tinted water down the tropical wallpaper. Musty air smelled of fermented yeast and oak veneer tables dotted half of the dimly lit room. A dance floor, no bigger than the room I shared with Katie Lee, rested in the far corner. Near the restrooms, a lonely jukebox flashed SOS signals.
    Macy slapped her purse on the bar. “This place is a dump and it’s empty.”
    A bartender wearing a straw fedora rested his foot on a keg as he concentrated on a TV remote, eventually settling on stock car racing. Over his shoulder, he asked, “Ladies, what’ll it be?”
    I whispered to the girls, “Is that a canary on his shoulder?”
    Macy corrected me. “That’s not a canary, that’s a fuckin’ cockatoo.”
    “What’s