“Miller time?” McGriffin looked puzzled, then groaned, remembering the beer commercial. “I get it.” He waved an arm. “Back to work, you clowns!”
With his crew having a sense of humor, maybe things weren’t going to be so bad around here after all.
Chapter 5
The music was country rock—”post-outlaw,” the kids called it. The twang was missing, as were the lyrics from the country music played in Nashville. Instead, a solid bass drove the melody, a lead riffed at just the right spot … which reminded Vikki of her Berkeley days, but more as something new, unconventional.
And the crowd was short-haired with élan, also different from her past. The group vibrated, energetic, wide open.
It was a far cry from the world she’d known.
She had grown up fast as an undergraduate, living in the Bay Area, and nearly killing herself with all the partying. Her first “Hairy Buffalo” party was a dim memory: gallons of wine, rum, vodka, beer, and whiskey poured in a bathtub and mixed together. She had indeed felt like a hairy buffalo after waking, and vowed to stay away from alcohol.
That lasted all of a week. After her first experiments with drugs, she was totally wasted for over a year.
If it wasn’t for NUFA and finding a purpose in life, she would have probably killed herself. She’d done a lot of growing up then, rearranging her priorities.
She discovered how committed she was after she met Harding. It took a while, but once she’d convinced him that NUFA’s goals really were moral, he’d become more of a zealot than she. Since then she’d kept out of touch with the party scene. Shotgun Annie’s was her first touch with a dance bar since Livermore.
Vikki ordered a pinot grigio and settled back, sipping and watching. A few groups clustered by themselves, leaving each other alone. The decor allowed a quiet tete-a-tete to exist without bringing attention to one another.
Smoke wafted across her table. Tobacco. It seemed strange not to smell the sweet hemp of marijuana, but again it was the crowd. They were much too cautious to air something like pot out in the open. The place was laconic, not defiant.
Another glass of wine confirmed her suspicions. Shotgun Annie’s was definitely not a pickup bar. It was dark enough that someone should have made a pass in the last half hour. It was time for her to do something about it.
Vikki drained her glass and left a tip on the table. Flipping back her hair, she sauntered past the bar and into a back room set apart from the main area. Earlier, several husky men — all short hairs — had strode through the bar, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the patrons.
The back room grew quiet when she entered. A few men looked at her; one elbowed his buddy, but most just ignored her. No one spoke — no greeting, pleasantries, or even a smile. It was as if she entered a private club and was being shunned.
She caught the eye of the man who had elbowed his friend. The man looked younger than the rest of his friends. His blond hair was styled in a longish crew cut. She held his stare momentarily, then purposely turned and walked out of the room.
She caught a few fragments of conversation from other places in the bar, but nothing came from behind her. The bartender walked over. He wiped his hands on a towel and placed his hands flat on the bar. “What can I get you?”
“White wine.” Vikki kept her head turned away from the room she just left.
The bartender squatted and grasped a five-liter green bottle by the neck. The Wente Brothers Winery label on the front was waterlogged from condensation.
Vikki opened her purse to pay when a bill slid across the bar.
A voice came from behind her. “I’ve got it.” The bartender snatched up the bill and turned to the cash register. “Keep it.”
“Thanks.” The bartender tucked the change under his apron.
Vikki picked up her glass and took a deliberate sip before turning. When she rotated around, the man’s face came into view. Just as she thought — it was the young blond-haired man whose eye she had caught. She leaned back against the bar and took another sip before speaking.
“I don’t usually let strangers, especially young ones, buy me a drink.” She twirled the wine in her glass and said slowly, “And when they do, they’re usually disappointed that I don’t sleep with them.”
The man’s face widened into a grin. “You’re honest. I guess you don’t have to feel guilty about accepting my drink.”
Vikki raised her wineglass in a mock salute. “No, I don’t.”
The man looked quickly around and pulled up a barstool. He swiped a few crumbs away that had fallen from the counter. He settled onto the stool. He watched her for a moment before saying, “You look lonely.”
“I’m not.”
The man smiled slowly and stuck out a hand. “I’m George Britnell. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t offer it.”
Britnell raised an eyebrow. “Well, well. Not even for buying you a drink?”
Vikki smiled. A straight-forward man. “Vikki Osborrn.” She accepted his hand and gave him a firm handshake.
Britnell turned to the bartender. “Yo, ‘keep. Lay a brew on me.”
Vikki merely sipped her drink and studied him. Britnell couldn’t be more than twenty. Tall, decent-looking, athletic build, probably about 180 pounds. Not like Harding — Harding’s middle-age gut had started when he was about Britnell’s age, while he was working in a physics lab. Harding didn’t have a reason to keep fit. He had everything he wanted now, including her.
Too bad this young hunk didn’t know any better. His morals were probably as deep as his navel. A lot was riding on this; she needed to play up to his ego.
Britnell drew on his beer. He watched Vikki for a moment, locking eyes with her. “So why did you come to the back room?”
Vikki shrugged. “Just checking out what’s going on. What’s so special about it?”
“You don’t know?”
Vikki looked puzzled. “No, should I?”
Britnell pulled his stool closer to Vikki. “This is great. I mean, when a girl comes into the back, it’s usually because they are — well, are after someone who works in the Pit.”
“The pit.” Vikki put her glass down and traced her finger over the top of the bar. “Now you’re talking nonsense.”
Britnell laughed and drained his beer. He slid it across the bar top. “Another one, ‘keep.” He turned back to Vikki. “The Pit, my lady. It’s the place where the toughest, the crème la de crème work — you know, the best of the best.”
Vikki kept a straight face at his pathetic attempt at French. “And … you work there.”
Britnell just smiled. “Correct-o.”
“I see.” Vikki tried to look bored. She swiftly ran her eyes around Shotgun Annie’s. She had to pull him along, ever so slowly….
“Wait.” Britnell looked worried. “Uh, how about you, are you from around here?”
Vikki smiled gently. “No, but I live here now. I work for one of the construction firms in town. We’re bidding the Wendover construction upgrade.”
“Where are you from?”
“California. The Bay Area.”
“Hey, that’s great. California. I always wanted to visit, but haven’t found the time. I’m from Pennsylvania myself. Nevada’s the farthest west I’ve ever been. This place is about as far from the hills and trees as you can get. We — I mean, I — work with a lot of really high-tech gear. In fact, the best. You know, maybe we have something in common.”
Vikki picked up her glass. “Maybe we do.” The bartender shoved another mug of icy draft in front of Britnell. Vikki waited until he drained half of it before asking, “Tell me, George Britnell, why is a good-looking guy like you buying drinks for an older woman? Why don’t you go after someone your own age?”