Chapter 7

The Monday of the first date rolled around, and so did Mel's stomach.

First dates were the worst. It was like having a job interview where you were also expected to be hot. Mel dabbed a careful pinkie around the waterline of her right eye, pulling a face in the mirror so she could more easily fix her makeup. She normally wore heavy eyeliner and colorful eye shadow to match her vibrant tattoos while working. Guests expected her to look put-together, albeit in a punk rock way. Tonight, Mel had opted for a pared-down look.

She tossed her gel pencil onto the bathroom counter with a sigh. She still wasn't sure what the hell she was signing up for with Bebe. Sure, during the course of their conversations about guidelines, Bebe had patiently explained some of the more pressing stuff about dating a poly woman. They'd already exchanged proof of all-clear STI screenings, for example, which Bebe had covered with her own money. Mel thought it was kind of overkill for a first date, but Bebe had been firm.

"It's one of Kade's only asks," she'd said when they'd talked on the phone that weekend, "and it's for your protection as much as ours. I hope you understand."

Couldn't argue with that. Mel hadn't seen a doctor in years, so getting an all-expenses-paid checkup was a great deal. She needed to work on her cholesterol, apparently, but otherwise a green light from the doc.

Mel gave herself a coat of setting spray and headed to the kitchen. Her stomach needed something to chew on besides her nerves.

Daniel came into the kitchen and stopped short. "What are you doing?"

She thought it was obvious, but she answered anyway. "I'm pre-eating."

"What? What is that?"

"It's eating before you eat."

"Yes, I gathered. But why do you need to do that?"

"Because the bar I'm taking her to only serves small plates. Like, miniscule." Mel held her thumb and forefinger about a quarter-inch apart. "If I don't eat something now, I'm going to be hungry later. Or worse, I'll order too many things and rack up a huge bill. So: pre-eating."

Daniel stared at her. "You know that sounds absolutely unhinged, right?"

"Yes," Mel said, chowing down a granola bar and tossing the wrapper in the garbage can. "But you're going to steal the idea the next time you have a date, aren't you?"

"One hundred percent."

"Can you do me a favor?"

"Anything for the woman who has shown me the wonders of pre-eating."

"Will you help me brainstorm some ideas for a new drink later?" She gave a self-effacing shrug. "I have a couple things in mind but I'm not in love with any of them yet."

"Are you kidding?" Daniel grinned widely. "Yes, please, storm my brain all you want! As if I'd ever say no to any drink you made." He winked.

Mel did not wink back. She wasn't a winker.

After her snack, Mel pulled on some clothes she figured were suitable for a first date: her "formal" white patent leather Docs, a slinky black top that showed off the scrollwork tattooed on her collarbones, and a pair of black jeans that were warm enough for the long, wintry walk to the subway station. She was glad for the freezing weather; it meant she could cover any fashion faux pas with her jacket, plus the cold mitigated her tendency to sweat when nervous. She left with plenty of time to spare, then dawdled on the sidewalk outside Bebe's building, not wanting to seem too eager.

When she arrived at Bebe's door on the dot, Bebe greeted her wearing a velvet wrap top the color of celery and metallic gold trousers. She was still barefoot, and she held a poofy makeup brush in one hand. Her smile was electric, and Mel couldn't stop herself from returning it.

"Hi!" She invited Mel inside with a sweep of her arm. "Come in, come in. I'm still working on my final touches. Sorry about that. Work kept me longer than I thought it would."

"No worries." She was already familiar with the perils of dating a high femme. Mel unwrapped the chunky knit scarf from around her neck as she entered, and Bebe took that and her coat.

"Want to graze a bit before we go?" Bebe gestured to the breakfast bar, where a plate overflowing with shards of hard cheese, spiced almonds, and bright green grapes had already been picked at.

Mel's mouth must have fallen open in shock that seemed more negative than it was, because Bebe filled the silence with a snit in her voice. "Look, you're the one who wanted to keep our destination tonight a surprise. I have no idea if we're eating a full dinner or if it's going to be one of those tapas situations, and either way, I like to have a little nosh beforehand."

"No, I—" Mel turned to her, knowing that her grin had likely reached manic proportions. "I totally get it. I already snacked before I came over, actually."

Bebe blinked. "Really?" A pleased smile bubbled up, spreading across her lovely face. "So we're both on Team Snack-Ahead? Oh my god, it's like an O. Henry story." Bebe waggled her makeup brush and floated up the floating staircase. "Give me five minutes?"

"Take your time," Mel called after her. She plucked a grape from its bunch. The condo was quiet, only the distant sounds of Bebe getting ready upstairs mingling with the hum of the luxurious central heating. Mel wondered where Kade was. Maybe they made themself scarce when Bebe had a date planned. Or they were out on their own date.

Mel decided that wasn't any of her business, and even thinking about it might cross some line. She ate some cheese instead.

When Bebe descended ten minutes later, she was wearing sensible low-heeled ankle boots, her camel coat, and pink earmuffs that made her look like cotton candy. "Okay!" She tucked her clutch under her arm. "I'm ready for whatever you want to throw at me. Not to sound like a lush, but after the day I've had? I hope it involves alcohol."

Mel eased off the high stool that she'd occupied while grazing, a smile on her lips. "Tough day at the office slaying employment law dragons?"

"You don't know the half of it." She reached for the grazing platter and popped a green grape in her mouth. "Let's just say class action lawsuits are a huge mess. Especially when it involves a gigantic company that doesn't want to pay its workers for the time they, you know, worked. Also, how do you systematically fire every pregnant employee you've had in the last seven years and not expect me to notice?" She ate another grape, chewing angrily. "It's not like you would've even paid for their maternity leave. You're going to be that big of a dick to avoid a minor scheduling hassle? I'm going to bleed these fuckers dry."

"Restaurant industry?" Mel guessed.

Bebe stopped mid-chew to stare at her. "Is it that obvious?"

"It's a small world. We all talk. Plenty of businesses operating like that in this town."

"Well, by the time I'm done with them, there might be one fewer."

That made Mel laugh. They left the condo in good spirits, heading on foot toward the bar that Mel had chosen for their date.

"Am I going to be in suspense the whole way or can you at least give me the name of our destination?" Bebe asked as they walked. She threaded her arm through Mel's, a gesture that made Mel feel like a Victorian gentleman. She didn't hate it.

"Have you ever been to a speakeasy called Loose Lips Sink Ships? Some people call it LLSS for short. The die-hard fans, anyway."

Bebe's eyes went wide with eagerness. "And are you one of those die-hard fans?"

"Well…" Mel thought on that, her mouth in a thoughtful pout. "I wouldn't go that far."

At Bebe's questioning look, Mel elaborated: "It's usually right up there with Terror Virtue on the annual Best Of lists. They make this lavender negroni—it's damn good. You'd like it."

"Hm," Bebe said. Her eyes narrowed on Mel's face.

Mel felt pressured to sell her date-night spot harder. "Very cozy booths, too. You can fit two people. Barely."

Bebe's face pinched. "Will I be able to get in and out without an undignified struggle? Booths aren't the most friendly to people who aren't rail-thin."

Mel hadn't thought about that. Which wasn't very cool of her. "I think you'll be fine." She attempted to recover. "You'll like the special entrance. The only way in is through this old florist shop. They've got a guy in there selling roses all night long, straight from central casting, and you have to give him the password to be let in."

Bebe's face smoothed slightly. "That does sound kind of fun. What don't you like about it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said you weren't a die-hard fan. So it must not butter your biscuit completely. I'm just curious."

Mel licked her lips and tried to put on a winning smile. "It's bad form for bartenders to shit-talk each other's places."

Bebe simply waited her out, her head cocked, the barest smirk on her lips. Mel felt a surge of sympathy for anyone who found themselves cross-examined by her in court.

"Okay, so the whole speakeasy thing—‘oh, it's a cute little secret to find your way inside' or whatever," she said, miming the voices of a million Yelp reviews. "I get it, but what's that saying to your clientele who have historically not been welcomed into certain establishments? The whole point of speakeasies back in the day was to keep those folks safe from cops. Now it's this—I don't know, it's more about exclusivity. That rubs me the wrong way, I guess."

"Hm," Bebe said. This was a different hm than the previous one. Mel might have tried to dissect it, but she was on a roll.

"And then once you make it through the secret door, you've got to walk down the steepest, darkest staircase in Manhattan—totally not accessible—and the staff always look bored, like they're too cool for school, and sure, most of the drinks are good, but their martini is—how do you fuck up a martini that badly? I'm all for being spirit-forward, but that thing is an abomination." She turned her head and caught Bebe's amused look. "Uh, but other than that, it's a great place."

"Oh yeah," Bebe drawled, "sounds like a real winner." She stopped walking and nudged Mel to the side so they weren't impeding the flow of pedestrians. "Are you sure this is where you want to take me?"

"Yes. Sorry. Ignore my professional criticism," Mel said. "Seriously, you'll have a good time. I promise. It's actually a lot like TV, and I know you like TV."

Bebe's eyes went wistful. Now that they weren't in motion, they could face each other, and Mel could see every flicker of feeling across Bebe's lovely face. "Oh, you really are an actual sweetheart," she said, "but I want to know what you like."

Mel could feel her brow collapsing in consternation. "Why?"

"Because I like you! I want to know everything about you." Bebe took Mel's bare hands in her gloved ones. "I appreciate you picking a place you think I'd enjoy, but I was kind of hoping I'd get a peek behind the Mel Sorrento curtain. Why don't you take me somewhere you'd go if you weren't trying to impress anyone?"

That drew Mel up short. She covered her surprise with a shaky laugh. "You don't want to go to those places, trust me. They're kind of trashy."

"I love trash. I mean, I love high-class, too, but only because I have the world's worst case of FOMO. Why do you think I go to both tiny cash-only mezze cafes and places like TV? I want a full life." Bebe leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Mel's ear. "And I want you to have fun tonight."

Mel vacillated for half a second. Her plans for squeezing into a too-small booth next to Bebe were dissolving, but Mel didn't miss them too much. "Fine," she said, turning around and heading north instead. Bebe's hand was a welcome weight in hers. "Don't say I didn't warn you, though."

Sal's was the last of a dying breed, a true dive bar in a part of town where rents were too high for anything except the most expensive joints. Sal had lucked out, though—or rather his grandfather of the same name had when he'd bought the tumbledown Chelsea building in the '50s. With little overhead and a cash-only business, they could afford to keep slinging giant cups of cheap beer and fried clams. The bar itself was dark and dingy, with tattered panties of all colors, eras, and fabrics hung from the low ceiling. In more recent years some jockeys, boxers, and briefs had entered the fray, which Mel supposed was as close to equality as you could get at Sal's. (The women's room was a disgusting pit, never a roll of toilet paper to be found, so Mel always used the men's.)

As Mel led Bebe into the dank, basement-level bar, she wondered if she had made a huge mistake. Sure, Bebe had practically begged to be brought here, but Sal's was not the kind of place anyone should take any woman ever, unless said woman, like Mel, had a misplaced nostalgic fondness for New York's bad old days.

Mel turned to ask if Bebe wanted to go somewhere else—somewhere with fewer health code violations, perhaps—but Bebe was wide-eyed and marveling at the sight of the various underpants hanging from the drop-tile ceiling.

"This is amazing! I would've never known this place was here, and I must have walked past it a dozen times over the years." She leveled a look at Mel. "I'm guessing they don't serve craft cocktails."

"Frankie might mix you a screwdriver if you ask nicely, but yeah," Mel said, taking her by the elbow to steer her toward the bar. "It's definitely a beer-and-a-shot kind of joint."

Back when she'd just turned twenty-one and was working her way up as a barback in un-trendy pubs, Mel couldn't afford many luxuries. If she wanted to have a drink after a long day, this was one of the few places she could go. Sal's had been a haven for the after-hours crowd because the place stayed open until Frankie, the longtime bartender, decided it was time to go home. Which was usually lunchtime the following day.

"Well, I'm delighted. Thank you for bringing me here," Bebe said. She sounded like she meant it. Her eyes kept darting around the walls to see all the old posters that had been hung in decades past: rock-'n'-roll acts that had come through back when the neighborhood still had a decent venue; pay-per-view boxing matches that Sal had put on the dusty TV; handwritten notices that declared credit cards, debit cards, checks, and money orders were not accepted here and never would be.

Mel was glad to see Frankie was still behind the bar. He must've been pushing seventy at this point, but he was still on his feet, working the taps, pointing at the various guys in Rangers jerseys who stood three deep, shouting their orders back at them. Frankie was huge, easily six foot five, so he spotted Mel over everyone's heads.

"Melanie!" He always called her by her full name. Like an uncle or something. "It's been a while, kid! How ya been?" Frankie scowled at the dudes crowding around the bar, shooing them to the sides like he was parting the Red Sea. "Make a hole. Let the ladies in."

Bebe's eyes went wide. Apparently this brand of chauvinism startled her. "Oh, we can wait our turn."

"Nonsense. Melanie knows she and her friends don't wait. Push these numb nuts aside, all right?" Frankie was already popping bottle caps. "It ain't me being sexist, I swear. I just like her better than these losers."

Mel ignored the angry grumbles of the barflies and shouldered her way up to the rail. "How's tricks, Frank?" She gave him a fist bump.

"Terrible," he said. "Got to retire soon."

"Oh my god." Her heart fell into her Doc Martens. "Really?"

Frank shrugged. "Sal wants to sell. Says it's too much work at his age. This time next year, this'll probably be a Citibank or some shit."

That was depressing. Mel knew nothing in New York stood still, but to lose an institution like Sal's hit her right in the gut. She looked over at Bebe, who appeared equally stunned, even though she'd only learned about Sal's today.

"Aw, come on," Frankie said, laughing. "Why be sad over this? There's worse things." And he launched into a laundry list of problems. The weather was lousy. He was getting a knee replacement next month. The fucking mayor was going to run the city into the fucking ground while the rats ran circles around him. All the while, Frankie was busy readying two shot glasses on the bar. He only paused in his diatribe to ask, "Tequila?"

Mel hooked a thumb at Bebe. "She's a whiskey drinker."

"Nice! Same here." Frankie gave the glasses a cursory wipe with a rag.

"Pour yourself one, too, Frank. On me," Mel said, pulling out a few bills. "To celebrate a legend's retirement."

Frankie went soft around his crow's-footed eyes. "Aw, thanks, kid." He got out one more shot glass.

"Hey, can I get a Stella?" a guy at the end of the bar asked.

Frankie smacked the rag down on the bar. "Can't you see we're having a moment here? Keep your fucking shirt on. What's on that shirt, anyway?" He peered over the bar, spying some sports logo that Mel didn't care enough about to recognize. "Look at this prick. A Devils fan? Seriously? Get outta here with that garbage." He pointed to the door, and sure enough, a bouncer even bigger than Frank appeared from the gloom to escort the spurting, would-be patron away.

The Rangers crowd ate it up. Beer sloshed to the floor from all the sloppy plastic cup–clinking. A decent ploy to ensure more sales, Mel thought with an impressed nod at Frankie.

Bebe clutched Mel's arm. At first Mel thought she might be alarmed by the antics, but one glance at her face and she knew Bebe was thrilled to pieces.

"This," Bebe said, "is the best bar in the world."

"Right?" Mel smirked. They did their shots with Frankie and then took their beers to a small table over by the wall where the noise of the sports fans wouldn't be too distracting. Now out of Frank's earshot, Mel continued: "Don't get me wrong, the tap lines haven't been cleaned since the Reagan administration and you might get a UTI from just walking by the women's restroom, but other than that, it's great." She looked around the scuffed walls fondly, noting the old Christmas tinsel someone had strung up for the holidays years ago and never taken down.

Bebe grinned and sipped at her beer—a bottle, Mel's usual here. (She wasn't joking about the tap lines.) "So Sal is selling, hm? New signage, a little sprucing up, could be perfect for, say, a cocktail bar."

Mel groaned. "Don't joke. You heard Frank. Sal's looking for Citibank money. Even if I win the cocktail competition, I bet that cash would barely cover a down payment on the building. I'd need to know someone rich who could be talked into investing." Then, realizing how that sounded, she hastened to add, "I didn't—that wasn't me trying to come on to you, financially."

"Hey, getting hit up with a business pitch is not the weirdest thing that's ever happened to me on a first date," Bebe said, bubbly.

"This is not a pitch!" Mel was horrified by the thought.

"I know, but even if it were, it would be firmly on the charming end of the scale." She tapped her fingers to her cheek, drumming and humming. "You're burying the lede here, though. Did you decide to enter the competition?"

"Oh. Yeah." Mel scratched the back of her neck. In all the first-date excitement, she'd forgotten to tell Bebe. "I turned in the paperwork. Still got to wait and see if they accept me."

"Mel! That's great! I bet you'll—" But whatever Bebe was going to say was drowned out by a pair of white dudes in Yankees caps at the table behind her. Their agitated voices rose from a heated murmur to an all-out screech in seconds. Bebe, her brow furrowed in annoyance, planted her hand on her chairback and twisted to get a better look at the interruption.

Mel could see the two guys over Bebe's shoulder. One guy swayed to his feet, red-faced, and shouted, "You watch your fucking mouth, Barry, or I swear to god—"

The other guy, Barry, followed suit, standing so abruptly that he almost knocked his chair over. "No, you clean out your fucking ears and listen, man! Listen!"

Both of them presented a slurred, stumbling picture that could only mean one thing: day drinkers. Mel could spot someone six hours into a bad decision as easily as she could taste the difference between sweet vermouth and angostura bitters.

"Maybe we should move over there," she murmured to Bebe, cutting her eyes to an empty table against the opposite wall, far from the maddening bros.

Bebe turned to give her a perplexed look. "Why should we move? Give me two seconds." She pushed her chair back and stood, dusting invisible lint from her clothes as she did so. Before Mel could hiss a warning, Bebe had already inserted herself in the argument. The guys stopped shouting long enough to stare at the unexpected arbiter. She planted a hand on each of their shoulders and stood between them.

"Hey, fellas," she said. "What's going on here?" Both guys opened their mouths to speak simultaneously, which Bebe cut off at the pass. "One at a time. Barry, is it?" She pointed to the guy who'd almost knocked over the chair. "You go first."

Mel looked around wildly for help. Frankie caught her eye from across the room; he had the handle of a baseball bat in one hand and the other on the leaf, ready to make a rare appearance on the other side of the bar if the situation warranted it.

But it never got that far. Because Bebe was some kind of asshole-whisperer.

"Tucker's being a dick!" Barry whined. He stabbed a finger in the aforementioned Tucker's direction.

"You're the dick!" Tucker said.

Bebe's fingers tightened on their shoulders, keeping them from going for each other's throats. Or falling down drunk. It looked like it could've gone either way, really. "This isn't a playground, gentlemen. Talk to me. What did Tucker say that made you so angry?" she asked Barry.

Mel turned back to Frankie and held up two fingers in a peace sign. "Water," she mouthed. "Big ones."

Frankie seemed disappointed as he returned the bat to its hidden spot beneath the bar, but he dutifully started filling up a huge cup from the spigot.

Barry sniffed. "He was saying I should never have proposed to Denise. Fuck you, man, I love her!"

"Tucker." Bebe's head swiveled to speak to him. "Were you shit-talking Denise?"

"She's no good for him, man," Tucker lamented. "She treats him like shit."

"She does not!"

"Dude, all she talks about is how much of a slob you are. And she backs the fucking Jets, man."

By then, the water cups were full. Mel scurried over to the bar and grabbed them, depositing them on Tucker and Barry's table. Bebe smiled at her in thanks, but the other two didn't register her presence.

"Barry, is that true?" Bebe asked.

"It's not her fault her folks have season tickets—"

"No, I mean have you noticed Denise being critical of you instead of supporting and uplifting you?"

Barry's glassy eyes blinked. "Sometimes, I guess. But not all the time!"

"So you've decided that you want to remain committed to Denise because the good times, for you, outweigh the bad, is that right?" Bebe patted his shoulder. "And Tucker, you worry about your friend because you love him and want the best for him, right?"

Tucker bit his lip and nodded hard. "That's my boy," he said.

"Do you think you can continue to support and uplift him without criticizing his decision to be with Denise? Because he's grown, and he's going to do what he wants to do."

"Yeah!" Barry said. "I am grown!" He reached down, fingers grasping for his beer, but Bebe nudged the water into his hand. He gulped it down.

Tucker looked pained. "But she—"

"You don't have to agree with him," Bebe said. "You don't even have to like Denise. But you have to respect your friend's choices. It would be kind of shitty if you didn't, right? Especially since that's what you worry Denise is doing."

A chagrined look overtook Tucker's red face. He actually ducked his head like a chastened schoolboy. "Yeah. Okay."

"And Barry?" Bebe turned to him. "Your friend was willing to go out on a limb, knowing you'd get angry, to tell you his concerns about your relationship. If he's saying there's red flags, sit with that. Pay attention to how Denise treats you and how she makes you feel. The pros might outweigh the cons now, but maybe that will change. And if it ever does, you'll need friends who will be there for you." She squeezed his shoulder.

Tucker nodded, still not looking up. "Sorry I got in your face, man," he mumbled to Barry.

"Nah, it's fine. I get it."

Oh my god, Mel thought to herself. Are they going to hug? Sure enough, Bebe stepped away, and the two men crushed together, arms beating across each other's backs, Yankees caps in danger of falling from their heads. A smattering of applause came from the other customers who'd been watching the drama unfold. Mel collapsed back into her chair in relief.

Bebe floated back toward Mel and retook her seat with a small, self-satisfied smile. She went to take another drink of her beer but stopped halfway to her mouth when she noticed Mel staring. "What?"

Mel leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. "Do you have some kind of superpower for defusing bar fights?" Or maybe Bebe exuded some kind of calming pheromone that made jerks rethink their actions and made lesbians hot under the collar.

"Oh, that?" Bebe shrugged and sipped at her bottle. "It's one of those things I happen to have a knack for. A girl's got to cultivate talents." Her gaze traveled from Mel's face to the wall behind her. "Speaking of—" She pointed. "Want to play?"

Mel twisted in her seat and looked at the tattered dartboard that hung on the wall. "I could go a few rounds," she said, turning back. She was great at darts and knew the ins and outs of this board in particular, having played at Sal's tons of times over the years.

The gleam of competition entered Bebe's eye. "Let's make it interesting. Same game as before. Winner gets to ask any question?"

That gave Mel pause. She wasn't up for providing answers about her divorce, for example. "Within reason." The guidelines said they could have boundaries, after all.

"Deal," Bebe agreed, and Mel went to get the slightly bent darts from Frankie.

Bebe was good, but Mel was better. She racked up point after point, while Bebe struggled to keep up. It felt nice to be winning at something, Mel thought. A good confidence booster, even though Bebe groaned dramatically every time Mel hit the bullseye.

"You're a shark!" she said, using the neck of her beer bottle to point accusingly. "I've been set up. You didn't tell me you were a professional dart-thrower."

"You didn't tell me you're such a sore loser." Mel couldn't help her smug grin. She took up her position at the scuffed line on Sal's floor and hefted a dart in her palm. One more decent throw and the game was hers. "Looking forward to asking you all about that once I win."

Bebe leaned against the wall right next to the dartboard with a huff. "Now you're just being mean," she said, lifting her beer to her lips in the most sullen way possible.

Mel gave her a "sorry-not-sorry" shrug and lifted the dart above her shoulder. Her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth as she contemplated the bullseye. Victory was going to be very sweet. "Might want to move," she told Bebe.

"Why?" Bebe dragged her wet bottle down the middle of her chest, leaving a damp trail on the skin bared by her wrap top. Mel's gaze followed it closely. "You haven't missed yet. Planning to start now?"

Mel swallowed her comments about safety being first. "You're trying to distract me."

"Me?" Bebe's eyes flew wide in faux innocence. "How dare you. My character is unimpeachable." She played with her necklace, drawing Mel's attention inexorably to that slice of skin.

"Suit yourself." It wasn't like Sal's ancient darts were even remotely sharp anyway. Mel lined up her shot once more.

Right before the dart left her hand, Mel saw Bebe out of the corner of her eye, leaning casually forward to give Mel an eyeful of her truly excellent cleavage.

The dart flew wide, hitting the very edge of the board with a dull thunk. Zero points. Bebe didn't even turn her head to check the score. Her grin was sly as a panther's.

Mel shook a finger at her. She could barely hold in her laugh; it was all so ridiculous. "You did that on purpose!"

"I don't like losing." Bebe pushed off the wall, sauntering closer. "And whattaya know?" She finally contemplated the dartboard, sipping her beer. "Looks like I win."

"You cheated."

"I strategized," Bebe said archly. "There's a difference."

That made Mel's eyebrows shoot up and her lip curl in a half smile. "Wow. You're a real take-charge kind of gal, aren't you?" She retrieved the errant dart and deposited the set back on the bar.

"I guess so. Out here in the real world, at least." Bebe gave her a mysterious glance as she meandered back to their table.

Mel followed. "What do you mean by that?"

Bebe retook her chair, sitting sideways and crossing her legs at the knee. Her gold metallic trousers swished and clung to her, giving Mel a great visual of her round thighs, one half of her plump ass. "I have this personal theory," she said as Mel sat. "I believe that generally—note that word, generally—personalities do a complete one-eighty when it comes to sex. If someone is commanding and domineering in their day-to-day life, for example…"

"Like a high-powered lawyer who mediates bar fights for fun and cheats at darts," Mel drawled. "For example."

Bebe raised her near-empty beer bottle in acknowledgment. "… then that person is likely, in my view, to be submissive in bed."

Mel waited for Bebe to land the rest of the punch line, but even when nothing else was said, she laughed. "What? Are you serious?"

Bebe nodded firmly. "Sex is where we get to act out all the little dramas we're not allowed to indulge in public. When people take their clothes off, they want to be the opposite of how they're always expected to be."

"Is this your roundabout way of telling me you're a bottom?" Mel asked.

"Oh, Sweetheart, there's nothing roundabout about it." Bebe's eyes danced. The lights caught on her hazel eyes, bringing out the green and blue flecks. "I'm a champion pillow princess. I've made bottoming an art form. I can drape myself over a mattress and let you do whatever you want to me like that." She snapped her fingers. "So here's the question I get to ask as the darts champion: Do you agree with my little theory?"

Mel pretended to think about it, humming. "I don't know. You really think most people fall along these lines?"

"In my experience," Bebe said. She smirked and lifted a hand to her necklace, playing with the charm.

Mel wondered if the necklace had been a gift from Bebe's wife. Before she could think better of it, she asked, "Even Kade?"

Bebe made a sound that Mel couldn't place at first, but only because she'd never heard a grown woman giggle before. "Oh, absolutely. Especially them."

That was—food for thought. Kade came off as so quiet, so serious, a bit passive in an aloof sort of way.

Mel couldn't help but smile. "So your sample size is two, and both happen to support your idea, huh?"

"Oh, at my age, my sample size is way bigger than that," Bebe said. "But you're dodging the real question!"

"Which is?"

"Do you think my excellent and well-researched theory applies to you as well?"

Mel tried to keep her composure, but it was a near thing. She was sure if she were wearing something skimpier, Bebe would be able to see her shoulders and chest turn a splotchy, anxious pink. "Do you ask all your first dates how much of a top they are?"

"Only the ones with good forearms." Bebe dipped her gaze to where Mel was leaning her elbows on the table, her sleeves pushed up to expose skin and tats. Mel hesitated, thinking of whether she fell along the lines of Bebe's theory herself. In her everyday, professional life, she was a people pleaser because she worked in the service industry. Was she only like that because of her job? Or was she a different kind of person deep down?

After considering it for a moment, she shook her head. She loved tending bar, and the reason she was so good at it was because her personality lent itself to making sure everyone was having a fun time.

According to Bebe, that meant she would be the opposite of that, sexually. Which sounded… bad.

Mel's beer was not halfway finished, so she didn't even have the excuse of being tipsy when she opened her mouth and said out loud on a first date, "So if I'm the consummate service worker in my real life, does that mean I'm supposed to be self-centered in bed?"

Bebe's eyes lit up. "I don't know. Are you?"

Mel thought about that. Sex with her ex-wife had been—fine. Basic. A little boring. But they'd been together since they were seventeen, for crying out loud, and they both worked in the bar and restaurant industry, so their schedules didn't leave much room for alone time. Mel's expectations for sex had been fairly low. As long as one of them got off, she considered it ticked off the chore list. Which was kind of depressing. But definitely not self-centered.

"I… don't think so," she said slowly. "At least, I don't think I have been."

"Would you like to give it a try?"

Mel barked a laugh. "What? Being inconsiderate?"

"Sure." Bebe shrugged.

"But that's—it's a bad thing. Especially in bed. Why would you want to sleep with a self-centered person?" Mel felt she might be torpedoing her chances with Bebe, but better to hash things out honestly before getting too involved.

"Didn't you listen to my whole spiel? Sex is playacting. It's doing all the things you're not ‘supposed' to do, quote, unquote." She made bunny ears with her fingers. "It might be kind of fun to go off the rails. As long as we're both on board, I say hurrah." Her voice dropped to a whisper as she leaned across the table. "You could toss me around, use me, treat me like I'm a toy. The more I talk about it, the more I'm convinced." Bebe fanned herself with one hand and took a long drink of her beer. Her cheeks were, in fact, taking on a bright rosy hue.

"You'd really be into that?" Mel asked. It seemed impossible that this was happening to someone like her, a normal person on what she'd thought would be a normal first date.

Bebe smiled, tipped her bottle to her lips, and drained the last of the beer. "One way to find out." She kept her eyes on Mel as she placed the empty on the table with a firm click. "Want to get out of here?"

That was—quick. One drink, two if you counted the shot, and they were off to the races. Was this moving too fast?

Or maybe it was moving at exactly the right speed for a low-stakes hookup.

Mel took her wallet out of her back pocket and tossed a few bills on the sticky table.

"Yeah," she said. "I do."

Her place wasn't too far of a walk, and she was about to offer it as their next venue when Bebe stood and said, "I know a great spot a few blocks away if you're up for an adventure."

Mel paused, her wallet halfway back to her ass. She'd assumed Bebe had meant—well, when someone said, "let's get out of here," it was usually followed by the "your place or mine" discussion, wasn't it? She was rapidly understanding, though, that nothing with Bebe was the usual.

"It'll be fun. I swear." Bebe was already putting on her coat, getting a hand beneath her fall of hair to lift it free of the coat collar. "You showed me this place; let me show you a place of my own."

To hell with it. Mel peeled herself out of her chair and waved goodbye to Frankie, who was too busy hollering at the game on the TV to pay her any mind.