Free This Sky by Autumn Doughton Page A

my lips and adjust the outfit Julie forced me to wear. I hate it. I look like a Forever 21 dressing room threw up on me. No lie. I’ve got on a wide pleather belt that I think is reminiscent of something Wonder Woman would put on if she was pretending to be Diana Prince for the night, and on my feet are these mile-high glittery black heels that Julie insists are perfect man bait . Whatever. Earlier, she referred to the electric blue scrap of fabric I’m wearing as a “dress,” but I’m pretty sure she’s mistaken and the thing is actually some kind of bandeau bra or horribly impractical neck warmer. Even in L.A., the land of boob jobs and butt implants and Botox, this would be considered stripper gear. It’s so short that I can feel the air creeping up my inner thighs and the stares on my pasty legs.
        “Stop it. You’re killing it,” she assures me for the hundredth time as she grabs hold of my elbow and drags me up a short flight of stairs.
        “You likey?” Claudia shouts over the thump of live music.
        After a few blinks, my eyes adjust to the low light and the world steadies. I take in the packed tables, the dancers and the four-man band jamming out on a large half-moon stage cut out between two barn-style purple doors. To be perfectly honest, my expectations coming in had been pretty low, so I’m pleasantly surprised. “It’s great!” I yell back, meaning it.
         The restaurant is cool. It’s hip, but not in an obvious kind of way, which is actually the hippest kind of hip. Think people who shop at Whole Foods. Think tortured, tattooed musician in a pair of black Buddy Holly eyeglasses. Think East Bay.
        Nothing matches but everything goes. The walls are covered in an eclectic mix of funky artwork. Near the hostess station is an oil painting of a Chihuahua wearing a black derby hat and a bowtie. Above a row of green leather booths I spot a wire plant shelf lined with a collection of bizarre looking ceramic cats.
         Claudia stands on her tiptoes. “I think some seats at the bar are opening up. I’m going to grab them!” She calls out, lunging away and taking Smith with her.
        Julie and I are slow to follow. We take our time weaving past the dining tables and through the horde of swaying sweaty bodies on the dance floor. When we finally reach Smith, he lifts a glass sparkling with a frothy green concoction and asks, “So, what are we having?”
         “Shots?” Claudia suggests.
        Now I look to my left and see that she’s standing behind the bar. There’s a small white towel thrown over her shoulder.
        “You work here?” I ask, my eyes bugging from my head. I seriously hope she didn’t crawl back there as some kind of practical joke. Getting kicked out of here is not what I need right now.
        “Yeah.”
        “This is why your margaritas were so amazing?”
        “This is why,” she replies, wiggling her eyebrows at me until I can’t help but laugh. “So what’ll it be? Another margarita?”
        “Umm…” Julie hikes up her skirt and squirms her way onto one of the barstools that Smith has saved for us. She looks over the colorful bottles lined up in neat rows across the shelves at the back of the bar and studies the long line of craft beer taps. “I think I’ll change it up and go with a Lava Flow.”
        “What’s in that?” I ask her.
         Julie shrugs and makes a popping sound with her lips. “It’s pink and frothy, and it tastes like cotton candy but gets you drunk. Who the hell cares what’s in it?”
        Sounds reasonable to me.
        “How about you?” Claudia asks me.
        Still maneuvering myself into place and tugging on the bottom of the blue dress, I tell her that I’ll be fine with water.
        Julie’s head whips around. “Water?” she sounds appalled. Like I just said that I crave the taste of raw kitten flesh and the blood of a newborn infant. “What is