Free Helluva Luxe by Natalie Essary Page B

survived the night, I planned to have a word with her about giving a guy a friggin’ break now and again. I needed the audio equivalent of a cold shower. Something like “Friday, I’m in Love.” I’m just not cut out for martyrdom anymore, and last call never sounded so good.
    Rorke had me break down the bar while her ass watched a Burns and Allen retrospective and counted piles of cash. She was banding stacks of bills much heartier than ones. Every time the actors plugged Carnation Instant Milk, she started cackling like a voodoo queen, and she caught me watching her more than once. Then a commercial came on, and she muted the sound.
    “You’re a trick behind the bar,” she said. She didn’t look up, but I saw her lip twitch.
    I kept polishing the liquor bottles and let a beat pass. “What did you expect?”
    “I forget,” she said. “But you’ve got a breakfast date, if you’re interested.”
    “You don’t wanna crash?”
    She stopped shuffling money and rolled her eyes at me. “Please, Salem.” Then she stood on the rungs of the stool, leaned over the bar, and retrieved a brushed metal thermos that was etched with the club’s twisted logo, black on black. Her name was monogrammed underneath. She set it on the bar in front of me, grabbed the waistband of my pants, and pushed a huge wad of bills down my front pocket. “Drink me,” she whispered. And then she whisked the rest of the cash away and disappeared through the swinging doors.
    You’re damn right I drank it. Bring it on, I thought as I tossed it back. Whatever the hell was in that thermos tasted like melted sex. It was so good I even started watching Burns and Allen .
    Rorke reappeared about twenty minutes later and led me out the back door to a private parking garage, lit with purple bulbs and painted like the inside of a spider web. We drove to a greasy spoon on the east side of town, right off the highway. The flickering sign spelled Moonstems , but half the bulbs were out, so it looked more like Monsters . And it sounded like a prehistoric bug zapper. When we walked through the door, the first thing I saw was a sandwich board with a list of cleverly worded rules about how not to piss of the wait staff. This meant we were in the place to be seen afterhours. And sure enough, we turned a corner and every square foot of available space was occupied by people who looked like they’d just left the Luxe. Angry punk was playing on the stereo, but you could barely hear it over the inebriated buzz.
    Rorke suggested we sit outside, and I followed her.
    The back patio was completely deserted. There were several metal tables with beach umbrellas attached, and no signs of life but a few grackle eating Splenda packets off the ground.
    “Are you sure we’ll get waited on out here?”
    “They know me,” she said.
    She pulled a flask that matched her thermos from the inside pocket of her leather jacket and set it on the table occupying the darkest corner. Then she sparked the red candle in the middle of the table and used it to light her cigarette. She kicked up her boots on the extra chair, looked me dead in the eye, and exhaled. The air smelled like burgers and rain. I felt like I was participating in a ritual.
    “Have a seat, Salem.”
    I thought about pulling her up outta that chair and having my way with her, but I needed to eat first, so I sat down.
    “What do you order?” I said.
    “You get points for asking.” She leaned forward. “What you want is a basket of cheese fries with extra crispy bacon. They’re known for their breakfast tacos, omelets, and such, but you gotta trust me on this one.”
    You would’ve thought she was giving me a racing tip, she said it so succinctly. I was obviously not dealing with a Diet Coke girl. I suspected as much before, but now I was certain. This was a woman who knew how to eat.
    But then she said, “Jalapeños on the side.”
    “Wait. What? On the side ?”
    “Your points have been retracted,” she