My name is Windy Malcom, I’m twenty-three years old, and I live in Redbrick.

My name is Windy Malcom, I’m twenty-three years old, and I live in Redbrick.

My name is Windy Malcom…

My therapist told me once that if I ever get stressed to the point of confusion, to start a mantra. I can either write it down or say it over and over until I’m calm again. It doesn’t necessarily need to be my personal details, but given my specific little “issue,” it tends to help a bit more. 

Other mantras I’ve used are, “Stabbing fabric is better than stabbing people,” “Try it once and you won’t have to ‘try’ it again,” and, “At least it’s not the hospital.”

The last one would probably be more appropriate given the current situation, but my personal info is the first thing that came to mind. 

Therefore, My name is Windy Malcom, I’m twenty-three years old…

“Windy, come on, hurry up,” Nikki laughs, pulling on my hand. 

“Nikki,” I protest, not for the first time tonight, “is this really necessary?”

“Extremely,” she says with a grin. She wraps her arms around one of mine, my coat shifting under her body weight as she continues to lead me toward her chosen place of entertainment for the evening. 

I can see my breath fog up in front of my face, drifting quickly away as she hurries us across the street. I hate the cold. I hate winter.

I hate November.

I glance up at the sign announcing the bar we’re traipsing into. Jackie’s. I groan and shake my head. I really, really do not want to be here, but Nikki insisted. Given the events of the past week, she was in need of a challenge, and Jackie’s was where she would get it.

We show our IDs to the bouncer as we head inside, the warmth of the dimly lit establishment a welcome relief. I sigh and shrug out of Nikki’s grip. She doesn’t even mind, dragging me to the bar. While she’s trying to get the bartender’s attention, I glance nervously around.

The place isn’t exactly packed, but it isn’t dead, either. There are plenty of couples, and potential conquests, out on the dance floor, grinding to the beat. I grimace; I’m not a great dancer to begin with, and having another woman’s tits in my face does not appeal to me in the slightest. The tables are sparsely populated, the waitresses, and one waiter (I think), bouncing around them taking orders, refilling drinks, removing the empties, and flirting.

I turn back, lowering my head, letting my long brown hair cover my face. I don’t like public places on a good day, least of all bars or clubs.

Least of all gay bars or clubs.

Nikki gets the guy’s attention and orders us a couple of drinks, a vodka cran for herself, and a fruity mixed drink for me. If I’m going to be dragged here against my will, I may as well enjoy some part of it. She hands him the cash, gives him her sweetest smile, then turns to head to a booth. Good timing, too, as a tall man with brown hair takes our place.

We scoot into the booth and she sets my drink on the table while I remove my coat. We hadn’t been in the building two minutes and I’m already burning up. I suppose it doesn’t help that I'm wearing a thick long-sleeved shirt that covers my hands, exposing my fingers. I sigh, pick up my drink, and take a sip through the thin black straw.

Ah, yes. Deliciously fruity. The waiter, he is definitely a guy, though incredibly pretty, comes up to greet us and gives us the spiel that he’ll be taking care of us if we need anything. I’m barely paying attention while Nikki chats with him. 

For the record, neither Nikki nor I are gay. Not even a little bit. When we first started coming to bars like these, I thought it was because they served good food and made good drinks. They do, of course, but as it turns out, that’s not why Nikki comes here. She comes here to prove a point. One I’m not sure I agree with, but have never tried to argue with her over. There’s no point, really. She’s been doing this for years and she knows better than I do, so I just go with it.

I sit back with a sigh, stirring my drink. “Why are we here, Nikki?” I ask once the waiter has walked away. “Why can’t we just go back to your place and watch a movie or something? I really don’t want to be here.”

Nikki snorts. “Oh come on, Windy, don’t be such a buzzkill before the fun has even started.” She flips her dyed blonde and red hair over her shoulder, exposing one bare shoulder and the rose tattoo on her neck. 

Go figure.

I roll my eyes, hoping she doesn’t see. Honestly, I really don’t want to be here for this. I’d rather be at home working on my current cross stitch project. I’d been looking forward to it, too, but Nikki said this would be better for me. 

Whatever.

It doesn’t take long before the drink calms my nerves and my anxiety level goes down. Even the mantra fades from my mind. I lean forward, keeping close to Nikki so I can hear her over the loud music. Hip hop or some crap I can’t stand.

“Okay, so here’s the plan,” she says with a big smile, her hands flat on the table, her long stiletto nails glittering in the light. “You’re going to bag you a man.”

My eyes go wide. “How?” I motion around the place. “The men here aren’t interested in women, Nik.”

She laughs. “All men are interested in women, Windy,” she says. “Even those that say they’re gay really aren’t.”

I give her a dubious look.

“Look, I’ll show you.” She points out a few male couples around the place. “Tell me what you see when you look at them.”

“Um,” I say, trying to pick one couple but failing. “They’re two men together,” I say lamely. 

She shakes her head. “No, what I mean is, look at the difference in their appearance.” She pointed out one couple close to the bar, one of which was leaning backward against it as he smiles at his partner. “You’ve got the manly looking guy, right, the one with the tough looks and trimmed beard who obviously works out, or works in construction or something.” She points directly at the one on the bar. “And then you have the pretty one, the effeminate one sticking out his chest and hip, his hair perfectly done, his clothes super nice, and probably wearing makeup.”

She turns to me, folding her hand under her chin. “He looks like a girl.”

I watch the two for a minute, trying to see what Nikki sees. The bigger man is close to the pretty one, smiling at him, touching his waist, whispering in his ear, standing close enough to rub up against his thigh. The pretty one is smiling up at him, giggling, biting his lip, and batting flirtatious eyes at him. I can’t deny Nikki’s right; in the right setting, he could easily pass as a woman.

“See?!” Nikki laughs, bumping her shoulder against mine. “All guys want a woman, even if they don’t know it. They likely just haven’t met the right one yet.”

“The right one being you?” I ask, half-joking.

She winks. “Damn straight, baby girl.” She picks up her glass and twirls her straw, making the ice clink together. “All any self-proclaimed gay man needs is a hot taco to shove his meat in to realize just what delicious gourmet he’s been missing.”

I stifle a groan. I can’t count the number of times she’s said that.

“Tonight, my girl, it will be your taco that turns the tide for some poor confused soul.” She glances around, her eyes lighting on a man sitting alone at the bar. “Maybe him,” she purrs. Her eyebrow twitches and her eyes take on a dark, seductive quality that makes my chest hurt. Not out of jealousy, but out of nervousness. She’s hunting right now, and that man is her prey. The only difference is, she’s not catching him for herself. She’s catching him for me.

I sigh, running my fingers through my hair and drawing it over my shoulders. “Nikki, I really don’t need—”

“Yes, you do,” she cuts me off, the determined expression forcing my mouth shut. “How long has it been since you got laid, Windy Malcom? Two, three months?”

My hands fidget in my lap as I look away. “Something like that,” I admit under my breath. That’s when my last boyfriend dumped me. He couldn’t take “fucking an immature teenager” any longer.

I’m in my twenties. 

Mentally, I’m between fourteen and sixteen. At least, that’s what the doctor says. 

“Time to end the drought, sweetness,” Nikki says, pushing a little on my arm. “Go bag you a baddie, baby.” 

My stomach flips and I instantly feel nauseous. There is no way I’m going to be able to pick up a guy here, in a gay bar, where my best option is probably one of the women sitting on the other side of the room. My hands clench under the table and I freeze. 

“I don’t know,” I mutter, shaking my head. I turn back to Nikki whose perfectly shaped eyebrows are fixed in a way that tells me she won’t hear any arguments from me. I deflect instead. “Give me a few minutes and then I’ll go.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically, a smile on her painted lips. “Oh, okaaay,” she relents, though I know she’s not surprised by my reluctance. She waves the waiter over and orders two more drinks. 

It’s only after the third one, and the addition of a few new people to our booth, that I finally summon the courage, i.e., ignore my racing heart enough to go up to the bar to talk to the man Nikki pointed out. Everyone in our booth is encouraging.

“He’s here almost all the time,” one man says, his arm over the back of the seat and leaning dangerously close to Nikki. How she manages to get a gay guy to act so flirtatiously with her, I really have no idea. He smiles at me, his eyes darting to the man. “He doesn’t talk to anyone, though. Ever. He’s turned away a ton of guys, too. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

The other two men, Nikki, and a woman with incredibly short hair and a ton of tattoos, all begin cheering me on, even giving me some cash so I can get us both another drink.

Finally, I relent and scoot out of the booth to a chorus of high-spirited clapping and laughter. I fight the grin on my face as I shake my head and nervously make my way to the bar. 

“Windy!” Nikki calls out to me.

I turn to look at her. That grin is so wolfish, it’s scary.

“Just do it like I told you. Say what I taught you to say.” She ticks one eyebrow, wraps the tip of her tongue around her straw, and sucks up her drink, her eyes glittering.

I nod. Right…I can do this. I take a deep inhale and blow it out slowly, clenching and unclenching my hands as I near the bar. It’s when I get within distance of his cologne that my nerves start to fail and my feet falter.

What the hell am I doing?! I can’t flirt with a gay guy! There’s no way!

However, I’ve come too far to back out now. Maybe I’ll just try and talk to him, instead. The one guy said he never talks to anyone so this could be a challenge all on its own. With shaky hands, I sidle up to the bar right next to him, tucking some of my hair behind my ear as I raise one hand to get the bartender’s attention.

I am apparently either too shy or too unremarkable to be noticed because he never even looks my way. 

I grit my teeth and lean over the bar a little bit. “U-um, ex-excuse me?” I call out, my voice shaking. “Can I get a drink…please?” The last word is almost a pathetic whisper. 

The man doesn’t even look at me. I’m sure I’m not the only person who’s done this around him. It is a bar after all. His glass is near his face, one arm folded on the bar, the other propped on his elbow. Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell the drink isn’t mixed and there’s no ice in it. Daddy refers to these drinks as “neat,” I think. 

I raise myself up to sit on the stool beside him and try waving the bartender down again. “Um, please, sir,” I call out again, this time a little more steadily. Finally he looks my way. I hold back a sigh of relief as he catches my gaze, but before I can say anything else, he looks away. I drop my arm, my mouth agape.

“Seriously?” I groan. I fold my arms on the bar and glare down at the bartender, the man next to me, and the mission I’ve been sent on, all but forgotten. Now I just want to get that bastard’s attention and get my goddamn drink. I’ve had a bad week and I deserve it! I inhale, my lips parted, but my words are shut down before they even reach my throat.

“Brandon.” 

I flinch slightly. It was the man next to me that spoke. I look up at him, wide-eyed, but he doesn’t look at me. The bartender, however, freezes in the middle of whatever was more important than serving me a drink. It takes me a second to realize that the noise at the booth behind me had ceased. 

I guess he really doesn’t talk to anyone.

The bartender, Brandon, apparently, blinks, reviving himself from his stupor. The man next to me says nothing, just points my way, the amber liquid catching the light. Brandon hurries over, his eyes darting between the two of us before settling on me.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “What can I get you, hon?”

I, myself, am too startled to speak, my bottom lip moving but nothing more than scattered noises evacuating my throat. 

Brandon nods to the booth I had been sitting at. “You’re with them, right?” he asks.

I turn to look at the group and then back at him. “Oh, uh, yeah, I was.”

He smiled and nodded. “Okay, I gotcha.” He turns from me and heads to the liquor wall. As he makes my drink, I can feel the man’s gaze slide down to me, feel it pass over my small frame and long dark brown hair. Unconsciously, I tug the sleeves of my shirt over my hands, gripping the fabric with my nails. I hate being stared at, much less scrutinized. 

“I’m not a bug,” I say. Realizing I’d meant to keep that to myself, I sit up straight and turn to meet his gaze. “Oh, I mean…um…I…”

He shakes his head and looks away, the glass at his lips. “It’s fine,” he mutters around the rim as he swallows down the remains in the glass.

Which is half the glass.