What You Need(21)

Unlike my mother, she knew exactly what buttons to push. “Fine. Gimme two hours and I’ll be there.”

“Two hours?” She hooted. “You’d better look like hot shit and a side of taco chips when you stroll in and not like you just got outta court.”

That got my back up. The last time I’d seen the crew at Maxie’s, I’d been wearing an interview suit. Long sleeves, tight skirt, high heels. They’d razzed me endlessly about it. When they’d gone a little too far, accusing me of not being one of them, I’d felt a little cocky. I wasn’t one of them anymore. I’d changed from being Lenni, the smart-mouthed cocktail server, to Lennox, the newest office temp at Lund Industries.

“Lenni?” she prompted. “Did you hang up on me?”

“You wish. See you in a few, Maxie.”

Since I had to drive, I skipped making myself a strong cocktail and headed straight for the back of my closet, where I kept clothing that wasn’t office attire.

As I tossed out miniskirts and leather pants, I took a moment to remind myself that I’d always hated the nickname Lenni—and I wasn’t Lenni anymore. I’d been giddy when everyone at work called me by my real name, Lennox. I’d once asked my mother where she’d gotten the name, and she claimed she’d seen it in a magazine ad for dishes, thinking it’d be cool to name me after fine china. But she wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, even when she was sober, so she misspelled my name on the birth certificate.

Although Kiley knew about my past—some of it anyway—I was happy my counselor roomie wasn’t home to assess my transformation. She’d probably have some choice words about why I felt the need to keep the two sides of myself separate since they were both part of what made me who I am.

I stripped, got in the shower and afterward slathered lotion on my legs to make it easier to get my leather pants on. I piled my hair on top of my head in a messy bun. I always wore my hair down at work because of the tattoo on the back of my neck. That’s also why I always wore long-sleeved shirts. Although sporting ink was more acceptable and tattoos didn’t necessarily carry the stigma that they once did, Lund Industries was a conservative company with a dress code. And I’d spent enough years being prejudged because of my tattoos that I’d welcomed the chance to cover them up and start fresh. I knew Maxie and the others wouldn’t understand, so just for one night I’d let my ink show. I’d be the wild child I’d left behind.

It confused me why I looked forward to it so much.

Maxie’s Hideaway—regulars referred to it as Maxie’s Pad—was an old-school dive: dark and smoky. A huge mirrored bar spanned the length of the room. The other half of the space was tables and a performance area. Sometimes bands played there. Sometimes comedians showed up and tested out a new set. Maxie’s had the occasional burlesque show. She broke out the karaoke machine once in a while. We’d even had line dancing and hip-hop classes. Maxie’s defined “anything goes.”

Because Maxie had a three-pack-a-day habit, when the government banned smoking, she’d basically flipped them the bird and said she’d rather pay the fines than lose her core customers. That’d worked for a while. Until the city hired some pencil-pushing, by-the-book doorknob that’d bypassed the fines, closed the place down, and tossed Maxie in jail.

The desk jockey with an overinflated ego didn’t understand about how the real world worked. Less than twenty-four hours later, Maxie was out of jail, with an apology from her councilman. Then Maxie’s Hideaway had been legally declared a cigar bar, so smoking wasn’t regulated.

This had all happened before I worked there, but the story was the stuff of legends. That was another thing I loved about the people who hung out there. They had stories to tell. They’d lived hard lives, but they’d taken such joy in being able to brag that they’d come out all right.

On the drive over I pumped myself up by listening to classic seventies rock, because that was what I’d hear tonight. No matter where I was or how old I got, CCR, Zeppelin, the Stones and the Eagles would always take me back to Maxie’s.

It was early when I parked my ancient Corolla in the lot. That was one thing I hadn’t changed: I still drove the same car. It ran like a champ, so I saw no need to sink money into a car payment when I didn’t have to. Anticipation hummed through me. Friday night at Maxie’s. The regulars would be sitting at the bar swapping “My boss was a dick this week” stories as they poured their hard-earned money down their throats.

When I walked in, I made an entrance. I slammed the door until it hit the wall behind it. Everyone turned around and looked, just as I’d wanted.