Absolute Smokeshow

Shot, Lime, Salt?

"Do we have to go to the same one?" you complain, remembering how crowded the club was when you first met Rhea there. Your friends had dragged you out again - some of them were newly single and you had grudgingly agreed to be a wingwoman.
"We definitely do. Do you remember that bartender from last time?" the voice was that of your friend who was driving, "If I'm not interested in anyone at the club, I want to shoot my shot with her."
"You know bartenders get hit on all the time, right?" another friend chimed in, "She's probably swatting ladies away all night. Besides, that was months ago."
"Well it's too late to go anywhere else now," the driver declared triumphantly, "We're here!"
"Can you park somewhere we can hotbox?" you request, already apprehensive as the car pulls into the parking lot, "I'm no help to anyone if I'm an anxious mess."
"Didn't you get yourself a girlfriend last time you were an anxious mess at the club?" another friend chimed in.
You sigh before saying, "Let me rephrase: joint first, club second. Do not pass go, do not collect $200."

One joint later, you're walking into the club with your friends and are relieved to see it isn't quite as crowded as the last time you were here. Hotboxing was still a good idea, though - you needed to be as relaxed and easygoing as possible if you were going to be around this many pretty people.
"So, how are we doing this?" you ask the group. Looking around at everyone, you watch as two of your number leave the group, each headed toward their own desired cutie. Three of you were left, counting yourself. The other two were the shyest of the group and the woman who drove everyone to the club. The latter was notoriously particular about her partners - you were surprised she even wanted to chat up the bartender, until you remembered your friend might easily lose interest as soon as she started talking to her.

While your assistance was clearly needed more with your shy friend, you were grabbed by the wrist and dragged in the direction of the bar before you could protest.
"She's working tonight!" your friend squeals excitedly, "We're definitely getting drinks."
Looking behind you, the sight of the third member of your small party following you is a comfort.
"You can get a drink," you tell her as the two of you approach the bar, "You're not even going to check out anyone else?"
"Already have," she insisted.
"Why am I even here?" you huff, "You have this handled."
"Moral support!" she pouted.
Sighing, you shake her grip and the three of you sit at the bar. Looking over, you watch as your more intrepid friend sets her eyes on the bartender, puts her elbows on the counter, and squeezes her breasts together while leaning in.

"Excuse me!" she calls out, making the bartender look up.
Turning to look at your friend's latest interest, you can see why she remembered this woman: Her deep brown eyes had a mischevious gleam to them; her dyed, curly red hair was tied back to show an undercut and tattoos peeking out from the back collar of her shirt; and two snake bite piercings accentuated her full lips, currently shaped to a casual grin as she approached the counter.
"What can I get you?" the bartender addressed your friend.
"Sex on the beach," she replied in a sultry voice, then, "Oh, but I should probably order a drink first."
Judging by her reaction - or lack thereof - the bartender was used to this. Keeping a professional tone, she said, "Sorry, hon, but all I can help you with is your drink order."

"Can't blame a gal for trying," you friend shrugs, seeming less interested by the second, "Shot of vodka, please."
Movement in your periphery made you look over to see your other friend holding up two fingers.
"Two shots," the bartender nodded then looked at you asking, "Or three?"
"Just water for me, thanks," you insist, feeling cotton mouth setting in.
"Two shots and a water coming up," she said, winking at you. Feeling your face grow warm, you look down at her name tag before she turns around to get your drinks: "Marisol" and underneath, in smaller text, "she/her".
"Well that was disappointing," your friend sighed as soon as Marisol was out of earshot, "Who am I going to flirt with now?"
"Your life is truly one tragedy after another," you joke as the bartender comes back, carrying your drinks.

"Thank you, Marisol," you say as she sets down the drinks.
"Just doing my job, cariño,"  she says, looking you over and biting her lip, "Let me know if you need anything else."
You watched Marisol stroll over to the other side of the counter to help take the order of what looked like a sweet couple in their honeymoon phase, only barely processing what your friend was saying.
"Huh?" you ask, prying your eyes away from the bartender's curves.
"I said, why did she put an umbrella in your water?" your friend seems personally offended, "I mean, it's just a water."
Sure enough, there was a small rainbow umbrella sitting on the edge of your glass, propped up by the ice.
"I'm not sure," you admit, picking up the small adornment and twirling it around between your fingers before taking a long sip of your drink. 
By the time your friends had finished their shots and ordered (then downed) another each, the club had gotten noticeably more crowded. Much as you tried to fight it, your anxiety was beginning to creep up again.
"I need to get some air," you say, having to speak a bit louder than before as you rise from the bar stool, "Going to go out for a smoke."
"Want some company?" a voice behind you says.
Turning around, you see Marisol on your side of the bar and do a double-take.
"I finished my shift," she laughed at your reaction, "Someone else is taking over the bar for the rest of the night."
You could feel your friend giving you an incredulous look, but kept your eyes on Marisol as she continued, "I know a good place in the lot to sit and smoke. I have bud to share, too."
"Lead the way," you reply, blushing when she grabs your hand and gently guides you in the direction of the exit.