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them made eye contact with him.  
    Or with me for that matter.
    Good friend that he is, Jimmer listened to my birthday ideas for my man without too much sarcasm. Before we could get the details squared away, he received a phone call and lit out without so much as a goodbye, leaving me in the company of my good buddy Don Julio.
    Within ten minutes of Jimmer’s departure, I realized the three couples were eyeing my booth.
    Eventually douchebag #1 sent his girlfriend/wife over. The far-too-classy-looking-for-a-skanky-biker-bar brunette scanned me and my half empty bottle of tequila, but couldn’t quite conjure up a smile. “Is your boyfriend coming back?”
    “He’s not my boyfriend.”
    “Fine. Is your friend coming back?”
    “Probably not.”
    “Then you won’t need this much space. Would you mind swapping tables with us?”
    “Yes, actually, I would mind.” I made a shooing motion at her.
    She teetered away on stiletto boots that no real biker chick would be caught dead wearing, especially on the back of a bike.
    The group conferred. I smoked. It seemed instead of having a good time where they were, they were more interested in booting my ass out of the booth and having a better time over here.
    Yeah, good luck with that, motherfuckers.
    A tiny blonde, around my age, proud of her big rack from the obvious way she displayed it, sauntered over. Up close she was one of those flawless makeup, perfect hair types. She checked out my sunburned skin, windblown hair, sleeveless T-shirt, jean capris and rhinestone flip-flops.  
    Instead of a sneer, she smiled. “I’d offer to arm wrestle you for this booth, but there’s a wild look about you that guarantees I’ll get beat. So how about this?” She placed her palms flat on the table. “See the guy in the leather jacket with the black and gray scruff?”
    My eyes cut in that direction. Tall guy. Skinny. Probably fifty. Not bad looking. I’d guess a white-collar guy dressing down to blend in. “What about him?”
    “He’s my date. I just met his friends a few hours ago and tonight has sucked ass. The guys talk amongst themselves and the wives are snarky when they’re not ignoring me completely. It’d help me out a lot of if you’d share your booth.”
    “Why should I help you out?”
    “Because ever since your friend left, you look as if you don’t wanna hang out by yourself, and I don’t wanna hang out with them. Plus, you look more like my type of person anyway.”
    “What type is that?”
    “The fun, shootin’ tequila type that doesn’t take any shit from anyone.”  
    I ground out my cigarette, just buzzed enough that her flattery hit right on the mark. Hadn’t I recently lamented about my lack of friends? “Now that you mention it, I am low on drinking buddies. What’s your name?”
    “Lisa Morgan. Yours?”
    “Julie Collins.”
    “Well, Julie, what do you say?”
    “I say have a seat. But be warned. Maybe I’m by myself because I’m an asshole.”
    Lisa laughed. “I’ll take my chances.” She motioned the rest of her party to come over. The women each gave me a polite lip twitch that sort of resembled a smile. I didn’t bother learning any of their names, nor did I offer to share my bottle of Don Julio.
    I felt Big Mike’s eyes on me. He sent Reena over. No one but Lisa noticed that Reena addressed me because they were all too busy barking drink orders at her.
    My new friend scrutinized me and I bristled. “What?”
    “Who are you?”
    “What do you mean?” I poured myself another shot.
    “First the enormous guy playing pool with you would’ve happily whacked any of us with his cue if we dared approach you. Then there’s your ‘fuck off this is my turf’ attitude while you’re knocking back a hundred dollar bottle of tequila. Now the bartender, another giant dude, keeps glowering over here. And the cocktail waitress nearly bowed before you. So what gives?” Lisa turned her back to her friends and upended my shot of