Most of the specials are your typical bar standards, a few name brand beers and popular mixed drinks that’ll go over with the end of week crowd and a few bar food specials that’ll keep you thirsty with their salt content. “And last, but certainly not least,” Jasmine recites with actually admirable smoothness, “we have our Donut Bliss Buzz, which is my recommendation to make the stress of the week disappear. It’s an extra-large frozen Sangria with some extra-sweet liquors, giving it that feeling of ‘Calgon, take me away’, all topped with whipped cream, sprinkles, and a fresh Homer Simpson-style donut.”

  I recoil in horror. That sounds like the most American bar drink ever. The whole monstrosity sounds like diabetes in a glass. I think I’ll order a simple red wine, but Stephanie is bouncing on her barstool like she’s already had an injection of sugar.

  “Yes, that sounds perfect to make this shitshow of a week disappear! We’ll take a round of those for the table! And an extra-large order of hot wings!”

  The waitress looks to Megan and me to confirm. I shrug. “Why not? Sangria’s got wine in it, and that was going to be my order.”

  And I will need the extra energy tomorrow for Ace’s pups, anyway.

  At my agreement, Megan smiles. “I’ll take one too, plus a water with lemon.”

  The waitress nods and disappears into the growing crowd of people.

  I glance around, noting the men around us have lost their suit jackets and loosened their ties, and the women have let down their hair and undone a button or two.

  It’s a costume change that’s been used in ‘office bars’ since forever. There’s a little bit more skin, a bit of the daily reservations dropping as you check out that guy from Accounting, the one you’ve always wondered whether he can push more than just pencils, or that girl from Public Relations you’ve always hoped to have a whole different kind of relations with.

  Overall, the mood for everyone is relaxed, almost celebratory. On the other side of the room, one table lifts big glasses of beer all around as they toast some win for their company, or maybe just celebrating a personal win among their group of friends. Fuck, maybe just the end of another five days of work completed.

  Soon, Jasmine comes back with our drinks, which are cartoonishly ridiculous. Part of that is the color, an eye-searing Pepto Bismol pink, topped with what looks like an entire tub of Cool-Whip and rainbow sprinkles. It’s also so oversized that I’ll need both hands to pick it up. But best, or maybe worst of all, right there in the middle, in some sort of defiance of the laws of physics, is the donut itself, appearing to float in the cloud of whipped cream. It’s basically a monstrosity of a drink, something a spoiled kid would design as a birthday punch and an underpaid party planner would have to make a reality. Minus the alcohol, of course.

  But here we sit, the three of us with eyes bigger than our alcohol tolerance with Donut Bliss Buzzes of our very own.

  “Here you ladies go . . . and before you dig in, the donut’s held up by skewers, so don’t stab yourself,” Jasmine warns in a dry tone that says she’s already had to deal with that tonight. Maybe more than once. I peer into the glass and see that at the bottom, hidden by the mountains of Cool-Whip and pink slush, are a trio of sticks that must spread out against the bottom of the small punch bowl they’re calling a glass. “Our head bartender went to college for engineering and likes to make things difficult for us all. I’ll have your wings out in a jiff.”

  “This thing is as big as my face!” I exclaim, grinning as I hold the drink up next to my head. With two hands, of course, because after Jasmine’s buildup of this thing, I’m not going to risk spilling it.

  “Probably bigger,” Stephanie corrects, flicking her eyes left and right as she compares. “More like the size of Megan’s ass.”

  Megan makes a noise of surprise, and Stephanie pats her hand. “It’s a compliment. It’s a big drink, but you’ve got a little ass.” When Megan smiles shyly, Stephanie toasts, “To tiny tooters, big hooters, and a weekend of utter debauchery.”

  Megan pales but lifts her glass carefully. I do the same, adding, “Could we not get an HR complaint, please? The sexual harassment video is so stupid, and I don’t want to waste time watching it more than once a year.”

  Megan laughs, telling me, “It’s fine. Steph and I give each other a hard time, but we’re good.”

  “Yeah, I’m teaching her things.” Stephanie does air quotes around ‘things’ with an exaggerated wink.

  “Slutty things,” Megan adds, though she stutters even saying the word ‘slutty’.

  Stephanie is the first to take a sip, both Megan and I being a little more cautious. Her eyebrows go up, and she takes a deeper draw the second time before exclaiming, “Mmmmm! Sweet and creamy. They should rename this the Fantasy Blow Job! Because I’m gonna swallow every drop!” She makes a slurping sound, encouraging Megan and me to drink up.

  Megan blushes, but her reaction to the drink is the same, and I have to admit that it’s a damn good drink. It’s fruity and sweet, like dessert more than alcohol, and after a few sips, we’re all able to loosen up.

  “So . . . this giving you any ideas for Davis?” Stephanie asks Megan at one point, taking the big straw and licking it up and down before sucking a big mouthful of her drink through hollowed cheeks. After she swallows, she crosses her eyes and opens her mouth in some facial expression she calls the ‘ahegao’, moaning loud enough to get the attention of the guys at the next table.

  “Uhm, hey there,” one of them says with a wave.

  “Stellar opener,” Stephanie replies sarcastically. Her eyes flick around the few other slack-jawed guys at the table, and then she adds, “Though I guess you get credit for having the biggest balls at your table. Only problem? They’re still not as big as mine.”

  The guys squirm uncomfortably, and I have to laugh. “You are something else. Reminds me of myself in my younger days.”

  “You’re not old,” Megan says reassuringly.

  I lift a brow. “I didn’t say I was. I said, ‘in my younger days’. You know, like yesterday.” That’s not true, though. I used to be much crazier and more confrontational, but I’ve settled down a bit now, growing up and maturing. I can still go a bit wild, but it’s a one-off, not my lifestyle.

  Megan tries to recover from her verbal misstep and returns to Stephanie’s previous comment about blow jobs. As innocent as she is, she suggests, “You should try that with Ken in the IT Department.”

  Stephanie grins. “Maybe I already have.” They both laugh, and I can tell this is a continuation of a conversation they’ve already had. I don’t feel left out, though. Instead, I appreciate their friendship. The conversation shifts to Ken in IT and then to office gossip. I join in but mostly listen, paying attention to the news tidbits they drop. The truth is, even though I’ve made the front desk staff more respected and professional than we ever were before, we’re still invisible.

  But that’s to our advantage. Being no more noticed than the corner Ficus tree means people talk around us all the time. It’s not hard to get your fill of the tea when folks just spill around you constantly. We might as well be the Boston Harbor.

  Like Mark and Brandon, two rival junior executives. They don’t know it, but they’re both dating the same woman, and both are so wrapped around her finger that they might as well have her name on collars around their necks.

  How do we know this? Because we’ve transferred her calls to both of them.

  “So, The Lady picked up Brandon yesterday,” Stephanie reveals. “He looked like a puppy dog getting into her BMW.” She holds her hands beneath her chin like paws and sticks her tongue out, panting.

  The guys at the next table swat each other, drawing attention to Stephanie’s new posed expression. She sighs, dropping her hands, and adds, “Probably had a gift ready for her, too. Dick or dollars, one or the other for sure.”

  “You think we should tell them?” Megan asks. “I mean, if they want to be a sugar daddy, that’s one thing, but milking two guys in the same office dry? That could be trouble.”

  I shake my head. “No way. That is not a frying pan fire I’m jumping into.”

  “Well, I guess there’s always the chance that it’s not romantic,” Megan says hopefully. “What if she’s their insurance agent or something?”

  Stephanie and I meet eyes, both of us solidly on Team Dating and dismissing the possibility of Team Insurance. But I nod slowly, not wanting to hurt Megan’s feelings. “Sure, that might be true.”

  Stephanie barks out a laugh of disbelief, making her opinion obvious. “Honey, there might not be any actual dating involved, but I guaran-damn-tee you there’s plenty of sweat and bodily fluids involved. The only insurance they need to worry about is their health insurance.”

  “I don’t think the company health plan covers mutual combat.”

  Steph grins. “Do you think it covers her keeping their balls in her purse?”

  “Well, maybe they know about each other and are enlightened like that,” Megan says hopefully. “You know, like that Netflix show about a throuple?”

  “And when did you watch a show about polyamorous relationships?” I ask Megan, surprised.

  “Ooh! You planning on giving Davis a surprise for Christmas?” Stephanie adds, taking it not just a step further than I did but an entire leap.

  “No . . . but I mean, I understand that people need all kinds of relationships, and . . . well . . .” Megan stammers, making me chuckle. Maybe there is a wilder side to buttoned-down, bland rice cake Megan than she normally shows. It just takes enormous amounts of sugar and alcohol to appear.

  “Come on, let’s see your relationship with the dance floor,” Stephanie says, grabbing Megan’s hand. “Be my wing girl?”

  “Sure . . . Tiff?”

  I shake my head, patting my purse. “I’m good, and I’ll keep an eye on these.”

  Steph and Megan head out to the dance floor, dancing with each other. I sit back and nibble at my donut, trying not to guzzle my drink. I promised Ace that I’d be at his place early tomorrow, and I’d prefer to do that without my head threatening to split in two.

  Jasmine drops off our order of wings, and the heat assails me, burning my nose. I don’t think I’ll be eating any of those unless I want to clear up what I smelled ten years ago from my sinuses. Instead, I pick up the donut, digging in and eventually eating the whole thing, along with a few more sips of my drink.

  Stephanie moves on and dances a few songs with a guy who’s rolled up his sleeves, flashing an expensive watch, but preppy analyst types aren’t my taste.

  I don’t want a guy who’ll be the boss one day. I want a guy who is the boss.

  Megan’s content to groove on her own, never keeping the same partner for more than a song and frequently swaying on her own in the throng of people. But after a bit, she leads Stephanie back over to our table.

  Megan takes a healthy chug of her water, downing most of it as she eats a few hot wings.

  “Whoo, you looked hot out there! Did you get Mr. Rolex’s name?” I tease Steph as she chows down too. Neither of them seems affected by the heat at all. “You sure you should eat that much spice?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Steph says, barely sipping her drink. “If I can eat my grandpa’s chili, I can eat anything.” To prove her point, she bites down on another one. “And no to Mr. Rolex. Pretty sure it’s a fake. I’d rather have a guy with a real Timex than a fake anything. If I wanted imitation, I’ve got a vibrator at home for that.”

  Megan’s purse buzzes, and she looks at her phone, smiling at whatever she sees there. “Sorry, ladies, I have to go. Davis is here to get me.”

  Stephanie groans. “He picks you up too?”

  Megan laughs lightly, as if she doesn’t understand what Stephanie means. “Of course.”

  I’m glad she’s got a ride home, though. I feel responsible for getting them home in one piece. I’m their boss, and I’m the safety monitor.

  It’s simply what I do, what I’ve always done . . . for Ace, for Elle, and even for myself.

  And now for my team.

  I turn my attention to Stephanie, who’s smiling wistfully, probably secretly jealous of Megan and her bland happiness. “What about you?”

  “Meh, I should get home too,” Steph says. “I’m just tipsy enough and horny enough to make a bad decision, but I’m sober enough to know I’ll regret it in the morning.”

  “Maybe put that vibrator to use?” I suggest.

  “Vlad,” she says, nodding absently. I look at her stupidly, trying to connect my suggestion with her answer, but I come up empty. “The Impaler,” she explains.

  “Oh!” I exclaim, not sure what else to say. “Okay. I’ll close out the tab and head home too. I’ll see you bright and early on Monday morning?”

  “Sure thing, Boss. Thanks for the happy hour.”

  Steph grabs her purse, and I double-check that she’s actually texted for an Uber before I let her go, and I check the table. Megan’s drink is mostly untouched, but her water’s gone, making me smile.

  She was playacting for her friend. I can appreciate that.

  Alone, I take my drink with me as I head to the bar to pay out and maybe get a glass of water to wash down the alcohol and donut I’ve inhaled. I don’t feel too tipsy, but the carbs and sugar probably help with that.

  The tab is higher than I expect, and the bartender grins when he sees my drink. “Those are twenty-five bucks apiece,” he informs me, tilting his chin toward my nearly empty glass.

  “Well, shit. They enjoyed them, though, so it’s whatever.”

  The bartender shrugs, setting down the slip for me to sign. “Can I get a water with lime too?”

  “On the house,” he says, as if that dulls the cut from the drinks. But the citrus sharpness does at least help me wash down the sugary sweetness and bitterness over paying seventy-five bucks for three ridiculous drinks.

  I take another long drink of the refreshing water, staring at the television above the bar, but ultimately, I flip-flop back to the pink monstrosity.

  If I paid twenty-five bucks for it, I’m gonna finish the damn thing. Plopping down on a stool, I focus on the drink, sucking hard enough to threaten myself with a headache but refusing to throw in the towel.

  At some point, a guy comes up and tries to flirt. I think his name is Todd, or maybe Ted. He has brown hair, black glasses, and a red power tie. Boooring. I’m friendly but not flirty, trying to put him off. But Todd-Ted doesn’t seem to get it, droning on about this and that. He’s saying something about bulls in the market, which makes zero sense because their horns would knock stuff off the shelves, when I realize the donut monster is still hitting me and I suddenly feel really, super tipsy.

  “Hey, bar dude!” I half call, half slur, lifting my glass one-handed. Luckily, it’s nearly empty and much lighter now, so I’m probably not going to spill it. “Whafuck you put in these things, anyway?”

  He laughs and says, “It’s sangria, plus a bunch of shots, hence the price. It might as well be trashcan punch because it’s a quick and easy drunk. Grown-up version of sorority girl shit.”

  “You calling me a sorority slut?” I growl, and the bartender laughs. “I’ll have you know that I never even went to a sorority party! I do my slutting like a normal woman, at clubs and on dating apps, thank you very much!”

  Todd-Ted scoots a little closer, whispering, “You tell him, Trinity.”

  I look at Todd-Ted through narrowed eyes. Right before I correct him on my name, I remember that’s the fake name I gave him. It’s a trick I’ve done before to guys in clubs who won’t go away because I don’t need anyone tracking me down with my real name.

  “I bet . . . but maybe it’s time to go to your normal woman home and have a normal woman nap?” the bartender says. “What do you say I call you a cab and get you another water?”

  I moan, not sure if it’s an answer to the bartender or a curse toward Jasmine for recommending that drink, Stephanie who encouraged it, or myself for drinking the whole thing.

  I excuse myself to the bathroom, leaving the bar dude and Todd-Ted sitting there. As soon as I move, I start having a serious hot flash. I didn’t eat any of them, but I feel like I might be one of those hot wings, sitting under a heat lamp after being in a fry bath of oil. I’m sweating and feel like my blood is actually heated in my veins.

  I fan myself, praying it’s only the alcohol and not illness coming on.

  I splash water on my face, trying to cool down, but have to hold onto the sink counter when I close my eyes. Popping them back open, I look at myself in the mirror.

  Shit, shit, shit. I am alone and seriously fucked up.

  I’m not usually this stupid. Hell, I’m never this stupid. I hope Stephanie made it home before her drink hit her. At least she only had half of hers, and she left a while ago, so she’s probably okay. But I am not. I’m far from okay.

  I pick up my phone to call Ace and then remember that he’s already left for his special weekend with Harper. They’re hours out of town by now.

  As if she can psychically sense that I’ve fucked up, my phone rings in my hand. The caller ID says Elle—Best Badass Bitch.

  I answer on a hiccup, “How’d you know I need you right now?”

  “Tiff? You okay?” she says, and I swear she’s picking up a British accent. All that damn bangers and mash just soaks in. Or maybe they put it in the tea? “You sound drunk as hell.”

  Fuck. She laughs, completely unaware of my predicament.

  “No. I sucked down a pink monster dick,” I reply before wincing. I know that’s not it, so I shake my head to make the letters work better, but that makes my right eardrum jump out of my skull. “I mean, drink. Not dick. No dick sucking here. Just a drink. Oh, and a donut. A big round one with little bitty rainbow sprinkles. So cute, so tasty, but sooo bad.”

  Elle giggles in my ear. “I forgot how funny you are when you’re drunk.”

  “Not funny. So fuh-cucked. Ace is gone.”

  “What?” Elle is instantly serious. “What do you mean ‘he’s gone’?”

  “He took Harper to the country to do it. Big secret, though. Shh!” I hold a finger up to my lips even though she can’t see me.