9
Sarah wasn’t sure how she’d let herself get talked into this, but there was no backing out.
You owe me at least a beer for trying to kill me, Carlos had said at the dock as the ambulance took away Tom and his girlfriend (two broken wrists and a concussion between them).
In a fit of weakness, she’d agreed. She should have known he’d turn it into a beer and a pizza, which was far too much like a date.
Inferno Lounge.
Perfect, she was in hell.
Carlos had beat her there, because—of all stupid things—she’d vacillated on what to wear. Like her wardrobe held so many options. Jeans, a blouse, and a fleece vest, because Oregon evenings were always cool by definition. Then she’d had to double back for a windbreaker, because it was September. Then for her wallet because she was a basket case.
