Drifter

Brewers’ Den Irish Pub—44, Grand Alley

Over the half-full pint, Erin eyed the handsome, brown-haired guy on the other side of the pub subtly. He had been talking on the phone since she walked in, frowning the whole time. The whole thing made him seem sort of important.

A full pint rested on the table in front of him, but he didn’t seem to remember it. His eyes never left the floor as he held the phone to his ear.

“I don’t even know,” Kelly slurred in front of her. As Erin gulped her beer and watched the guy, Kelly rambled on. “I think I’m going to go home soon. It’s getting pretty late.”

Erin rolled her eyes and turned her stare to her wasted friend.

“I just got here, Kelly.”

“Yeah, but I’ve been waiting here for an hour, at least,” Kelly said, her voice raising an octave. “I mean, really, Erin, if you’re not going to get here on time at least message.”

“Well next time don’t drink the whole fucking bar! It’s pathetic!”

Kelly scoffed and stared at her underage best friend for the fraction of a second.

Erin was always covered in makeup—glittery gold on her lids, thick winged liner, falsies, shimmery red lip-gloss with tiny specks of glitter, and a small fake mole below her eye. That was her idea of using makeup to look older than her age—looking like a 1940’s Las Vegas hustler.

How come she had become her best friend in the past few months if they always seemed to hate each other?

Kelly doubted people were supposed to watch their backs from their best friends, but Erin was the only one she had left after her college friends left to Uni and left her stranded in her parents’ townhouse or The Brewers’ Den Irish Pub with Will’s little sis.

“You know what?” Kelly said in a monotonic voice, releasing a sigh. “This is getting pathetic. I mean, we’re sneaking out to drink on our own and come to the only pub that lets you in without an ID, and I’m not exactly thrilled to be sitting here alone with you.”

“Oh, too strange, ‘cause I love it, actually,” the younger girl answered in her loud voice, sarcasm seeping out. “Sitting here, drinking with the biggest boozer there ever existed in Nottingham. You’re not even doing me a favour, you know? You’re always fucking wasted. You’re no bloody use!”

“I’m not doing you a favour? I’m the reason you’re even here, only because I know people that would be willing to risk their jobs to let you in!”

“You’re talking like it’s a fucking privilege to come here! This pub is a fucking joke! And so are you! So, tell you what, why don’t you just finish fucking up your kidneys and die someday soon?” Erin stood up, taking her red coat from the back of the chair. “I’m sick of this. Honestly, Kelly, you’re, what, like eighteen? What are you even doing with your life? Shouldn’t you be like at Uni or working or something? I mean, at least I’m still studying, but you’re here in the all-you-can-drink booze buffet just wasting your life away. You’re pathetic.

She slipped into her Las-Vegas-hustler coat and took her sequined purse from the table, leaving the half-empty pint behind.

“I’m not going to pay for your booze, you know?” Kelly yelled back, but her voice came out wispy and Erin had walked away triumphant.

Martin—the nicest barman in the world—approached Kelly while Erin sat with the brown-haired guy. He was now staring at both of them, his mobile now resting beside his beer.

Kelly had to look around to confirm everyone was looking at them as well.

“Alright, Kelly?” Martin asked.

“Yeah,” Kelly said. “Just one thing, Martin, that little underage brat by the bar is going to pay for her own beer.”

Martin smiled widely and nodded. “A’right. Fair enough.”

“And, uh, alright, maybe just one more thing.” She paused to frown at the table. “Could you maybe get me a bit of rum with coke?”



Patrick forced a smile as the girl with the bold, golden makeup introduced herself and sat beside him. Despite all of her makeup and her revealing outfit, Patrick could still tell the girl was too young to be here drinking.

“So what’s your name?” Erin asked.

“I’m Patrick.”

“Cool.” The girl bit her lip. She was beginning to inch closer and to speak in a quieter voice.
“Is your friend okay?” He thumbed over his shoulder to the blonde girl with the leather short and tights, and heavy combat boots.

Erin’s face only fell a little.

“She’s not my friend.” She rolled her eyes at Patrick’s drink, but forced her smile to stay screwed to her tiny porcelain-skinned face. “Not anymore, anyway.”

Patrick nodded and had a swig of his beer.

“Listen, um,” she said, inching a little closer and forcing Patrick to inch backwards. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Oh.” Patrick frowned. “I’m sorry, really. I have a girlfriend.”

That had to be the biggest lie of the night, he thought. The correct sentence would’ve been, ‘I had a girlfriend… fiancée, actually… like fifteen minutes ago.’

Erin leaned back like he’d been about to slap her, but with a sheepish grin, she leaned in again. “Well, she’s not here, is she?”

“Well, no, but I’m sort of waiting for her,” he lied again. A lie as big as the previous one.
Erin sighed and leaned back.

“Right.” She pursed her lips. “Things are so ridiculous tonight.”

He gave her a sympathetic smile, pretending to understand what she was talking about. Erin stood up and straightened her skirt.

“Sorry again,” he said, but she was already walking out of the pub.

And Patrick Howes had to pay for her pint.
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