Rhythm & Blu

Track One

The mood temporarily lightened, I heave out a breath and push away from my laptop. I can stew about Riot Blu later, after I'm properly sauced and am happily slipping into a carb-induced coma.

We shower. Dress. Pre-game.

And hours later, we're breezing into our favorite nighttime haunt in the heart of Pioneer Square. The upside of rolling with Haze? Always knowing where the party is. The downside? The party is most likely her.

As a fashion blogger and former self-proclaimed hoe (her words, not mine), Haze knows everyone who is anyone in Seattle. And if she doesn't know them, she isn't shy about forced friendship. Which is precisely how she foiled me into becoming her best friend of almost two decades.

I was the quiet girl with braces and Coca-Cola bottle glasses that would much rather spend her lunch period with a Walkman and a cassette mixtape. And Haze, all tanned legs and brazen attitude even back then, was the new kid, meaning she was a magnet for attention, the very thing I was hoping to avoid. Apparently, headphones were no deterrent for the California native, because she insisted on talking.

And talking.

And talking.

Until I finally got tired of pretending to read her pouty, pink-glossed lips and pulled off my headphones.

She never stopped talking, and I admittedly found myself listening. And soon enough, I was conversing with the super cool new girl at school whose parents let her wear eyeliner and baby tees that exposed the tease of her navel.

Not much changed from then. I got a little bolder, she got a lot louder, but the dynamic pretty much stayed the same. I was the Kelly to her Beyonce. The JoJo to her K-Ci.

Until Riot. Then...everything went to shit.

We sidle up to the bar, bypassing the pub tables and high-back chairs that are quickly filling up with patrons. It's Ladies Night, meaning two-for-one specials and plenty of men banking on cheap well liquor.

"So what are we drinking?"

I don't even know why she asks. Since before we were even old enough to drink, our spirit of choice has always been vodka. Tito's, to be exact. I only have to give her a pointed glance before she turns towards the bartender to flag him down.

"Hey, you!" she coos, batting her falsies and painting on a saccharin-laced, flirtatious grin. "I didn't know you were working tonight. I haven't seen you in a minute."

"What's up, Haze? Where you been hiding?" Manbun, beard, flannel. Typical PNW kinda guy. The bartender is easy on the eyes, with his emerald-hued irises and fit build, but he is so not Haze's type.

"Oh, you know. On my grind, always. It's so funny though...I was just thinking about you."

I bite down on a laugh and roll my eyes stealthily. Haze wasn't thinking about this dude. She can't even remember his name. Hey, you is code for, Shit, who are you again? And I feel bad. I always feel bad for the unsuspecting men that fall for Haze's charms. Her presence is magnetic and alluringly dangerous. It's like looking into the endless obscurity of an eclipse, knowing it'll scorch your eyes. And time after time, guy after guy, she renders them all blind.

She finesses us a couple double tall vodka sodas with lime before we claim a sofa and table set-up nestled on the other side of the lounge. It's dark enough that we have a veil of privacy yet gives us a view of the whole space. We're not ready to be seen yet—at least I'm not. But by our second round, the place is packed and the DJ on the ones and twos has the whole crowd vibing to the latest club bangers. Although I usually abhor anything on heavy rotation on the radio, I don't even recoil when Haze grabs my hand and tugs me towards the dancefloor.