“NO,” LOLA SAYS, and then I hear a loud clang in the background. “I can’t tonight. I need to finish these panels. And Mia said she and Ansel are staying in, since he’s leaving tomorrow and won’t be back for a few weeks.”

“I’m barely keeping my shit together, Lorelei Louise Castle.”

“You’re going to bust out my full name?”

“I didn’t brush my hair after I showered, I’m wearing one of Bellamy’s Hello Kitty titty shirts because I forgot all my clothes at home, and the Latin Love Machine”—Lola and Mia have a bit of a thing for my dad—“kicked me out of the house until further notice. Get your ass to the Regal Beagle.”

She sighs. “Fine.”

Fred Furley opened Fred’s Bar in 1969, when he was only twenty-seven. Now he’s seventy-two, has been married (and divorced) six times, and loves my mother maybe only a fraction less than my father does. I celebrated my twenty-first birthday here, and Mr. Furley only let me have two shots. Perhaps relatedly, I went home sober and alone. He’s loosened up somewhat, but he still likes to play the role of father figure, which is probably why I’m so comfortable being here. Besides, it’s a way better regular hangout than a coffee shop because, hello, booze.

It took him about seven years to understand why my dad called the bar the Regal Beagle, but the name stuck even if Mr. Furley is nothing like the guy from Three’s Company. He’s calm, tanned, and fit and gives me almost anything I want.

Like Thursday Ladies Nights.

Ansel and Mia picked up Lola and Finn on their way over here, and they arrive around the same time Not-Joe stumbles from his beach cruiser, parking it haphazardly against the side of the building.

“Where’s Olls, Ollie, Olzifer?” I ask with a silly grin.

Lola pulls back, studying me. “Are you already drunk?”

“No. Just . . . in a weird mood.” And it’s true. I feel a little unsteady, like if I stop moving I’ll crack and the crazy will spill out onto the street like a pool of oil. “I’ll probably be better once I’m drunk, actually.”

“Oliver’s meeting us here,” Ansel says. He’s the only one who isn’t looking at me like my hair’s on fire and I’m full of nitroglycerin.

Finn is watching me, his eyes hidden by the brim of his hat. “You okay, Ginger Snap?”

I nod. “No.” I take his arm and use the opportunity to grope his bulgy-hot bicep. “Yes? I guess. Weird day?”

“I hear that,” he says, leading me inside.

Mr. Furley renovated the interior of Fred’s a few years back, but at my mother’s insistence he kept the décor almost exactly the same and just brought in new tables, chairs and booths, fresh paint, and flooring. Like I said, Fred loves Mom. Yet another reason to love this place: We have our own booth in the back corner with a RESERVED card keeping people out whenever we’re not here. The truth is, Fred’s is rarely busy enough for someone to try to snag our table, but the gesture still makes me feel like a bit of a badass.

We greet Mr. Furley, order our drinks, and head to the booth en masse. Finn follows, unsure.

“This seems very ritualistic,” he says, opting to lean against the side of the booth rather than sit next to me.

“You stay here long enough and you’ll get the routine down. It’s a little complicated, though.” I hold up my fingers and count off the steps for him: “You walk into the bar. You order whatever you want as you pass Fred over there. You then walk to this table.”

He nods slowly. “Walk, order, walk.”

“Good puppy.”

Finn surprises me by touching his thumb and forefinger to my chin and gazing down at me sweetly before turning to Ansel.

Our drinks show up, and we decide to order some food, and then Lola and I spend some time catching up in the comfort of the booth. She recently signed a contract with Dark Horse for a comic book series, and my first response, pre-Google, was “I’m so happy for you!”

My second response, post-Google, was to nearly crap myself. Although this happened almost as soon as we got back from Vegas, I still sometimes can’t get over what a big change this is going to be for her life. In only a few months, the press will start: She has some interviews, a couple of trips to little boutique shops, and then her baby, Razor Fish—for which she’s been drawing characters since she could hold a crayon—will be launched into the wild.

While we talk, Finn wanders back over, leaning against the booth and listening to the tail end of our catch-up.

I peek over his shoulder. “Your drink is empty.”

He shakes his glass, looking at the liquid sloshing over the ice. “No, I have a little left.”

“Oh, just mine is empty, then.” I hand it to him, eyes wide and innocent.

He laughs, taking the glass.

“Tell them to put it on my tab,” I call to him as he heads over to the bar.

Finn throws me a dirty look over his shoulder. “I got it.”

“Smooth, Mistress Vega,” Lola says, her eyebrows raised.

“Harlow Vega?” Not-Joe asks, blond brow quirked.

I nod, popping an olive into my mouth and repeating, “Harlow Vega,” around it.

“Did your parents ever want you to go to college, or did they plan for you to go straight to the pole?”

I cluck my tongue at him, licking my fingers. “Careful, Not-Joe. Your boner is showing.”

“Oh!” Not-Joe says, turning to Lola. “Speaking of boners. I’m excited for your book to be out and selling like crazy, and then at Comic Con it will be unreal. You’ll be in your chick author getup, strutting around. Wearing a sexy mask, and spand—”

“Are you high?” Lola asks.

I realize it’s rhetorical so it cracks me up when Not-Joe answers, “Well . . . yeah.”

“I’m not going to deep-throat a corn dog and then go make out with a bunch of chesty girls in Catwoman costumes just to show I can hang with the comic guys.”

Oliver chose this moment to arrive and looks a little stunned, eyes wide behind his thick frames. He stares at her, gaze softening with what clearly appears to be admiration. His speechless reaction makes me do a slight double take. Is quiet, sweet Oliver beginning to fancy Lola? I meet Mia’s wide eyes and can tell she’s wondering the exact same thing. Swear to God, if my head weren’t so fucked-up right now, I’d be all over getting these two together.