The First and Last Chance Saloon is an Oakland landmark. Small, dark, dingy, with history oozing out of its blackened walls like blood from a corpse. The place is crafted from the timbers of an old whaling ship, and its floors are sunken at such an angle that the table legs had to be amputated to accommodate the slant. The old wooden clock has been stopped at 5:18 since the 1906 earthquake.

I'm sure there's an apt metaphor in there about college grads celebrating the future in a bar that is literally stopped in time, but we're three pitchers of beer in, and I've killed way too many brain cells to care.

Clary, a few friends from her architecture classes, and I huddle around a small rickety table. Don't ask me her friends' names because I'm clueless. Sure, Clary's probably told me about seventeen times, but memorizing names is honestly way too much work. Everyone I meet should be required to wear nametags or maybe those cute name necklaces.

My annoyingly gorgeous roommate is in her usual plaid mini with ripped fishnets and black Docs. I know you're dying to know whether I washed my sexy black dress, and the answer is, of course. I wouldn't be seen dead at a bar in a non-sexy outfit.

Jacob's gone to the bar for more drinks and the architecture crowd is arguing about hydraulics, causing my eyes to glaze over.

My head is already swimming when Jacob returns to the table with a pitcher of strawberry margaritas. Part of me thinks I should stop drinking, so I grab my Swiss army knife, and snip off that part, before accepting a glass and chugging so hard, my brain freezes.

"Argghhh!" I scream like a pirate. You'd think I'd know better since my Great-Grandfather Blatz literally died of brain freeze because he ate too much ice cream at a single sitting.*

At least the hydraulics conversation ceases. Why had I never thought of this tactic as a good way to end boring conversations? Must remember in the future.

Jacob pats my bare back. "You okay, Ani?"

"Brain freeze," I gasp through a frozen windpipe. "I'm fine. Really." The architects go back to their animated discussion, and Jacob's icy margarita-holding hand rests against my back.

"I'm fine," I repeat, shrugging my shoulders.

The hand does not move. I reach behind and swipe it away.

"So, Ani," Jacob yells in my ear to be heard over the din, pretending I hadn't just slapped his hand away. He smells like beer and desperation. "Whatcha gonna do this summer?" he slurs. Maybe I should drink his margarita too, so he doesn't get too drunk and end up in jail, or worse. I am a good friend! But maybe I'll drink it slower this time.

"I've got a job in the city," I say, grabbing his glass and sipping. He does nothing to stop me.

"Doing what?"

"I'm working for Crispin Shades," I say, not mentioning I'm only a dogsitter.

"The millionaire?"

"Billionaire."

"The dude without the ... uh ... shirt in GQ and Men's Weekly and The Economist?"

I shrug my shoulders. If I didn't have time for sex during college, I certainly didn't have time for boring magazines.

Jacob's eyes are hooded. "So, whas he like?"

"Emotionally unavailable, dark past, enigmatic, great abs."

"You saw his abs?"

"Duh, hasn't everyone?"

"You mean in the magazines? I think mine are jhustas good."

"I admire yours, Jacob. But Crispin's are ... otherworldly. Magnificent."

"Magazines photoshop," he spits.

"I've seen them in person. Turns out Crispin never wears a shirt. Poor guy, I think he's too busy amassing his billions to go shopping, but I could rectify that. I might even help with overcoming his dark past and tame him into being a well-rounded, emotionally healthy husband and father."

"Like you can rescue the poor, poor lonely billionaire?" Jacob scoffs.

I purse my lips and shake my head. That's what clumsy, sex-deprived, gold-hearted, pert-breasted women who don't know they're beautiful do. We rescue billionaires. But I don't bother explaining this to Jacob because he'll never understand. And I really need to pee. I grab my purse. "Gotta use the restroom," I announce to the table.

Turns out standing isn't such a great idea. My head spins and my stomach lurches. I imagine the beer and margarita combo in there is like a storm-tossed sea. I grab the table edge to steady myself.

"Want me to come with you?" Clary asks, as is required by female law. But she's having fun, plus I don't need her looking over my shoulder when I inevitably decide to do something stupid.

"I can help," Jacob says pathetically. As if a dude can accompany a lady to the restroom. Unheard of!

I place my hand on his shoulder. "Stay," I command. He stays. "Thanks guys, but I'll be right back."

Jacob pouts; Clary nods, but I can feel their gazes on my back the whole time, as I stagger between the crush of people.

***

The line to the restroom is long. Bored, I pull out my phone. Of all the people I could call, who would be the dumbest? I could call the admissions department at UC Davis Veterinary School and tell them I'm drunk and also clumsy. Naw. Or I could call my neglectful, self-absorbed mom and totally make her worry about me. But she's probably in Cabo with the latest new boyfriend, and I'm too drunk to calculate time zones.

Ooooh! I know. I'll call Crispin.

I dial and wait, sure he won't pick up. He has more important stuff to do than talk to his dogsitter.

"Anesthesia?" My heart melts a little that he knows it's me. He must've done his possessive stalkery billionaire research to find out my number.

"Why'd you send me those books?" I manage to say. I think I've done a pretty good job not sounding drunk.

"You're drunk, Anesthesia."

I giggle. "You talk like my dad."

"Where are you?" he says, all dark and sexy and dominatingly. My cheeks flush. My internal goddess bites her lip.

"Crispin, I asked you first. Why did you send me a new version of the book and then a first edition?"

"You don't sound right. Tell me where you are," he growls.

"No," I laugh. It's so fun making him angry, I wonder if I can have this added in my job description.

"I swear to god, Anesthesia. I will find you."

"Stalker much," I tease, and hit the red button, disconnecting the call.

After about a hundred years, I finally make it to a toilet stall. I'm having the longest pee of my life when I hear the unmistakable throp throp throp of a helicopter approaching.

Some billionaires really lack imagination.

***

And there you have it once again. Another chapter of 50 Degrees of Shade for the history books. Please vote, comment, and follow and all that good stuff. Don't make me track you down in my helicopter!

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Also, The First and Last Chance Saloon is a real place. It's got a long history in the Bay Area and was a place frequented by Jack London. Google it if you want to learn more.

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*This is based on a true story that my dear friend has kindly allowed me to use. The legend goes that Great-Grandfather Blatz died of brain freeze because he ate too much ice cream at a single sitting. He was a beer baron, famous for being able to consume 21 steins of beer without getting drunk.