Dean was around the same age as me, a few years older. Coming straight from grad school with a masters in reinvigorating the world to give a fuck about homeless and runaways, he had an axe to grind and an agenda to save the world. He liked to cut loose. You had to in our profession because burn-out had the highest success rate, but seeing him this tricked out had that bee flying sideways. He didn’t know if he was in my bonnet or my hair braids.
Then I remembered; Dean was a hockey fan.
I was, too, but I kept my undying adoration on the down-low like a lot of things.
Not Dean. He was out of the closet and loud and proud about his love for the Kansas City Mustangs. He also turned traitor and was a Cans fan, as well as the Polars （boo, hiss）， but both those teams weren’t in this current building or city. So yeah, it made sense now. He was geeking out on the full freak-out reader.
That, and I was wondering how much champagne he had already consumed because he just downed both those two flutes in front of me. He was so drunk that my own lit meter was heading down into the empty zone. Not cool. Not cool, indeed, and where were my girls?
Just then, I saw one of them.
And my lit meter skyrocketed right into the red zone.
The crowd parted. I had a clear view right smack to the bar, and there she was. And she wasn’t alone.
Sasha had her sultry and seductive pose out, clearly liking what she saw, gazing up at him.
Keep reading for the rest of The Not-Outcast!