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I grab my purse from my chair and head for the door, stopping to grab another martini for the walk over.

"Of course, he broke up with her," Ashlyn says to Lauren. "Look at her. No serious man is going to want to be with a girl like that, especially not a surgeon."

I begin playing my favorite game again in my head.

The knife in my cleavage, a fork to the jugular. I could grab a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar, pour it over her head, and knock over one of those stupid candlestick holders she picked out and watch her burn.

Or I could shove them down her throat.

I saw a documentary once about a woman who killed a man with a high-heeled shoe, but that would probably take a while, and someone would intervene before I could finish her off.

There's a riptide, and I'm stronger than her.

But I have to be on my best behavior. Unfortunately,mybest still isn't good.

Instead of addressing her comment, I look at her husband.

"You need to fuck her better," I tell him. "You're clearly not doing a good enough job, and to be honest, you're already outkicking your coverage. Fuck her better—for all of our sakes. I'm tired of her fucking attitude." Next, I turn to Ashlyn, adding on my way out the door, "You're welcome. I hope your night improves."

I don't stick around for whatever happens next.

I walk to the cabana on the far side of the building, where I'm way overdressed, and pull up a seat at the bar.

"What can I get you?" the young bartender asks.

"Better stick with a martini at this point," I tell him. "I don't want to mix too many poisons, you know?"

"Are you here for the wedding?" he asks as he takes a glass from the shelf.

"That and my funeral," I tell him.

"What? Are you in love with the groom or something?"

"No, nothing like that," I say. "Hey, can you do something for me?"

"Depends."

"I'm in the market for a new name. What would you name me? Who do I look like I should be?"

"Can I give you a Spanish name?" he asks.

I shrug. "Sure. Why not? Maybe that's my problem—I've been limiting myself."

"Lourdes," he says.

"Lourdes," I repeat, sipping my drink. "I like it. Why?"

"It was my grandmother's name."

"What was she like?"

He laughs. "Very smart," he says. "But very mean. She was a tough woman—you look tough, too. No one ever messed with her; she'd kill them."

"Really?" I ask. "She killed people?"

"No, notreally,"he says, appalled. "You think my grandmother wasactuallya murderer? What are you trying to say?"

"What are you trying to say?" I ask. "You think women can't kill people?"