Chapter Five
H is mouth tasted like a Russian and a Spaniard had fought over a rotten orange and lost. As Miles gradually fell towards consciousness, he knew only one thing: he’d never be able to drink White Russians or Spanish Coffees ever again.
For a split second, that was something to seriously mourn.
And then it all came roaring back: the fight, the drive back to Napa, the wine and bitch session with his friends, and then the email from hell.
Followed by the faux Kahlua and the fake orange liquor and what he was pretty sure was a drag of shame into the bathroom.
Yep, Miles realized, that was definitely the edge of the toilet his face was resting on. It was a good thing too, because as soon as he got ambitious enough to open one sleep-crusted eye, he got instantly, horrifically sick.
Miles wiped his mouth and settled back on the toilet seat, which thanks to Xander’s OCD tendencies, was spotless. It was also a whole lot more comfortable than he’d imagined. And conveniently close to the toilet bowl, which might be making another rapid appearance in his life at any moment.
Why had he come here? He’d known his life here was done—even if the friendships weren’t.
Had he come so his best friends could plump his ego, even though they’d never done it before?
Had he come here so they could clean his wounds?
Salve his pride? He wasn’t sure, though he knew the decision to get drunk and write the email had been the worst of the bunch.
Never mind that he’d never intended to send it.
It was enough that he’d written it, spelling errors and odes to Evan’s ass and all.
And now Evan had most likely already seen it.
The thought was enough to send him back to the toilet, retching helplessly because he’d already thrown most of his stomach up already.
He was fucked, and not even in the fun way.
A brisk knock sounded on the door. He ignored it. He wasn’t in any mood for Xander’s resigned “you’ve fucked up your life” bullshit.
“What?” Miles croaked when they didn’t go away but instead knocked again, with way more determination. Definitely more determination than Miles felt. He was only determined not to die, and it was feeling pretty touch and go at the moment.
“Miles, are you okay?” It was Kian, and he sounded a hell of a lot more sympathetic than Miles deserved. As far as he was concerned, he wasn’t worthy of any of it.
“No,” he croaked. Might as well be honest.
“Open the door,” Kian said.
“You open it,” Miles retorted.
“You locked it, you idiot.” That was Wyatt, who was even more protective over Kian than Miles was. “There’s someone here to see you.”
It was probably Reed, here to fire Miles and demand all his signing bonus back. Some of which he’d already spent on a stupid rental car to come up here and bitch at his friends about how hard he had it. Miles wanted to vomit again, but nothing came. Somehow that felt like the final indignity.
“He’s wearing a bow tie, Miles.”
Oh god. Even worse. Evan had come here in person. Probably after reading the email. He was definitely here to commit a murder on the parts of Miles that weren’t already dead, and he wasn’t sure his friends would be inclined to stop him.
Then Miles remembered the kiss, and wondered if he could stay in here forever. He didn’t know if he could face Evan, considering what he’d done and then what he’d said.
But Miles knew he should drag himself off the floor and give Evan an opportunity for the murdering to begin.
It was a several-minutes-long process, gently and carefully unfolding his aching body from the position over the toilet, and then hefting himself up using the counter.
He flipped on the light and only screamed a little bit, either at the brightness or the horrible image the mirror confronted him with.
He stole Xander’s toothbrush and splashed some water on his face, and tried to fix his hair. It was a useless exercise, but Miles guessed it didn’t really matter anyway. Nobody would care what his hair looked like when he was dead.
Unlocking the door, Miles braced himself, but it was only Kian standing outside, a worried crease between his brows. “What are you doing?” Kian hissed.
“I wish I knew,” he admitted.
“Well, figure your shit out. Your partner you just insulted ten ways from Sunday is here.”
“How did he even get here so fast?” Miles wondered, even though the thinking hurt his brain. It could only be mid-morning because Kian hadn’t left for Terroir yet.
Kian just shrugged. “He’s in the kitchen.”
Miles gingerly felt his way to the kitchen, and when he arrived, was ironically confronted by a vision of what he’d just insulted—or praised. He wasn’t sure. But there Evan was, back to him, in another pair of those tight khakis.
It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair.
“So this is where the magic all began,” Evan said without turning. Miles didn’t think he was a particularly heavy breather, but maybe Evan had sold his soul for magic powers so he could kill Miles and get away with it.
“I’m not sure it was very magical,” Miles said, and all of a sudden he didn’t know if they were talking about Pastry by Miles or their kiss.
He took a breath and tried to steady himself.
He wanted to cry and apologize and tell Evan just how sorry he was, but there was something deep inside holding it all back.
Pride? Ego? Shame? “How did you even know I was here?”
“You used your corporate credit card, it wasn’t very hard to track you,” Evan said, and there was a hint of a sneer in his tone.
Like Miles must be incredibly stupid to not be able to keep his credit cards straight—and Miles thought he was probably right.
It was stupid and would have topped his most embarrassing list, if not for the email.
That was going to win for a very long time. Possibly forever.
Evan turned around. “God,” he said, and there was definitely an audible sneer now, “you look even worse than you smell.”
“Thanks,” Miles said stiffly.
If he had any embarrassment left, he'd be cringing right now.
"I guess Reed sent you up to fire me," Miles said, uncomfortable with even vaguely referring to the email.
He'd already been rightly accused of being unprofessional; he didn’t even know what this behavior was.
A complete aberration. A panic-induced, ego-driven freak-out.
But no, that wasn't even right, because if his ego was where it was supposed to be, he would have spent this morning working to contradict Evan's words, not support them.
Evan ignored the reference. "I came here to get you, not to fire you," he said. "We have work to do, and you're not where you're supposed to be."
It was even tougher to face Evan, knowing he was right. Maybe not on every count, but on every count that mattered. Sure Evan shouldn't have gone blabbing to Reed, and maybe he should have shared his plans in a less autocratic way, but he'd at least been trying to work out some sort of compromise.
What had Miles been trying to do? Get drunk and write an ode to how much he hated Evan's face but loved his ass?
"Okay," Miles said.
Evan looked skeptical. "Just . . . okay? No arguments?"
"Some . . . discussion can be good for creativity.
But you're right, I'm not where I'm supposed to be.
" Miles had definitely learned that during this little unplanned trip.
He was done in Napa, at least for now. He still wasn't a hundred percent convinced he was supposed to be at Five Points either, but he'd given his word, and that had used to mean something to Miles.
So he'd go back and no matter how daunting it was for Miles to try to live up to Evan's Joan of Arc Julia Child label, he'd give it his best shot. Basic cooperation was the least he could do after how he'd just insulted Evan.
It turned out part of how Evan had gotten here so quickly was that he hadn't driven.
"What's this?" Miles asked, as the black Lincoln pulled into one of the side private airstrips by the Napa airport.
With a quick phone call, Evan had efficiently arranged for Miles' rental to be picked up and for their travel arrangements.
Miles hadn't been listening because he'd still been trying not to vomit.
He'd sort of assumed Evan had come up overnight using the car service so he could grab a few hours of sleep.
Apparently not. Miles knew that he had to stop assuming things when it came to Evan, because each wrong assumption was growing more embarrassing, and he didn't have any extra to spare.
"A favor," Evan said succinctly as the car stopped in front of a small white jet.
The driver grabbed their bags from the trunk and followed Evan and Miles to the small set of stairs leading to the aircraft.
"What, no check-in? No ticketing gate?" Miles knew he sounded stupid, but Evan's calm silence, which had lasted from their departure from the rental house to the present was nerve-wracking. He couldn't tell when Evan was going to finally explode and tell him off for the things he'd said.
Evan stayed quiet, and climbed the stairs. The captain was waiting for them at the top, dressed in a navy-blue uniform. It was only then that Miles glimpsed an insignia featuring a fish with particularly nasty teeth on his breast pocket. And he realized whose jet this must be.
Embarrassment felt like a mild word in comparison to what he felt now. He'd heard rumors that someone in the upper management of Five Points was married to Colin O'Connor, the famous Miami Piranhas quarterback, but since he didn't really follow sports, he'd assumed those were just rumors.
He'd been so wrong. He and Evan were currently ensconced in comfortable blue-and-white-striped seats with tiny light-blue piranhas woven right into the fabric.
"None of the above," Evan finally said with satisfaction as he took in Miles' stupefied expression. "First class all the way."