Chapter Ten #2
“I barely even tapped her. And you know I drive electric. It’s like, I hit one chick with my car, but I’m also saving the planet and
shit. It’s a wash, you know? Nah, dude, I’m at Erewhon. I went a little hard on the”—Ansel sniffed—“espresso martinis at Bird Streets last night, if you catch my drift.” He chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, I’m headed to the studio, just need to grab
something to, like, detox or shit. Fuck if I know. Mhmm. ’Kay, dude. See you.” He pocketed his phone and stepped up to the
register. “Yeah, gimme a Chagacinno with mucuna and CBD oil and—make sure it’s ceremonial matcha and not the culinary kind.
Okay, sweetheart?”
The fresh-faced barista took Ansel’s condescension in stride, scribbling his order down on two cups before punching it into
the register. “You can insert your card or tap whenever you’re ready.”
Ansel pulled a black American Express out of his wallet, tapped the card against the reader, hit the no tip button, and walked over to the pickup counter, all without so much as a thank-you.
What. A. Prick.
“What can I get for you?”
Poppy schooled her scowl into a smile as she stepped up to the register, placing an uncomplicated order for a Malibu Mango
smoothie and tipping double what she normally would to make up for Ansel the Asshole’s lack of gratuity.
She was minding her business, debating whether to try a spicy tuna sandwich or get the poke nachos when, to her right, Ansel
snapped his fingers.
“Hey, you.” He snapped his fingers again. “Do I know you?”
Her mouth dropped open. “Did you just snap at me?”
He squinted at her. “I swear you look familiar.”
“I guess I just have one of those faces.” She turned back to the cold bar, done with the conversation.
“No, no, I think I—” He started to laugh. “Oh shit. You’re Cash Curran’s assistant, aren’t you?”
“Publicist,” she gritted out. “I’m his publicist. Not his assistant.”
“That’s cool.” Ansel leaned his suntanned, sticker-tattooed forearms on the counter, angling his body toward her. “So, tell
me—how exactly is he enjoying my sloppy seconds?”
A vein in her temple began to pulse, her blood pressure rising. “You know what? You can go—” His phone was in his hand and
maybe Poppy was being paranoid, but the last thing she needed was for some video of her telling Ansel Daily to go fuck himself
to go viral. “You sound like a sore loser.”
“A sore loser?” He laughed. “That’s cute.” The barista set his disgusting-sounding, CBD-laden Chagacinno down in front of
him. “Tell Cash to enjoy his thirty seconds of fame while it lasts.” He turned, only to stop dead in his tracks. “Rosaline.”
“Ansel.” She stopped beside Poppy and smiled benignly, sweetly even. “I heard your tour got canceled. What a bummer for all
twelve of your fans.”
Ouch.
“Doesn’t it get exhausting?” He snatched his Chagacinno off the bar. “Always being such a cunt?”
Rosaline gave an effortless shrug and snatched Ansel’s basket off the floor, shoving it into his chest with a smile. “Why
do you think I drink cold brew?”
Ansel sneered, his shoulder knocking hard into Poppy’s as he stormed off in the direction of the checkout.
“I cannot believe Lyric actually dated him,” Poppy murmured.
“Ansel might be a mediocre drummer, but he’s a master manipulator and a narcissist.” Rosaline glared at Ansel’s retreating form. “As embarrassed as I am to admit it, he even had me snowed for a while.”
“Asshole.”
Rosaline hummed in agreement. “And karma’s a bitch,” she said sagely, taking Poppy’s hand. “Let’s go.”
“But my smoothie—”
“We’ll come back for it.” She started walking, pulling Poppy along. “Trust me.”
They joined the line for the register; at least half a dozen shoppers were behind Ansel, whose basket was now empty, his groceries
packed into two brown paper bags.
Poppy frowned at Rosaline. “What are we—”
“That’s not mine.” Ansel’s voice carried, loud enough that every head in the store swiveled in his direction.
The cashier, a guy with big arms and an even broader chest, held up a supplement bottle bearing a bright blue label, the words
Load Boost written in bold, unmissable neon yellow. “It was in your basket?”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t put it there.” Ansel snatched the bottle from the cashier’s hand. “Do I look like I need help with my”—he
flipped it around—“semen volume?”
The cashier stared. “I honestly don’t know how to answer that.”
“Well, I don’t,” Ansel snapped, glaring at several shoppers who had their phones out, recording his mini meltdown. “There’s
nothing wrong with my spunk, okay?”
Rosaline’s shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
“Wait.” Poppy gaped at her. “Did you—”
“Karma’s a bitch,” Rosaline repeated, waving at Ansel as he scowled at them from the front of the line. “I just happen to
be a bigger one.”
No “hard” feelings! Ansel Daily has a meltdown in Erewhon over male enhancement supplement
by Deuxmoi Editor
published on October 18
The Domestic Noir Plot drummer was spotted at Erewhon yesterday afternoon where, according to a regular at the Beverly Hills
location, he hit up the hot bar for Grass-Fed Korean Short Ribs and Garlic Miracle Noodles before heading over to the smoothie
bar for a Chagacinno. Also in his cart? Raw ranch kale chips, venison jerky, and . . . Load Boost?
According to multiple onlookers, Daily insisted the supplement that claims to increase ejaculation volume was added to his
cart by mistake.