Chapter 11
Eleven
“The drumming of the waves against my skin, enough to form a fire within.”
—“To Troy,” The Wooden Horse, Act One
Sherrie threw back a bright green shot of unidentified alcohol, then let out a screech as she slammed the empty glass down
onto the table. Her hair shone under the disco ball twirling above their heads, the glitter spray she’d doused herself in
picking up every ounce of light. She licked her deep-purple lips, the color staying put despite the amount of times they’d
been swiped against a glass already, then she reached across her chair for Jonah and pulled him close to her face. For the
briefest of moments, he thought she might kiss him.
“You know,” she slurred, placing her finger over his lips to stop him from speaking. “It’s your turn to get a round in.” It
wasn’t his turn. In fact, he’d got the last two drinks for her. But he didn’t have the energy to complain, especially as they
were celebrating her birthday.
“What can I get you?”
Sherrie hummed, then slumped in her chair, her arm falling from Jonah. “Just a bottle of gin, darling.”
Bastien, who seemed determined to sniff every two seconds, making Jonah believe he still wasn’t over the flu, shook his head
and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Sherrie,” he said, voice light, joyful, as if speaking to a child. “I think you might
have to go home soon, don’t you?”
Sherrie sat up abruptly, like a puppet whose strings were pulled, and smacked his hand away from her. “Don’t give me the sad-drunk-girl voice,” she said, her words blending into each other. “I’m here to get pissed, and if you’re not gonna support me in that, then you can go home, Bastien.”
“Drinks?” Omari said, returning from the bar with a black tray in hand filled with shots. He placed it down on the table,
and the unmistakable scent of aniseed invaded Jonah’s nostrils. Sherrie reached for a glass, her hand missing it so her fingers
dipped into the top of the alcohol, before getting it the second time and throwing it down her throat with ease.
Bastien narrowed his eyes at Omari, who gave a nonchalant shrug in response. “It’s her birthday,” he said and took a shot
himself. “And they’re from Dexter, not me.” He nodded his head toward the bar, where Jonah saw Dexter standing and talking
with a woman he didn’t recognize.
He hadn’t shown himself after the evening show; Jonah didn’t see him lurking around backstage or continuing to lap up praise
from stage door despite not being part of the performance. Jonah relaxed, thinking Dexter might skip Sherrie’s birthday drinks,
but of course he showed up, ordering a tray of sambuca no less. The podcast they did kept replaying in Jonah’s mind. The falseness
of it turned his stomach, and Dexter’s overly friendly gestures and the pet names falling from his lips only made his mood
curdle.
Dexter finished up his conversation at the bar, then made his way over to their table. Other members of the production greeted
him as he went, but his attention seemed fixed on Sherrie as he approached. Jonah couldn’t stop himself from looking him up
and down, not checking him out, definitely not checking him out, but rather not-so-subtly judging his attire. Like usual,
he wore something a mother might dress her child in if they were ludicrously rich and called Cyril or Cuthbert. Chinos, cream,
cut off at the ankle again, but this time white socks poked out of ugly brown shoes that went into points at the toe. Yet
again a white shirt covered his torso, hidden beneath another jumper, and Jonah stared at it as the man drew closer. Instead
of a small bear with a bowtie on the breast pocket, or an abstract kite, this stunning piece of couture bore the face of an
embroidered Golden Labrador. It was the single most hideous thing Jonah ever had the displeasure of seeing. Even worse than
some of the questionably infected dick pics clogging up his FullStack inbox.
“Fucking hell,” Bastien said under his breath as he leaned close to Jonah. “He looks like a knockoff Prince Harry.”
“Don’t be mean. Prince Harry would never wear something so rancid,” Jonah said, reaching for a shot to down before Dexter
got to the table.
“Happy birthday, Sherrie,” Dexter said, a wide smile across his lips that didn’t look pink like usual, but red, deep red,
as if stained by the petals of a rose. “Thank you for inviting me.” He took the vacant seat next to Jonah.
“Nice jumper.” Jonah spoke without thinking, the sambuca giving him a momentary rush of confidence.
Dexter narrowed his eyes at him, then wiped his hand across the front of the dog’s face. “Yes. It’s Piniquo.”
“Piniquo?”
“Yes.” Dexter frowned. “Very high-end designer, I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it. This piece was a limited run for
the fall collection last year.”
Jonah raised an eyebrow and allowed a smirk to form on his lips. “Piece? It’s a jumper, Dexter. And you mean to tell me you
paid for this? It wasn’t forced on to you by relative?”
Dexter picked up a shot and drank it before grimacing slightly. Of course he couldn’t handle sambuca. The absolute wet wipe.
“That’s rich coming from someone who looks like they’ve raided their grandfather’s wardrobe.”
Jonah looked down at his own clothes. Black cotton trousers, oversized, nice, they made his arse look great, and a black shirt
buttoned to his navel to reveal a black T-shirt underneath. Then, to finish his rather perfect ensemble, a beige cardigan
that, yes, perhaps a grandad might enjoy, but who in their right mind didn’t like a good cardigan?
“You both look abso-bloody-amazing,” Sherrie gushed, empty shot glass in her hand, and Jonah couldn’t tell if it was the one
from earlier or if she’d drank another. “I should know, I’m a fashion queen.”
“I don’t know if those are fashionable,” Bastien said, and gestured to the pink jelly shoes on her feet. “My sister used to
wear those when we were kids.”
Sherrie swallowed thickly and gave a sambuca-filled gurgle. “Then she was bloody cool, Bash. Anyway,” she said as she narrowed her eyes at Dexter. “Romana has been at rehearsals, right? You’ve seen her? Has she said anything about me?”
“Oh, give it a rest, Sherrie,” Omari groaned before taking a sip of a glass of water. Apparently one shot was enough for him.
“She’s clearly not interested.”
“That’s not true,” she whined. “She was interested when I had my head between her legs.”
“Sherrie!” Omari screeched, raising his hands defense. “I do not need to know where your head has been.”
“Champagne?” The welcome distraction came courtesy of the sound technicians, who, after bringing three bottles to the table
and taking up the rest of the chairs, admitted it wasn’t champagne but some cheap knockoff that tasted the same. Sherrie didn’t
seem to care, and she swayed in her seat, champagne flute in hand and a glazed-over expression on her face. Gold-colored bubbles
danced across their tongues as the music got heavier, the beat louder and louder until Bastien pulled them to their feet and
dragged whoever he could onto the dance floor.
At some point, Dexter took his jumper off and tied it round his waist and loosened three of the buttons on his shirt, his
blond hair sticking to his forehead as he danced with Sherrie, their bodies flickering beneath the disco ball. Jonah wasn’t
watching him. He certainly wasn’t watching the way his hips moved and didn’t marvel at how big his hands looked splayed across
the small of Sherrie’s back. And Jonah certainly wasn’t looking at the flash of exposed skin on his chest, because, actually,
wait, no, he totally was. Jonah drank more, deciding that if he must socialize with Dexter, then he needed to be completely
smashed to do so, and if he were drunk, he wouldn’t remember feeling a weird sense of attraction to him in the morning. He
leaned against the bar and watched as his cocktail pitcher was mixed before him. Vodka. Peach schnapps. Cranberry juice. Bloody
delightful.
“You’re so fucking gay.” Bastien laughed as he sidled up beside him.
Jonah laughed before placing a hand over his heart and gasping, feigning shock. “No way? Am I?”
“We are drowning in beer and shots and you’re over here ordering a pitcher of . . . what is that? Woo Woo?”
Jonah nodded, impressed. “It is a Woo Woo.”
“You’re getting two glasses, right? We’re gonna share?”
“No, babe,” Jonah said, taking the pitcher from the bartender then grabbing a straw to dunk in it. “This big gay drink is
all for me.” He ignored Bastien’s pout and hugged the glass pitcher to his chest as he sucked on the straw. A man from across
the bar looked over at him—neatly trimmed beard, long hair tied back into a bun—and Jonah could feel the stirrings of attraction
brewing, an attraction he hadn’t experienced since Edward dumped him.
“Hello?” Bastien shouted in his face, waving his hand to get his attention. “Don’t zone out on me just because there’s a hot
guy. You promised you would dance with me.”
“Dexter’s dancing,” Jonah said, nodding toward the tall blond surrounded by the rest of the cast on the dance floor. “Go dance
with him.”
Bastien made a retching sound from the back of his throat. “Oh, get the hell over it. He’s fine. A bit . . . standoffish,
but totally fine. Plus . . . God, he’s hot, isn’t he?”
Jonah scowled as he looked at his friend. “Stop it. You’re practically drooling. The guy wears embroidered dog jumpers out
of choice. And you have a boyfriend.”
“Doesn’t stop me from looking, though, does it?” Bastien grinned and shimmied his shoulders in what Jonah could only assume
he meant to be a seductive move. When Jonah didn’t give him the praise he clearly felt he deserved after his impromptu dance,
Bastien shuffled his way back to the others, and Sherrie draped herself over him as she swayed to the music.