Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
Feigning confidence, Evelyn pressed back her shoulders and storm-troopered her way over to the front doors.
David trailed after her. He counted three bouncers guarding the entrance, but the one that seemed to be in charge was a large bald man.
Standing over six feet tall, David found him reminiscent of Goliath.
A Goliath who guarded access to Wraith by determining who among the revelers could get past his red velvet rope.
“Excuse me,” Evelyn said, waving his attention downward. “Hello?”
Goliath’s eyes flicked down to her, then back to the street. Evelyn, however, was unfazed. Taking another deep breath, she tried again to grab the man’s attention.
“I realize this is a bit unusual,” she said, smiling sweetly.
“But my name is Evelyn Schwartz, and I’m actually the executive producer for A Christmas Carol.
” Goliath did not respond. “Okay, so the thing is . . . I’m actually here for Jared Sparks.
He asked me to come by and bring him some candy.
” She pointed to David. He held up the bags as evidence.
“So, if you would just do us a favor and let us enter your club for a moment, we’ll be happy to leave promptly after dropping these off. ”
Goliath scoffed. “Not a chance.”
“Well, that was very rude,” Evelyn said.
The bouncer ignored them, allowing two more women to enter the club instead. Evelyn huffed, annoyed. “Listen,” she said, trying again. “Could you just tell Jared Sparks we’re here? I’m certain that once he knows we’re outside—”
Goliath cut her off. “Look, lady. There’s no way you are getting in this club.”
“Why not?”
“For one,” he said, scanning both of their forms, “you’re old.”
“Excuse me,” Evelyn shrieked. “I am in my early thirties, thank you very much.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And you’re wearing khakis.”
Evelyn’s jaw fell open. “I got them on sale.”
“But really, the reason I’m not letting either of you in .
. . is because you—” he pointed toward Evelyn’s head “—you, in particular, remind me of this weird lady in pink fuzzy socks and a ball gown that once gave me the run around while working security at The Matzah Ball.” A shiver ran through the man. “Never again.”
Evelyn was at a loss. Her gaze fell downward to the sidewalk. One hand drifted up to her head—clearly, his ex-wife was struggling with a headache. “You don’t understand,” Evelyn pleaded. “It’s a . . . a . . .”
“It’s a life-and-death situation,” David said, interjecting.
“Sure,” Goliath said, disbelieving.
“I’m serious,” David said, making up the story as he went along. “I’m Jared Sparks’s medical physician, Dr. David Adler. I’m treating him while he’s in New York.”
“Treating him?” Goliath squinted curiously. “For what?”
David glanced over to Evelyn. Their eyes caught, and a pesky smile crossed her face. She twisted back to Goliath, taking over. “Well, obviously,” Evelyn said, sweeping away the question with a casual wave, “we can’t tell you.”
“Telling you would be a HIPAA violation,” David explained.
“A huge one.” Evelyn nodded emphatically. “We could all get sued. You, me, the club—but mainly you, obviously.”
“That would be terrible,” David piled on.
“So expensive, too,” Evelyn sighed dramatically.
Concern etched its way onto Goliath’s face. David moved in for the kill.
“The way I see it,” David said, handing the candy back to Evelyn dramatically. “You have two choices. Either you let us in . . . and I attend to Jared Sparks with my assistant here. Or Jared Sparks suffers a near lethal bout of horripilation . . .”
“Horr-what?” Goliath asked, concerned.
“Oh no!” Evelyn covered her mouth in mock shock.
“You let it slip. Now this poor bouncer man will be in for a lifetime of lawsuits.” She turned back to Goliath, feigning concern.
“I’m so sorry about that, by the way. But I want you to know that CBS7-T studios will do absolutely nothing to help offset legal fees or aid in your defense. ”
David bit back a smile. Obviously, that wasn’t how HIPAA worked.
Under American law, the bouncer had no legal liability when it came to confidential medical information.
Still, the threat was working. He could see that once stoic bouncer shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, growing more uncomfortable.
“My point being,” David said, stepping into him.
“There’s only one way to avoid being headline news tomorrow, known the whole world over as the man who denied admittance to Jared Sparks’s medical team .
. . and that’s by letting us inside, right now, without any more questions asked.
Plus, I’ll Venmo you one thousand dollars right now. ”
“David!” Evelyn shouted at him, and then leaned closer to whisper. “That’s a lot of money.”
“It’s fine,” he said, waving her concern away.
He was also fully planning to invoice Jared Sparks for the money.
David dug out his phone, opening the app for Venmo.
“I’m serious,” David repeated. “One thousand dollars. Cash. Right now. All you need to do is let us in. Like I said, it’s a life-and-death matter .
. . But you, sir, have the chance to be a hero. ”
Goliath considered the offer, and then, turning toward the red velvet rope, lifted it, allowing for entrance.
“Thank you,” Evelyn said, rushing past him. “Thank you so much!”
David, however, still wasn’t done. After sending the door behemoth his money, he leaned into the bouncer. “Just so you know . . . I happen to like her khaki pants.”
Evelyn could hardly hear herself think over the music. The thumping, the pounding, the neon strobe lights pulsating in angry beats and rhythms, all while another migraine was jazz-handing its way to a grand entrance against her skull.
David leaned in and shouted, “Where do you think he is?”
“No idea,” Evelyn screamed back. “Maybe the VIP area?”
He cupped a hand behind his ear. “What?”
“VIP,” she repeated. “V . . . I . . . P.”
He shrugged, palms up in the air. Great. David still couldn’t understand her.
“I’m going to look for him,” she said, motioning with her hands now while screaming. “Follow me.” She took his hand, placing it inside her pants pocket. “Don’t get lost.”
He grabbed onto the cloth, and they began, snaking their way through the first floor, past long rows of bars under neon blue lighting, and a man gyrating in a cage while wearing the head of a unicorn costume.
All of which should have been more distracting than the feeling of David’s hand, his fingertips, rubbing against her upper hip and thigh.
Plus, every time she wanted to avoid getting elbowed in the face by someone, she had to stop abruptly.
David’s body would bump against hers, and then, with nowhere else to go, linger there, pressed up against her.
The whole thing felt entirely too intimate.
And yet, it was also weirdly satisfying.
She was, clearly, losing her mind, and she blamed any faltering of her will on an increasingly painful migraine.
Thank God, after all that rubbing and touching, she spotted Jared Sparks cordoned off in the VIP area on the third floor.
He was having a grand ole time. Shirt missing, shoes off, surrounded by a bevy of what appeared to her to be a very discerning entourage of models, eccentric-looking artist types and tech bros.
It wasn’t so much his proclivities that frustrated her.
It was that he was hosting this party on a work night.
With only two days left—one of them being the morning of broadcast—she expected the man to be in bed, resting up for the most important live-action production of her life.
Evelyn saw red. Despite the extremely large man guarding the access point, she stomped her way right over—five bags of candy still pressed against her chest.
“Evelyn,” Jared shouted, motioning at the bouncer to let her through. “What took you so long?”
Evelyn chucked the bags of candy at his chest. “Your candy.”
Jared was unfazed. Instead, his gaze drifted from Evelyn to David. “Oh!” Jared said, clearly delighted. “You brought David, too. I’m so glad. You know, I was just telling my friends here about you two.”
She didn’t have time for this. She also was long past the point of hiding her annoyance.
Her head was killing her. Jared was definitely not sober . . . and she was having intrusive sexual thoughts about her ex-husband. This night needed to be finished. “You need to go home,” Evelyn said, picking up a tequila bottle and holding it hostage. “Now.”
She searched for a waitress—or anyone, really, other than Jared Sparks—to give the alcohol to. The problem was, while everyone else at the table quieted, gathered around like eager little devils in this bacchanalian vision of a Fellini masterpiece, Jared was full-on oblivious.
He squinted in Evelyn’s direction. “Right . . . so, you want a drink, then?”
“No, Jared . . . I do not want a drink.”
“Heroin, then?” he asked with the innocence of a small child.
She couldn’t believe it. How could someone so talented be such a royal British shite? Bile began building up in the back of her throat.
“What I want is for you,” she said, her fury building, “to take this live-action production of A Christmas Carol seriously. What I want is for you to go home, sober up and get some sleep, so you can arrive to set tomorrow bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and wearing a freaking shirt! Because you are under contract, and we have paid you a lot.”
His face remained frozen in that squinty but totally confused position. “So, you don’t want any heroin?”
She threw her hands up.