Chapter 2 #3
This shuffling retreat stops. “Meditation?”
“Yeah.” I uncover my eyes. “Two very distinct situations that might have looked like something else.”
“And your pants?” He gestures at my torso, eyes firmly on the ceiling.
Oh, for fuck’s sake… My jeans are still unbuttoned.
“Also a meditation thing. Comfort,” I babble, rebuttoning. “Helps me reach a higher state of relaxation.”
“Cool.”
Silence descends. I completely blank on anything to say.
“Um,” Davis clears his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing under the ink. “I, ah, just came here to tell you Ada’s getting that stag party to play Waterfall.”
“Oh God,” I mutter.
Waterfall means a circle of people pulling cards from a deck and racing drinks according to the numbers, with the first to fail made to do either a shot or a dare. Ada only starts games of Waterfall when she’s trying to ruin someone. Or many someones. “Is she playing?”
“Nope, she talked them into doing it. She’s dealing the cards, though.”
“Shit. Why?”
“Boredom?”
That doesn’t make sense. Ada would rather pull out her own teeth than drink with the stag guys. Which means she must have a plan in the works.
I get to my feet. People—men—always underestimate Ada.
She’s tiny and looks like baby Monica Bellucci, and when she turns on the charm, few can resist. But under the surface, she’s pure steel.
She also knows how to count cards and do sleight of hand, and has used said skills to great effect during drinking games since our early twenties.
She’s also got a serious axe to grind with the boys from Pukekohe High, and an Ada out for revenge is a live grenade.
I make tracks for the door, Davis in hot pursuit.
“Want me to chuck the guys out?” he asks.
“No. I’ll flash Ada the bat signal. Get her back here. You’re sure she wasn’t drinking with them?”
“Nope.”
I don’t know why I asked. Alcohol isn’t the issue.
Ada can handle her liquor like nobody I’ve ever met.
People might be surprised to learn classical musicians drink almost as hard as rock stars, but they do.
And Ada is a rock star on the classical circuit.
She co-wrote a Christmas banger three years ago that basically makes her the orchestral Mariah Carey.
She gets the kind of reactions from upper-crust crowds that you’d expect from normal people about the love child of Taylor Swift and all four Beatles.
Not that anyone around here would know. I might be trying to class up Afterglow, but even glamorous bars aren’t known for their flute appreciation. And Ada never talks about her music anymore. Even with me.
I re-enter the main bar, and sure enough, my best friend is sitting like a queen among drunken jesters in the centre booth, a deck of playing cards and empty shot glasses spread around her. Half the stags are now bare-chested, their red faces and sweaty brows revealing they’re beyond wankered.
Except for Jake. He’s sitting a few feet away, watching Ada like she’s the birthday present he’s been waiting all year to unwrap.
Ada flips a card over and grins. “That’s six again, boys.”
The guys groan theatrically, pounding one fist on the table as they raise their pints to their gaping maws. The main stag—Henry Bellinger—has Ada’s name written across his chest in lipstick.
“Christ,” I moan. “Ada!”
She doesn’t hear me over the Vengaboys, just sips her margarita with the calm blankness I’ve come to recognise the past few months.
There’s a lot about Ada that seems blank now, and not just because of her steady Mexican agave intake.
Since she broke up with Name Forever Redacted, she’s been floating.
She floated into my spare bedroom, and now she floats around the bar, floats through her days.
Most people wouldn’t notice. Ada’s allure as a musician and a person has always been the sense that she’s slightly untouchable.
But I always notice, and she’s never been like this before.
There’s a hopelessness hovering beneath her calm, a detachment I can’t connect to.
But as much as I love and want to support my best friend, I can’t let her commit more homicides in my already flailing murder bar.
“I can 86 them,” Davis repeats. “It’s been ages since you let me kick someone out.”
“That’s because deep down you hate being the bad guy. Besides, I need the money.” I flash him a reassuring smile. “I’ve got this.”
He frowns but lets me walk to the booth alone.
“Hey, Addy,” I say, flashing her a smile.
“Hey, Cee.”
Ada’s tone is light, but expressionless. A sure warning sign.
“Can I borrow you a moment?”
The table erupts in boos.
“Not Ada!” Henry Bellinger begs. “We love her. And she’s the only one who knows all the rules!”
Obviously. Nobody who knows Waterfall plays it on purpose. Still, the ‘We love her’ line has me widening my eyes at Ada. She smiles sunnily back at me like a sex robot returned to factory settings. Like she doesn’t remember Henry Bellinger once told her she’d make a great cum dumpster.
“Come on,” I tell Ada. “I really need your help.”
She stands, her fake-smile firmly in place. “Sure. Can you please let me past, Henry?”
“Aw, don’t go, Ayyyyhdaaaahh,” Henry whines, running his fingers through the ends of her long, dark hair like he’s fucking Hamlet or something.
“Hands,” Jake barks from his chair. “And get moving.”
Henry sulkily lets go of Ada’s hair and steps out of the booth to let her pass. As she exits, desire sharpens every feature on Jake’s face. He looks like he wants to devour her.
No more discounted drinks for you, buddy.
Ada follows me to my office willingly enough, slumping into my spare chair, a cloud of white, mint-flavoured smoke haloing her face as she draws on her vape.
“Okay, Mastermind,” I say, shutting the door. “What’s the game?”
Ada grins up at me. A real smile this time. “I’m gonna fuck them up good. Full Jonestown these idiots.”
I groan, snatching the vape out of her hand and taking a drag. “Why? I mean, I know why, but why?”
“Because they’ve got it coming.” Ada holds out her hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll stop short of actual murder. Probably.”
I take another hit off the vape and lift it over my head so she can’t reach it. As long as I have her Ice Mint ElfBar, Ada won’t resume her destruction. Unless she’s got another one in her shorts…
“As if you care,” Ada says, straining her fingers for the vape. “Every dude in that booth is a class-A cunt, and you know it.”
“Not all of them! Jake’s nice.”
“Who?”
I squint at Ada. She doesn’t seem to be joking.
“Jake Graves-Holland?” I say. “He was in our year at school?”
“What kind of a name is that?”
“A famous name! He’s an All Black!”
Ada rolls her eyes. As an Australian, her appreciation for the All Blacks has always been below even the most rugby-disinterested Kiwi. “Good for him.”
I gape at her. “You really don’t remember Jake? He was the most popular guy in our year.”
“Hate to tell ya, Cee, but I spent the majority of my time at Pukekohe High in a fugue state. If you didn’t personally bully me, your face was pretty much walls.”
My stomach swoops. Just hearing the word ‘school’ reminds me of Will Sharpe. I glance at my now-closed laptop and wince at the memory of Davis catching me with my pants down.
I puff Ada’s vape, and when she jumps to grab it, I raise it over my head again. “No.”
“What the heck, Cecelia? Nicotine!”
“In a minute. I need to tell you something.”
Ada sighs, and I wait until she’s settled back into her chair before I let the question burning my brain tumble out. “Did you know our school’s centenary reunion is next month?”
“Yeah, I was thinking of calling in a bomb threat. Why?”
My gaze flashes back to my laptop, still full of Will Sharpe photos and hope. Although this doesn’t seem like the right time to tell Ada about my plans.
“Jake asked me about going,” I improvise. “He might ask you too, so I wanted to warn you.”
Ada’s forehead scrunches. “Which one is Jake, again?”
“Jesus, Ada. The huge, super good-looking one, who—and I really can’t emphasise this enough—plays for the All Blacks.”
“Yeah, yeah. Rugby League—”
“Union.”
“Union! Fuck! Whatever!” Ada’s dark eyes dart from side to side. “Jake was talking to you at the bar, yeah? The one who had the man-off with Fake Five-Oh?”
I flush at the memory of that strange scene with Jake and Davis. “You saw that?”
“I see everything. He’s the big one who won’t do shots, yeah?”
“Yes. He’s an old friend of Tristan’s.”
Ada pretends to spit on the floor, and I laugh. Her distaste for my brother has always been one of her most endearing qualities.
“Jake is actually nice, though,” I say, tossing her the vape. “I think he likes you.”
“Gross.” Ada gets to her feet. “Well, it’s been a pleasure, Cee, but I’ve got places to be and men to hospitalise.”
I stride to the door and spread my arms wide. “You can’t.”
“Just kidding.” Ada smothers a yawn with her non-vape hand. “I’m going upstairs—”
“Good idea!”
“—to get my B12 vitamins. I told the guys I have dexies. Ten bucks a pill sounds legit, yeah?”
I groan. “Ada, I know most of those guys were horrible to you, and you didn’t deserve it, but can you please not annihilate their livers and sell them bum drugs?”
Ada pauses, seeming to seriously consider my question. Then she shakes her head. “No. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna do that.”
“But—”
“Sorry, babe.” She lays a sympathetic hand to my side. “I’ve gotta do what I’ve gotta do. Good luck tonight, though.”
“Thanks,” I say weakly. I’m ten inches taller than Ada, but even I know I wouldn’t be able to stop her in the mood she’s in.
“Cool. Please tell your narc boyfriend not to be a narc, by the way.”
“What?”
“The child constable,” Ada says. “Tell him to leave me alone and not balls up my justice.”
“Oh, you mean Davis.” My cheeks heat. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Ada’s eyes narrow. “What’s gotten into you?”
Goddamn Adalasia Renaldo’s powers of perception. Even halfway down a bottle, she can still read me like sheet music.
“Nothing,” I say. “Go assassinate at will. You have my blessing.”
She grins. “You did something weird in front of Davis, didn’t you?”
“No!”
Ada laughs her throaty laugh, and I realise it’s been days since I’ve heard it.
“I’m glad you’re getting joy out of my misery,” I say, torn between humiliation and warmth. “Davis thinks I’m a total freak.”
“As if.” Ada strides around me and opens the door. “You could park a truck on his mum, and he’d still love you.”
My cheeks burn even hotter. “Shut up.”
“‘Mrs Cece Sanderson.’ I’ve seen him doodling it on bar napkins.”
“You’re such a bitch! And a liar! Davis is probably in love with you!”
Ada’s smile becomes fixed again. “Oh, Cece. You know you’re the only one who loves me.”
She’s not joking, but before I can respond, my office door snaps shut, and she’s gone.