Chapter 5 #2
When he’s done, he makes me a drink exactly as I asked: Red Bull, ice, a splash of Sprite, and some colorful syrup to fake something alcoholic.
I’m not sure Mila would ever forgive me if she found out I’m spending today sober, but I like my job enough not to risk losing it by showing up to an interview hungover and completely unprepared.
I’m doing my best here, juggling research on every scrap of information about Brock Magnus to put together my questions, while also pretending I’m having as much fun as everyone else at the party.
Naturally, I’m being forced to witness the drunken chaos unfolding not just with our group, but across the entire bar.
I watch as the cougars make the first move on the groomsmen, and some redhead with claws for nails, Stacy or Tracy or something ending in acy, plops down in Tony’s lap and clings to him like a drunk octopus.
Poor Tony keeps waving awkwardly, eyes scanning for an emergency exit he clearly can’t find. Then Cordelia yanks the woman off him and plants a loud, dramatic kiss on his mouth in front of everyone.
Next, Robbie rips off his shirt in the middle of the bar and challenges Tony to a slap-fight that ends with both of them hugging and professing their love for each other. They won’t remember a thing tomorrow. But I will.
Because I’m the only sober one in this goddamn place.
Mila is already convincing the German soldiers to take shots, and I know it’s only a matter of time before she comes running to drag me onstage to butcher Bleeding Love, the song we’ve claimed as our karaoke jam for years.
Neither of us can hold a note to save our lives, so it’s usually four minutes of pure agony for everyone present, but since we’re always drunk by then, we don’t care. Except tonight I’m sober. And there are at least a hundred people here who’ll be tortured by our singing.
Suzi, Mila’s yoga friend, is the first to score.
She starts making out with one of the soldiers after he hangs upside down from a ceiling beam and offers her a Spider-Man-worthy kiss.
Then I remember Jasper asking to be seated next to her at the wedding, and I have no idea whether that was real interest or just another attempt to annoy me.
By reflex, I scan the bar looking for him.
I shouldn’t even be surprised when I find him sitting at the cougars’ table, chatting with a blonde wearing extensions and deep, I mean deep, cleavage, like the two of them are old friends in a heated debate.
The blonde gets up, the redhead swoops back in.
She whispers something in his ear. Jasper laughs politely, but his hand immediately goes for his drink.
The cougar keeps talking, leaning closer, and before long she’s tracing her sharpened nail down his bicep.
Unlike Tony, Jasper remains completely unfazed.
One eyebrow raised, lips pressed together to hold back a laugh.
It’s like nothing, absolutely nothing, affects this man.
You can’t even tell if he’s enjoying himself or if he’s counting the seconds until he can escape.
I just know he’s drunk, because I’ve had ten years of experience. Jasper gets slightly more talkative when he drinks and that’s it. Still elegant, still articulate, still completely blasé, even when the thirsty cougar starts trying to shove the cherry from her cocktail into his mouth.
Because of that, there’s also no way to tell whether he cares – at all – that Suzi currently has her tongue down the throat of a six-foot-six wall of muscle, with giant arms and a shaved head.
I take advantage of Mila forgetting I exist for a moment, she’s singing Like a Virgin with a bachelorette group dressed in pink, and I order my fourth fake cocktail of the night.
My stomach is queasy from all the sugar and my heart is ready to explode from the energy drinks, so I ask for Sprite with ice and a few lime slices in a decorated glass.
Even my taste buds miss the vodka when I take my first sip.
Damn Brock Magnus and his damn drunk agent in New York and his damn trip to Cancún on the same week as Mila’s wedding.
I have no idea how this interview is gonna go – assuming Mr. Kyle and Mark actually remember what they promised and this won’t be a total waste of time – because I’m supposed to be at the liquor cellar tomorrow at two.
Now that the guest list is finalized, it’s time to negotiate prices and choose the best drinks. And who else but me knows exactly what kind of whiskey Fred McCall likes?
This is why I truly curse Brock Magnus’s entire trip.
Because instead of picking the perfect drinks for socialites and oil barons, I’m sitting on a crooked barstool, drinking fake booze, trying to figure out how WWE championships work, who the current titleholders are, and how many wins Brock the Destroyer has under his belt.
I’ve already memorized every detail about his wrestling costume and dug up some juicy scandals I might bring up in the interview. Right now, I’m trying to watch his last match, against Jack Bauer the Agent of Chaos, while someone onstage screams “Galileo! Galileo!” mid-Bohemian Rhapsody.
“Now this is new,” a voice comments behind me.
How the hell does this bastard always manage to sneak up on me?
If my heart wasn’t already pounding from all those Red Bulls, now I’m probably gonna die thanks to the scare he gave me. And the annoyance that always comes with him.
Even with adrenaline pumping, I can’t afford to start a fight right now.
As much as I want to.
God, I really want to, but every minute wasted fighting is a minute lost, so I force myself to act like a mature, evolved human being.
At least for tonight.
“Shut up,” I say distractedly, analyzing the moment Brock throws Jack Bauer to the mat and slams into him elbow-first in a perfect ninety-degree angle.
Ouch.
Jasper turns his back to the bar, leaning against it with his elbows on the counter so we’re almost at eye level when he turns his head to look at me.
“Why are you watching two half-naked dudes grappling each other when you’re supposed to be partying?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” he says calmly. Doesn’t even flinch at my rudeness. “Just trying to buy some time before I have to go back into that circus.”
He jerks his chin toward the exact spot where Uncle Henry and the man in the Speedo have started an arm-wrestling match on one of the tall bar tables.
“I thought you were enjoying being harassed by a bunch of drunk divorcées,” I comment. And I’m not even teasing this time.
It honestly seemed that way.
“There’s makeup on my Hugo Boss shirt and my hair smells like sandalwood. Everyone has limits.”
I snort, staring at the lipstick mark stamped on his shoulder. And he’s right. I want to say it’s just in his hair, but the sweet woody scent of cougar perfume has taken over the whole bar.
And because this is one of the rare moments he hasn’t insulted me yet, I decide to take a chance on getting something actually useful from him while he stalls before returning to cougar hell, “You know anything about professional wrestling?”
“Do I look like someone who’s interested in men wearing neon spandex, Julia?” I ignore the question and the fact that he said my name wrong. Again. I wish I could ignore his entire existence, but how am I supposed to do that when he still hasn’t left my side? “Is this a new kink of yours?”
“My boss called to tell me I’m interviewing a WWE wrestler tomorrow.”
“But you’re supposed to choose the drinks at the cellar tomorrow,” Jasper shoots back instantly.
As if he cares.
“I know what I have to do. You don’t need to remind me.”
“That’s why you’re sober tonight?”
“How do you even know I’m sober?”
“Because you’re dressed slutty but you’re not acting slutty. Something’s obviously wrong.”
“There are plenty of sluts here for you to worry about, Jasper.” I say his name while making a face.
“Oh, but you’re my favorite.”
“One day, you’re getting murdered for the things you say.” Then, full of pride for the mission I’ve given myself, I add, “And I will sing at your funeral.”
“Amazing Grace?”
“Since You’ve Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson.”
Is he bothered? Of course not. The son of a bitch is never bothered. I have to assume that’s because he’s a rich criminal lawyer with no feelings. Arguing with me must be a walk in the park compared to defending the millionaires he works for.
“That’s my go-to karaoke song,” he lies, trying to throw me off.
Nothing new there.
“No, it’s not.”
“No, it’s not. It’s actually Danger Zone by Kenny Loggins.”
I narrow my eyes. I almost believe him, but it’s been ten years. Ten years since the first time we met and I have never, even once, seen Jasper go near a karaoke stage.
“You don’t sing, Jasper. People need at least a tiny bit of joy in their soul to do that.”
He lets out a short, sarcastic laugh and signals the bartender, suddenly ignoring my existence again. He orders a damn Negroni.
Who voluntarily drinks that bitter atrocity? Someone who must have made a pact with the devil, to say the least.
On the dance floor, I can see the leopard-print cougar searching for something.
Still focused on Brock Magnus’s signature moves and the chaos in the bar, I say without looking up from my phone, “The cherry-drink cougar is looking for you.” Then I decide to poke him, since he’s waiting for his drink and stuck beside me with no escape, “Pretty sure you’re going home with her tonight, Assman. ”
“Maybe,” he says, emotionless. “I’m still too sober to make that decision.”
“How many of those disgusting Negronis will it take before you decide to sleep with her?” I ask, mostly curious, but also purely irritating.
“Not even half the amount I’d need to sleep with you,” he shoots back. “Actually, I don’t think there are enough Negronis in the world.”
“Oh, no!” I reply, dripping with sarcasm. “I’m gonna cry all night, Jasper, mourning the fact that I’ll never get gonorrhea from your tiny penis. What a tragic day.”