Chapter Six Adam #2
Not once did she deign to come out to the bar or to a show with the rest of the interns when we worked together.
I’ll admit her standoffishness sort of intrigued me at first, made me want to get to know her all the more.
But after a while—especially once everyone found out she was seeing Griffin—it felt like she thought she was too good for us lowly peasants.
Never mind any embarrassment I may have felt personally for ever entertaining the thought of asking her out, when she clearly had her sights set on something higher.
“Oh yeah,” Tyler says. “My top five nights in college all involved Ellie. God, remember that time we got baked and you decided to build a snowman orgy on the quad?”
I choke on a sip of coffee. Eleanor reaches over and slaps me between the shoulder blades, perhaps a bit harder than necessary, and shoots a warning glare across the desk at Tyler, who leans back again and starts laughing.
It’s this utterly delighted, nearly contagious giggle that has Eleanor visibly biting down on the inside of her cheek as she straightens up again.
My eyes are watering by the time I’ve caught my breath from the coughing fit, and I slip a finger under my glasses to wipe at them. “Snowman… orgy?”
Tyler’s eyebrows draw into a little V, even as a playful smile continues to tug at his lips. “How do you guys know each other, again?”
“We used to work together,” she tells him. “And now Adam here likes to pull underhanded shit and come after the artists I’ve scouted, because he has no ear.”
“Oh, what? What was that?” I sputter. “Remind me, how many of your artists hit the Billboard Hot 100 list last year?”
Eleanor examines her nails, managing to look bored even though she’s the one who started this pissing contest in the first place. Tyler’s gaze flickers between us with interest.
Not for the first time since waking up in Eleanor’s bed, I wish I could go back in time and opt not to come to Vegas.
I already have an incredible roster of artists, and at least a dozen more on my radar.
But Dempsey is poised for a major breakout album.
If I sign them and take them platinum, that’s the kind of thing that will impress the powers that be, that will help me gain more influence at the label.
Plus, I can’t deny the draw of beating out a competitor.
It’s like a double win. Triple win, if things work out for Billy to become their new manager.
But more and more I’m questioning whether the juice is worth the squeeze.
I can admit it wasn’t the best etiquette, coming to Vegas and crashing Eleanor’s meeting.
It might even qualify as quote-unquote underhanded shit, just like she said.
So maybe this is exactly what I deserve, for listening to Billy when he insisted I should fly here to speak with Dempsey in person, for chasing a band instead of playing it cool and making them chase me.
“Maybe we should get down to business,” Tyler cuts in.
I glare at Eleanor a beat longer, then turn back to Tyler when he continues: “In Nevada, the process for an uncontested annulment is pretty straightforward. I’ll need to get some information from you guys, and then I can file the paperwork on your behalf. ”
“Great,” I say, relieved that this is a relatively easy fix. Maybe my mom will never have to find out about this. “And we can get it submitted today, right?”
Tyler checks his watch and makes an agreeable face. “Don’t see why not. You have your marriage license?”
Eleanor sighs and reaches into her bag. “Yeah.”
She pulls out the crinkled piece of paper and passes it across the desk.
As Tyler reads it over, Eleanor bends forward to put her head in her hands and starts breathing through her mouth in a very deliberate way.
As someone who gets very carsick and has zero tolerance for carnival rides or airplane turbulence, I recognize the signs.
“Are you feeling okay?”
She grunts. “I haven’t been this hungover in years.”
Fair. I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover. The nausea is a constant hum through my body.
Tyler leans forward and rests both forearms on his desk. “Really? You drank that much?”
Again, there’s this bewilderment in his expression that makes no sense to me, given his characterization of college Eleanor.
“I got cross-faded,” she tells him. “Accidentally. We were hanging out with this band and they ordered pizza, and I didn’t realize it had THC in it.”
I bite back the same comment I made earlier, because how—especially as someone who evidently got high a lot in college—do you not realize there is weed in every single thing on the menu at a literal cannabis-tasting lounge.
She uncrosses her legs, only to cross them again the other way.
She’s studiously avoiding my gaze, probably because she knows what I’m thinking.
“Is there somewhere to eat around here?” I ask. Maybe getting some food in our systems—some food without marijuana in it—would help.
“Oh!” Tyler rolls his chair back and pulls open the middle drawer of his desk. “I’ve got you covered.”
He passes each of us a buffet voucher. As in, for the strip club’s buffet.
“… Thanks,” I tell him.
“Sure thing. I always take care of my clients. You guys go ahead and grab some food. I’ll start on the paperwork and come find you when it’s time to sign on the dotted line.”
I take both vouchers and try to pass one to Eleanor, but she shakes her head. “I’m good.”
“If it helps, I eat here all the time,” Tyler says, his voice turned gentle. “They never let the food sit too long.”
Eleanor’s expression is almost pained. “I can’t right now.”
“I could sneak into the kitchen and bring you something else?”
“No, you don’t have to do that. I’m okay. Seriously.” She offers him a smile—not her real smile, but one that’s clearly meant to be reassuring. “I appreciate it, though.”
Eleanor moves toward the office door, and I follow close behind, completely confused by their conversation. As we’re passing through the doorway, Tyler calls out to me.
“Make sure to try the mac ’n cheese!”
I shoot him an awkward thumbs-up, which is a gesture I don’t remember doing in my entire adult life, and then keep my gaze on my own feet until we’ve made it out of the changing area and back onto the floor, where they’re blasting headache-inducing dubstep.
Eleanor beelines for a table while I head to the buffet tucked in the back corner of the room.
My lips press into a flat line as I take in the spread.
Skeptical as I was about dealing with an attorney who works out of a strip club, I’m twice as skeptical about eating at one.
The fact that Eleanor passed is not reassuring either.
But the food does look pretty decent, and surely Tyler wouldn’t suggest his friend eat here if it wasn’t completely sanitary and safe.
I grab a plate and pile it precariously high with fried chicken and buffalo wings. I add a scoop of mac ’n cheese because Tyler does not strike me as the sort of person to steer you wrong about munchies, and then I make my way over to Eleanor’s table.
The club has gotten busier since we arrived, but at this hour, there are still an abundance of open spots.
Eleanor has chosen one as close to the main stage as she can get.
It feels vaguely like a test, like she wants to prove I’m not chill enough to be in the same room as a topless woman without ogling her like a creep.
Joke is on her—all I have to do is keep my attention on Eleanor instead, and I’ll pass her little test.
For her part, Eleanor watches the dancer, mouth tipped down into a slight frown.
I’m fairly certain that the phrase resting bitch face is sexist, so I try to avoid using it.
That said, I feel like it really sort of fits Eleanor perfectly.
I imagine this is the face she makes whenever she’s reviewing long contracts, or standing in line at a coffee shop, or washing her hair.
Not that I’ve ever imagined her in the shower.
The point is, she looks sort of pissed. But when I take the seat across from her, she shifts her focus and smooths her expression out to something neutral.
She flags down one of the women working here—it’s unclear to me whether she’s a waitress or a dancer or both—and politely asks for a couple of waters.
I focus on my own plate and take a small bite of macaroni.
Which is all it takes to decide the inevitable food poisoning will be worth it. Tyler was right—it’s amazing.
The next time I glance across the table, Eleanor has produced a paperback book from somewhere, and is reading. In a strip club. It’s so unexpected and cute, I cough out a laugh. Her eyes flick up to meet mine, then immediately drop back down to the page.
I go back to my food, but I’m determined to pass her Chill Test, so I watch Eleanor more than the woman onstage—who, according to my peripheral vision, is currently squeezing the pole between her thighs and hanging upside down, so I think I deserve some credit for not gawking.
I sort of assumed the strippers working in the middle of the day might be the B squad.
Like, the dancers who are new and still slightly uncoordinated, or recovering from a pole-related injury, or the ones who have been doing this for so long that they have no more fucks left to give.
But from what I’ve seen, through my super-casual and non-lingering glances, I’d give the girl onstage a ten out of ten.