Chapter Six Adam #5
“That makes sense.” The dancer onstage finishes, and while one of the bouncers collects the stray bills scattered around the platform, the ambient lighting shifts from red to purple.
As another bass-heavy song starts playing and a new girl steps up to the pole, I lean closer to Eleanor and add: “For the record, I don’t have a problem with weed. It’s just never been my thing.”
I’ve seen too many people fuck up their lives thanks to drugs—my father included—and so I’ve always stayed away. But last night is proof enough that I’m as susceptible to overindulging as the next guy.
“Fair enough,” Eleanor says. She hesitates for a moment, visibly debating whether to tell me this next bit: “I’m emetophobic. So I’m usually a lot more careful not to get too buzzed.”
“Emetophobic,” I repeat. “What is that?”
Her shoulders tense, and I get the impression talking about this makes her uncomfortable.
Though I’m not sure if that’s because it’s triggering, or because she feels defensive about it.
“It’s a fear of vomiting. People tend to think I’m being overdramatic, but it can be sort of debilitating.
When I was younger I couldn’t even talk about it without spiraling into a panic attack.
Tyler actually helped a lot with that. I was terrified of trying weed because I didn’t know if it would make me nauseous or what, but he sort of eased me into it.
Offered a controlled environment, and it wound up really helping with my anxiety.
But yeah, that’s why I never would have knowingly mixed alcohol with weed.
And why I’m not touching that buffet with a ten-foot pole. ”
I look down at my own plate. Then I shrug and pick up a chicken wing. “Makes sense.”
Eleanor eyes me, wary, like she’s waiting for me to tease her, or well, actually her about her own phobia, or pull some other dick move.
Her opinion of me still isn’t very high, I’m pretty sure.
Which shouldn’t matter, because in all likelihood I won’t interact with her again for years, maybe ever, once we leave Vegas and finalize the annulment.
It’s a bit of a chronic problem for me, caring too much what other people think.
But I’ve enjoyed bantering with Eleanor. Enjoyed talking about the heavier stuff too.
I suppose it’s not completely out of the realm of possibility that we’ll see each other again soon.
I don’t have a death wish, so I won’t be going after any more of her artists.
But there’s always the chance she’ll try to retaliate and come for one of mine.
Or maybe we’ll run into each other at an awards show.
That wouldn’t be so bad. It’d be a shame if after all this, we couldn’t at least be amicable.
Just—not sworn enemies is the main objective here.
I continue to eat in silence until my mouth is on fire from the hot sauce, then I suck down some water and wipe my hands on a napkin. “So. What exactly does a snowman orgy entail, anyway?”
I’m not sure if it’s the weird purple lighting in here, but I could swear she blushes, even as she waves her hand vaguely. “There were a lot of carrots.”
This surprises a laugh out of me. Even more surprising—Eleanor returns my smile.
“And you say you don’t party,” I tease.
She smirks and turns to watch the dancer for a few moments, then glances back to me as I’m licking hot sauce from the pad of my thumb. “Enjoying your strip club meat?”
“Come on.” I wipe my mouth and crumple another paper napkin in my fist. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Hey, you’re the one eating it.”
“It’s actually delicious. Sure you don’t want some?”
She looks at the chicken, then back to my face. “Hard pass.”
I pick up another wing. “You’re missing out.”
“Pretty sure the only thing I’ll be missing out on is a bout of vomiting in about six hours, but okay.”
“Aside from it being strip club meat, I do think you’d like it. They’re spicy. I remember you having a high tolerance for heat.”
Before Griffin entered the picture and Eleanor stopped eating with the other interns, we would all get lunch from a nearby taco truck at least once a week. Eleanor always doused hers in hot sauce.
I catch her giving me this look, like she wants to comment on that, but before she gets a chance, Tyler is dropping into the empty chair between us.
“All right, kids. I’ll just need to see Adam’s ID and then we can start signing the forms.”
I push my plate to the side and fish my wallet out of my back pocket.
I flip it open, fingers stilling when I see the slot that always has my license in it is empty.
I frown and start pulling out all the other cards, figuring it must’ve gotten tucked away in the wrong place.
Except it isn’t in any of the other card slots either. It isn’t anywhere.
I clear my throat and lift my gaze to meet Eleanor’s.
She seems to know what I’m going to say before I even open my mouth, and she shakes her head, as though that will somehow stop it from being true.
“So, slight problem. I seem to have misplaced my ID.”