Beer Goggles Anthology

by Anthology

  Yep, I look like a douchebag. Messy dark hair, undershirt stained with—I don’t even know. Is that a black eye? Actually, I look like I used to be a douchebag. Right now, I look homeless. Maybe I was a prick twenty-four hours ago, but I’ve been knocked down to whatever peg places you in a twin bed with a cat and homemade potpourri. So, screw it. I shower, enjoy the toothpaste sample for sensitive teeth and drape myself in Mr. Talbot’s favorite test-day uniform. At least I don’t look like a douchebag anymore, just…never mind. There’s no comparison for my appearance.

  My ninja skills do nothing for the creaking floorboards as I try to sneak downstairs. But really, my stealth is pointless since I’m trapped here without my wallet and phone. As far as I know, I’ve been kidnapped by the most hospitable grandma serial killer of all time. I’m probably a captive gin rummy player. Sentenced to a life of forced litter box maintenance.

  At least I know some things.

  My name is Nate Hanover.

  My age is twenty-four.

  I know that I came to McAllister Enterprises to prove I should be the next superstar suit in Carver McAllister’s empire of superstar suits.

  Oh, right. I also know I fucked it up.

  Chapter One

  The List

  “Impressive resume. I see why you made it to the top of the pile.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I say things like “sir” when I’m in the presence of rich men who can better my career. Does that make me a prick? Probably. I’m not a bad guy, though. Not nearly as bad as the other recent grads in my MBA class. I came from nothing, worked my ass off, and I have no interest in going back to nothing. If that means I have to call guys “sir” because they have gold-plated wall plaques with their names on it, so be it. For being a prick, I’m not proud. Pragmatic is all.

  “Fantastic. Well, look. It was great to meet you, Nathan.”

  The dude’s hand is a freaking vise. If you didn’t agree with him before the shake, you sure as hell do afterwards. See, this is the crap they need to be teaching in business school. Handshaking. Crafty winks and shit. Cigar smoking. I’m going after one of the top positions in a Fortune 50 company and I’ve never smoked a cigar. I mentally add that to my task list. Bourbon? That’s a thing too I think. Dammit.

  “Myra will take it from here,” McAllister says. Croons, actually, with one of those voices that doesn’t have to be loud to get shit done. Country clubs. That’s where you learn to use that voice and crush metacarpals. Country clubs mean golf. Crap.

  McAllister is soon replaced by Myra, his assistant based on the way she breezes in, knowing exactly what’s going on. Another mental note: get an assistant like Myra. Damn. Dark, shiny hair is twisted in an intricate pattern away from her face to make room for the bite of smoldering eyes. Intelligent. The kind of eyes that you just know hides the brains of the operation even if they don’t get the credit. This girl is razor sharp. Zero patience for my admiring gawk, it seems.

  “No,” she quips, clicking forward on no-nonsense heels.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Whatever you’re thinking right now, the answer is no.”

  “Um…”

  She waves me quiet and sifts through a folder as she continues. “You trust-fund boys are all the same. A life of privilege has taught you that you can have whatever you want. I’m making our relationship very simple and telling you, no. I’m here to work. You will have to find some other insipid arm candy for your daddy’s yacht.”

  My god. I’m in love.

  “Fair enough. Although Marlon and Pam didn’t have a yacht.”

  “Marlon and Pam?”

  “My last set of foster parents.”

  Those scorching embers shoot to mine. Is that a flicker of uncertainty? She brushes it off with a shrug. “Well, whatever rich benefactor paved your way then.”

  “That would be the government by way of student loans and scholarships.”

  “Smartass.”

  I grin. Yeah, her lips definitely form a slight twist right back.

  “Enough flirting, hot shot. Here. Memorize this. Live and breathe it. If you want this job, you will need to inhale this first.”

  I try to play it cool as I stare at the short list of names, but I’m not good at that yet. Another thing they should teach in business school.

  “These are names,” I say.

  “Damn you’re good.”

  She pulls another smile from my resolve. “I graduated at the top of my class.” Okay, maybe I’m boasting. Defending myself too because this woman has me fully charged.

  “Oh yeah? Good for you. So did everyone else I’ve interviewed this past year.” She taps the paper in my hand. “How about you worry about this and maybe you’ll do better than they did.”

  I swallow and read through the names again. “Who are they?”

  “Important people.”

  “Board members? Investors? Executives?”

  “Important people.”

  “Am I going to be quizzed?”

  “You prep school kids and your quizzes. You think the real world has time for quizzes?”

  “Is that a quiz?”

  She has no appreciation for my joke. “In twenty minutes we’re heading to a reception. You have the rest of the night to impress the people on that list. You do that? Maybe you end up with a job. No one else has, so I won’t hold my breath.”

  She scans me hard. Like, I-feel-her-eyes-in-my-veins hard. I can’t read her initial expression, but her skeptical scowl doesn’t bode well. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Good luck.”

  Chapter Two

  Wilfred Harper

  Myra isn’t just my drill sergeant; she will also be my guide through the list. She returns exactly nineteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds later to lead me to a spectacular soirée occupying the courtyard of the main building.

  The campus is a city in itself. A futuristic wonderland of glass and steel. Open workspace playgrounds are filled with those weird chairs that help you lose fifty pounds by sitting. Plus, standing desks. Everywhere standing desks and daylight lamps. It’s a fairytale that screams “you’ve done it, Nate! Look at you, rock star!” But my chaperone has no interest in allowing for basking time. I barely have a chance to grip the glass of champagne she shoves in my hand before pointing me toward Wilfred Harper. No hints, no warnings, just that blatant expectation of failure.

  Wilfred Harper likes Myra. As in likes Myra. She doesn’t react as he stares at every stitch of fabric covering her chest, her ass, and definitely what’s not covering her silky legs. I’m starting to get annoyed. So far I’ve exchanged names with this jerk, but he hasn’t looked up from Myra’s assets long enough to exchange anything else. I don’t know her well, but I know no asshole is going to be so disrespectful to another human being in my presence. Screw the list. I’m supposed to fail anyway, right?

  “Excuse me, Mr. Harper.” Even Myra raises her brows at my tone. It’s not rude, per se. It’s also not twenty-four-year-old-ass-kissing-sycophant.

  “You a bourbon guy, Nate?” Wilfred asks after emerging from his trance. Hate his question, but it beats watching him ogle Myra.

  My pulse pounds as he waits for my response. Fucking knew it. Damn bourbon. Lie lie lie. You love bourbon.

  “Not really, but I like to try new things.”

  Ah, shit.

  Wilfred rubs his chin. “Your daddy wasn’t a bourbon guy?”

  “No,” I answer, because I have no clue if the man I never met liked bourbon. Seems unlikely.

  Wilfred signals a server and barks four different words I’ve never heard and immediately forget.

  “Good. I get so sick of those entitled rug rats coming in here with their flashy cocktails thinking they know how to drink. Disgraceful. They don’t teach good drinking anymore. Am I right?”

  I don’t know what that means, but can’t see any harm in nodding my support.

  “What about you, doll? What are you drinking?”

 
“Her name is Myra,” I say, even though it’s not my place and I’m pretty sure my defense will piss them both off. Sure enough, I get an annoyed dart from Myra and a snicker from Wilfred.

  “Myra and I go way back, don’t we, sweetheart? She knows I’m harmless. All bark and no bite. Right, doll?”

  She rolls her eyes and signals for another glass of champagne. “You still don’t have a prayer, Wilfred.”

  “Won’t keep me from my faith, darling.”

  She shakes her head. Guess what? He’s still an ass.

  A server delivers four glasses of varying shades of amber. They immediately do-si-do across the table as Wilfred’s expert hands correct her error. Apparently, they were delivered in 3-1-2-4, not 4-1-3-2. I thought I saw lust when he blistered a look at Myra. The way this creep gazes at bourbon is downright criminal. I shiver because there’s no way in hell my lips are worthy of whatever’s in those glasses regardless of the order.

  Thirty-six minutes.

  For thirty-six minutes we absorb facts and anecdotes about each of the potions in the fancy crystal. I can’t repeat a single word because in thirty-six minutes I’ve also been forced to consume all of it. Every drop, and I never even get to Wilfred Harper Schmoozing Time. I’m so buzzed from his introduction I have to grip the table for support.

  A hearty seaman’s laugh erupts from his lungs as he slams a hard palm into my back.

  “You’re all right, kid.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You remember everything I said, and you’ll be just fine,” he assures me.

  “Okay.”

  Remember everything? I remember his name is Wilfred. He likes bourbon. He has zero reservations about staring at Myra’s boobs. Pretty sure that’s not going to get me far on the corporate ladder.

  He leaves us with a proud nod and comment about oak barrels. I follow his retreat because, my god. Is this interview for real?

  “You good?” That’s Myra. I think. I look in three places before I find her five inches to my left.

  “I’m awesome,” I lie.

  “Okay great, because next up is Patty Chalmers.”

  Chapter Three

  Patty Chalmers

  Ms. Chalmers stands alone, her large curves tucked in a flattering pantsuit and silk scarf. She reminds me of a choir instructor. I’m not positive I’ve ever encountered a certified choir instructor in my twenty-four years, but if I had, I’m positive she would have looked like Patty Chalmers. I rack my brain for MBA tricks that could help me now, but we were trained for profit projections and P&L maintenance. There was no course for pantsuit choir directors that I can recall. It doesn’t help that I sense Myra’s rapt attention as I approach the open side of number two’s table.

  “Good evening,” I say all 1940s spy. Brilliant, Nate.

  “Is it?” Cloudy blue eyes train on me, and I suck in a quick breath. Shit, she’s been crying. I’m bad enough with strangers at these events. Crying strangers? Didn’t even know that was a thing.

  “You look upset,” I say because I’m a straight-A student, so, super-smart.

  She bites her lip before exploding her sobs all over my shoulder.

  “Is it really a good evening? Damn you and your perfect hair!” she shrieks.

  I search for help, but Myra only shrugs with a smirk.

  The woman’s grip tightens around my back. “Ma’am, is there something I can do to help?” I ask, gently peeling away.

  “Help? Give me that!” She grabs my glass, drains it, and deposits it on the table.

  “Would you like another?”

  “Damn right. And one for you, cutie.”

  An honest-to-goodness hanky slips from her purse and swipes mascara lines over her face. I try to ignore her spider mask as I scan the area for more alcohol. I spot my prey and pounce. Or flee—semantics, whatever. The server is clearly unaccustomed to being charged by guests and gives me a strange look when I appear before him. Two glasses, wait, three, balance in my hands as I make my way back to my weeping-choir table.

  “Bless you, honey,” she murmurs, snatching a glass.

  I hand another to Myra who seems surprised, and empty my own. I’m already looking around for a refill when Ms. Chalmers asks, “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four, ma’am.”

  “Damn you, Adonis. Don’t call me ma’am. Call me Patty.”

  “Nate.”

  “Nate?”

  “My name is Nate. Not Adonis.”

  Her flirtatious glint is barely visible through her raccoon eyes. “You pick this one, Myra?” Patty asks, and my guide shakes her head.

  “I never do. You know that.”

  Patty studies me again. “A shame because—this one…” She flicks a confident finger toward my chest. “This one,” she confirms before the whimpering returns.

  My shoulder is soaked now. I can almost feel the black smudges seeping into my good shirt. I have a few okay ones, but this is the one. My roommates were raised on these kinds of shirts and assured me I could fool anyone with this baby. No one would know Nate Hanover had been tossed around the foster system. No one would know I relied on scholarships to get my degree. No one would know I worked three jobs to support myself while they partied their way through school. They promised this shirt would be the perfect disguise, and now? The shirt will be a stained monument to the weirdest interview of all time.

  “Ms. Chalmers, please. I’d like to help but—”

  “Patty.”

  “Patty. I’d like to help, but I’m not sure how.”

  The hanky clears more smoky streaks from her cheeks. “Of course you don’t, sweetheart. You must think I’m a crazy old bat.”

  “Of course not. It’s just…if I can do anything…”

  “Angel. Angel,” she tells Myra with another thumb in my direction. The “Bless you, honey,” is for me and comes with a full-on Aunt Hilda cheek-pat. I offer an awkward smile as she beelines for the champagne guy.

  I stare after her for a full three seconds before Myra inches closer. “You all right?” God, she looks so Myra. Gorgeous hair, eyes, ears, nose. Everything perfect, put together. Smart as hell. I’m hopeless when it comes to intelligent women. This girl could wreck me. Good thing all I’m bringing to the table is a mascara shoulder and bourbon-drizzled tie. If she showed any interest…I draw in a steadying breath and loosen the noose around my neck.

  “Sorry, just need a minute,” I say, which is totally believable too after infusing every ounce of mental capacity I have left into those five words.

  “I’ll get you some water,” she replies, eyes still on me. At least I think they are. How can you really tell details like that?

  She must have superpowers because I’m pretty sure she’d just walked away when she’s tapping my shoulder and shoving a glass toward my lips.

  “You’re not a big drinker, are you?”

  I swallow the soothing liquid and shake my head.

  “I’m fucking this up, huh?” I say, so far past MBA-suave that my professors could lose their tenure.

  She allows the slightest hint of a smile. “You still have some chances to redeem yourself.”

  No. It’s freaking impossible. She was right from the beginning. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. Hysterical choir directors, bourbon-drinking sleaze balls, this is so not my world. I’ve never really fit in and now it’s more obvious than ever that I never will. It’s why my roommates had to help me buy this one stupid shirt.

  “You ready to keep going?”

  No. But I’m not a quitter either. I fucking work my ass off.

  “Who’s next?”

  Chapter Four

  Krystal and Lonnie Horowitz

  The problem with having five drinks in an hour is that you’ve had five drinks in an hour. Thankfully, Krystal and Lonnie Horowitz started even before I did. I’m not convinced they know who I am when I shuffle up only to be swept onto the dance floor. It’s not even me and the ageless-wonder wife getting it on either.
Mr. Horowitz struts his stuff with an enthusiasm that absolutely requires the presence of a drunk interviewee.

  I’m a decent dancer. Just one of those things I learned I could do at an early age and was never self-conscious enough to stop. I don’t do flips or contemporary flailing or anything, but I can hold my own in a club. Hell, there was even that one summer of stripping that won’t ever come up, but my tuition was late and, well, yeah. That’s not on my resume. Krystal and Lonnie are reaping the benefits of my experience now, however.

  I’ve never been grinded against by a middle-aged couple wearing matching tracksuits before. I’m not sure why they’re wearing tracksuits and even less sure why they need me for whatever this is. But bourbon makes you do things like let a pair of strangers old enough to be your parents remove your tie and unbutton your disgustingly expensive mascara shirt. We wind and slither for several songs and their bold hands make me wonder if they have loftier goals than tearing up the dance floor with a twenty-something. My new friend Wilfred is snickering over by the bar. I ignore him until his gaze finds Myra and shit gets creepy.

  “Hang on,” I slur to my dance partners. They whine a protest and clutch at my arms, but seem to forget me as soon as I shrug away. Their dancing appears to deteriorate the farther I retreat from the action. I guess their style would be considered hippie-crunk adapted to the Top 40 pop currently blaring over the sound system. I’m so mesmerized by this curiosity I crash into a huge dude stalking the perimeter of the dance floor. He lets out a curse, and I offer an apology that’s way disproportionate to the crime since I can’t judge shit like that right now. I either broke his foot or bumped his phone hand, so I extend him knighthood or whatever and all is forgotten.