by Anthology
“Hey,” I say, finally pulling up beside Myra. Freaking marathon, but I’m sober enough to block the view of the bar patrons. I sneak a glance at creepy Bourbon Wilfred just to be sure.
“Hey. Nice moves, kid.”
I huff. “Kid? What are you, like, twenty-five?”
I can tell by her smile that I’m close. “You need to stop worrying about me. You have an interview to pay attention to.”
“Strangest interview ever.”
This time she’s definitely smiling. Damn stunning, her smile. “Yeah? Well, maybe you should be spending more time with your list and less on me.”
I send my gaze back to the bar. “Kind of hard to focus when that dude is staring at you like he’s planning to put you in his trunk. He shouldn’t treat you, or anyone, that way.”
“No, he shouldn’t. He’s a chauvinist jerk.”
“Want me to punch him for you?”
“Would you? Because that’s not chauvinist either.”
I can’t tell if she’s joking. “It’s not like I have anything to lose at this point.”
“I don’t know. Krystal and Lonnie seem to be fans. If things don’t work out with McAllister…”
“Yeah. They keep touching my ass.”
She looks. Actually checks to see what the fuss is about. Damn!
Everything in me wants to call her out, because that’s definitely chauvinistic, but I like it too much. “I think I’ve had enough dancing for tonight. Who’s next?”
“You sure you can handle more?”
“Bring it.”
Chapter Five
Coriander Honeybottom
No, that’s not her real name. Nor is that her real hair, boobs, lashes, or nails.
“I need you to do me a favor, sweet pea,” Ms. Honeybottom informs me. Her favor involves more booze. What is it with these people and getting me wasted?
When she shoves a second pink martini-something at me I shake my head. “Thanks. No more, though!” I shout over the commotion.
“Mmmhmm,” she responds because I’m already sipping it. I search Myra for clues but she just displays the reserved amusement that’s been absolutely no help at all.
“Where you from, sweetie?”
I don’t know if the music just got louder or my ears became incapable of processing sound at a normal level. That last drink, just, damn. Suddenly, Krystal and Lonnie look freaking magnificent out there on the floor. Flowerchild-crunk. Who knew?
“Pittsburgh area.”
“Oh yeah? But you’re a Harvard boy?”
I glance at her in surprise.
“Don’t look so impressed. All you boys are Harvard boys. Although, gotta say, I haven’t seen one like you before.”
She follows my attention to the gyrating bodies on the dance floor.
“Yeah, sweet pea, I saw you moving. Know what I think?”
“What’s that?” I toss back, still sucking fruit-tinged alcohol down my throat.
“I think you got professional skills.”
And yep, that’s me choking on strawberry-pear shit. “What?”
“I think you move like you know what you’re doing.”
There’s no doubt now. I have Myra’s full and undivided attention at this turn in the conversation. She’s more interested in me at this second than she’s been since the moment my resume crossed her desk.
“Just lots of club time,” I lie.
Coriander smirks. “With that body? Not a chance, honey bear.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about. I’m dressed like a corporate clone, how could she…oh shit. I can’t remember when the mascara shirt became fully unbuttoned but even I can see washboard abs and gym-rat pecs straining against the thin fabric of my undershirt.
I pretend to be interested in my drink again. What’s she gonna do? Start tracking down references from junior year clients?
“Mmmhmm. Harvard boy, my tight ass.” I clearly have Coriander’s approval as she sashays away with her pink concoction that’s hooked me too. So good. I could drink ten of these. And will if Myra heard all of that.
“Is it true?” she asks, studying me with an intensity that would sober me if I weren’t on drink number seven. Eight?
“Is what true?” Ignorance, baby. Never works.
Her eyes narrow. “Were you a professional dancer? A stripper?”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to ask me that in an interview.”
“I can’t ask your religion, sexual orientation, marital status, things like that. Past employment? Fair game.”
I turn back to see how my friends Krystal and Lonnie are faring. Maybe they’re ready to resume our magnetic trio.
Myra isn’t joking though. She’s still waiting for my full employment history.
“I told you. My foster parents didn’t have a yacht. Shit’s expensive.”
My response registers as she nods, and I let out a harsh breath. Fucking alcohol. Maybe I should have saved myself a lot of money and headaches and pursued stripping full time instead of grad school.
Fuck this. I’m done.
“Where are you going?”
I swat the air with a hand, maybe two. “Back to the hotel.”
“You’re not finished.”
“Huh?”
“You still have several names on the list.”
“You actually think I have a shot at this job? Don’t you have better things to do than babysit my hopeless ass?”
“Hopeless?”
I don’t know what to say. My head is spinning. From the booze? From her? I have no idea, but I swear her eyes actually see me for the first time tonight.
She sighs and settles close to me. Way closer than she needs to be as her coffee-colored irises delve into mine. “Do you think I care what you did to get yourself through school?”
It’s an interesting question. I’m too drunk to answer it.
“What’s your story, Myra…Myra?” I don’t know her last name so she gets two first ones.
“My story is irrelevant to this interview.”
“Maybe, but not to me.”
“I’m not supposed to be part of the process.”
“What process?”
“This process,” she says, waving her hand around the circus.
“Who decided that?”
“You don’t like accepting things for what they are, do you?”
“Nah. Who wants to live that way?”
“And yet, you accept people for who they are. You haven’t even flinched tonight.”
“Are you analyzing me, Myra Myra? I already took all your psych evals and personality tests.”
She bites her lip, and there’s a definite smile beneath that severity.
“You wanna dance?” I ask. “Krystal and Lonnie taught me some moves you’ll love.”
She legit bristles. “I can’t think of anything more inappropriate.”
“Really? You’re not very creative.”
“Excuse me?”
I back off. Just because I won’t get the job doesn’t mean I need a lawsuit. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I just…I would have been honored if you had considered dancing with me.”
She doesn’t respond, simply looks me over like she has a few times tonight. Like maybe she kind of does want to dance. “You ready for your next name?”
Chapter Six
Chad S.
His last name isn’t actually “S.” but I’m not sure I would have been able to read and pronounce it sober. I still don’t understand why we’re wasting time with this charade. I’m so drunk I wouldn’t have been able to look Chad S. in the eye if he hadn’t been plastered too. Our heads line up nicely on the back of a bench.
It takes five seconds to determine Chad S. is a douchebag. He’s exactly what I tried to be when I showed up today and probably why he will have equity by age thirty while I end up stripping for his fiancée’s bachelorette party. Hopefully the tips are good.
He blabbers on about things like portfolios and market indice
s, which are lame as hell sober, but freaking hilarious when the guy keeps referring to the NASDAQ as the Nasrack. The Nasrack shows signs of irrigation. Damn irrigating Nasrack. God, I wish I were recording this. I’m sober enough to exchange a few discreet eye rolls with Myra who must hate this even more than I do.
“Harvard, right?” Chad asks. He struck out on all other attempts at bonding because he never worked tables and a stage to pay for books and I never partied on Ibiza.
“That’s right.” We clink classes school-chum style.
“To Harvard.” As if that’s a thing you toast.
“To Harvard.” I even suppress my snicker.
“You have a woman, Nate?”
At least he calls me Nate. Points for lack of smarmy endearment.
“No. How about you, Chad?” I almost add the “S.” because I can be a dick.
“Yeah. Got myself tied down to a Vanderjoust last year.”
That name means something fancy to Chad S., but to me I just start thinking about knights and horses and giant turkey legs.
“Not the hottest piece of ass in the world, but you know, she’s a Vanderjoust, right?”
I can’t even nod because that sounds freaking awful. For her. I wonder if his Vanderjoust knows of her husband’s very short list of qualities he admires about her. After fifteen minutes with Chad S. I’m positive he married way beyond his own.
“Congratulations, man,” I say. “Sounds like things are really coming together for you.”
“It’ll happen for you too one day.”
God, I hope not. “Thanks.”
“It’s no picnic being at the top, I’ll be honest. You have to get used to the jealousy, the backstabbing. But, dude, the women? The clubs? The cars? You ever been courted by a Fortune 100 Vice President of Business Development, Nate?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s something you won’t forget. Makes it fucking worth it, you know?”
“Sure.”
“You ever eat a three-hundred-dollar hamburger? Gold shavings and unicorn brains and shit?”
“No.”
“Delicious.”
“I bet.”
“You ever see a stripper who makes a grand an hour?”
“Um…”
“Fucking brilliant, man. Venus-level shit. That’s a goddess. Like Egyptian or something.”
“Roman, actually. Goddess of—”
“No, I’m pretty sure she’s Egyptian.”
“Okay.”
“You know what, Nate?”
“What, Chad?”
“I like you. I’m gonna put in a word.”
“Oh. Well, thank you.”
“Yeah, you’ve got that spark, you know? That special oof.”
“Wow.”
“You’re welcome. You’re welcome.” And that comes with a Chad S. arm punch. I can’t even look at Myra. “Well, hey. You seem like a good kid. I’d love to give back, get things going. Keep at it and you never know, am I right?”
I have no idea. Not all words make sense just because you string them together and add a question mark.
“Right,” I say. Another arm thump, and I finally relax as he takes his glass on a hunt for someone more important. I wonder if Myra’s relief matches my own.
“Is that for real?” I ask, my head still resting on the back of the bench. Chad S. made me drink another something and now I’m not even sure if I’m standing or sitting.
“Over here, superstar.” She chuckles, guiding my face toward her. I blink and settle into a content smile.
“Much better,” I sigh out. She rolls her eyes, but there’s a definite grin this time.
“Calm down, Romeo.”
“Sorry. But that guy?”
“Yeah?”
“Ugh.”
“Yeah.”
“Please tell me he’s not important.”
“Yeah…”
“Really important?”
“Yeah.”
“Ugh.” I drain my glass. “Who’s next?”
Chapter Seven
Morelia Reed
“Myra!”
Myra accepts a suffocating embrace before directing her friend’s arms my way.
“Morelia, this is Nate.”
“Nate!” She’s just as excited to see me which makes me think every person is a rock star in her world. Bodes well for a win.
“Hi.”
“Having a good time, I hope?” She giggles and gives me a stare I’m way too blitzed to interpret. I nod instead because that covers all the things.
“He’s meeting everyone,” Myra explains in a tone that makes more sense to the two of them. Morelia laughs again and now she’s doing the full body scan that Myra’s done a few times. Morelia is cute. Very cute. She can look all she wants. I wonder if she’s single.
Shit. Job interview, Nate. Job interview? I nod again for my own benefit. If they notice my private pep talk they don’t say anything.
“What’s your background?” Morelia asks. Dark lashes blink slowly over stunning hazel eyes. Patty Chalmers could learn a thing or two about mascara from this one.
What was the question?
“Nate? Your background?” That’s Myra reminding me of words.
Background. Back. Ground. “I did four concentrations. Finance, strategy—”
“Not that kind of background, silly.” Morelia is definitely giggle-flirting. Because, let’s be honest, I’m not that funny. “The interesting kind.”
What, does the whole fucking world know I stripped for one summer? Then my brain kicks in to assure me that “background” is a very broad topic. It’s also a very normal one and can mean any number of things not related to the removal of clothes for money.
“Nothing too exciting.”
“I don’t believe that. You got to number six.”
“Huh?”
Myra stares her down, and she clears her throat. “You got past Chad, I mean.”
Makes perfect sense to me and my slosh-brain. So does the way her fingers wrap around my arm, squeezing, sliding, proposing until Myra swats them away with an emphatic headshake. Myra Myra. All business.
“He’s drunk,” she reminds all of us.
I’m drunk.
Morelia’s pout-face isn’t as cute as her flirt-face, but I try to give her the benefit of the doubt. She probably doesn’t have to use it much.
“What are you drinking, Nate?” Morelia asks. I raise two fingers in response.
Morelia titters again and shuffles off as if that meant something to her. Myra doesn’t look as impressed. “You don’t have to keep drinking, you know.”
“It makes them happy. I’m supposed to make them happy, right?”
She clears her throat and studies Morelia. “Be careful with her. She likes you a little too much, I think.”
“You afraid I’ll get pregnant?” Wow. I said that. To a potential employer. Oh wait, I lost this job a long time ago.
“No, I’m afraid you’re not going to make good decisions.”
Am I really getting “the talk” from my interviewer? Fucking weird night.
“I have no intention of sleeping with anyone tonight.”
“Good.”
Unless it’s you, I want to add, but thankfully I’m only drunk, not brain dead.
I raise two fingers instead. It worked on Morelia, and in my head, it’s what rich people do when they want something. They raise their fingers and shit happens. Wars get fought. Dynasties get united. Desserts get ordered. Shit. Happens.
Myra snatches my phantom finger message from the air and returns it to my lap. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Holding up fingers.”
“I don’t know. Isn’t that a thing?”
“What kind of thing?”
She’s overthinking Drunk Nate.
“Watch Chad. Watch Wilfred. Watch Carver McAllister. They all do it.”
“Do what? What exactly do you think you’re doi
ng when you do that?”
I shrug. “Getting shit done.”
Oh my god, she’s trying not to laugh. Her perfect white teeth sink into her bottom lip as she releases the cutest snort-puff I’ve ever seen.
“I’m cutting you off.”
“Tell that to your friend.” I raise two fingers to signal Mor—iah? as she approaches with our drinks. She practically skips the rest of the way at my gesture, and I cast Myra a smug glance. Get’s shit done, I mouth. She shakes her head, still having no intention of rewarding my lunacy.
“I wasn’t sure what you drink,” Mor-something tells me. I knew her name a minute ago, but it’s too late to ask again. Hopefully, it doesn’t become necessary. She’s into me enough that I could probably get away with a flirty “babe” in a pinch, even if Myra would kill me.
“Bourbon. Always. Only,” I lie, and Myra can’t hold it in anymore. She turns away to keep her humor private.
“Perfect. I figured as much,” Mor-babe shrieks, shoving a familiar amber liquid at me.
“You’re not going to actually drink that, are you?” Myra hisses in my ear. My babysitter is back and I determine right then to piss her off as much as possible now that I know it leads to her lips on me.
“It’s my new favorite,” I inform her. “Chad and I are gonna hang out on his father’s yacht next weekend and drink bourbon while discussing important business shit.”
“Wilfred.”
“Huh?”
“Wilfred was the bourbon drinker.”
“You don’t think Chad drinks bourbon too? Don’t they all drink bourbon?”
“Bourbon rocks!” Insight from Morelia. Morelia. Mor-el-ia. Morelia.
“It does,” I say, mostly to watch Myra squirm as I inhale another giant gulp of my new fave. I’ll sip the rest, promise.
“It was great to see you, Morelia. We should do brunch sometime,” Myra cuts in. “Not you,” she adds when she follows my gaze to Morelia’s oh-so-tiny cocktail dress.
“Aww, you have to go?” Morelia whines.
“Sorry, yes. Unfortunately, Nate still has some work to do.”
“You’ll call me, right?” Morelia asks me.
“Absolutely!” I assure her because logistics—eh.
I can’t hear her reply as Myra yank-leads me away from my first legitimate possibility.
