by Hunter Shea
His face was so red, Ollie thought he looked like a baboon’s ass.
“That’s actually the very next thing on my to do list,” Ollie said. “Enjoy your office . . . while you still have it.”
The moment he closed the door, he heard something thrown across the room. It sounded like one of Bill’s heavy Manager of the Year awards.
“What’s going on in there?” Tatiana asked. She was a beautiful Jamaican girl who brought a tray of treats around the office each morning and afternoon. She’d always passed by his cubicle, never once asking him if he wanted anything.
“Hey, are you free this evening?”
She arched an eyebrow so high, he worried it might rocket off her head.
“Come again?”
“I’d love to take you to dinner. Maybe we can see the new Jennifer Lawrence movie afterward.”
She looked down at him as if he were an insect.
“I don’t think so,” she said, her head turning towards Bill’s office when something heavy thumped against a wall.
“You sure now? This is your last chance.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
He took a muffin from her tray, tossing it from one hand to the other. “Okay. But you’ll be kicking yourself by the weekend.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“I’m sure you think you do.”
Sauntering down the row of cubicles, he couldn’t help but notice the escalating chatter as people opened their email and listened to the audio files. Standing by the elevator, he inspected his knuckles.
“Well, look at that. You just kicked some serious ass and didn’t even get a bruise.”
CHAPTER TWO
“I can’t believe they all made it.”
“Come again?”
Ollie pulled his head back from the doorway and proceeded to elbow his martini all over the gleaming mahogany bar. He grabbed a fistful of cocktail napkins and blotted the vermouth.
“No need. I’ve got it,” the bartender said.
“Sorry. I forgot you were there,” Ollie said, checking his pants. Only a few drops stained his tan slacks. Of course, they had to be right on his crotch.
Now he’d have to wait until it dried. There was no way he was going in there looking like the punch line of the phrase, No matter how much you shake and dance, the last two drops go in your pants.
The entire upscale nightspot, Minneapolis’s finest, was all his tonight. He could hang out in the second floor bar as long as he wanted. He’d read about Club 17 in the local paper and had always wanted to go. However, going stag to a banging nightclub was a surefire way to never make it in the front door.
Well, he’d arrived tonight Han Solo. Funny how many doors money tended to open.
He’d sent the invitations to his college friends two weeks ago, complete with round trip airfare, car service and hotel accommodations. They’d all RSVP’d, but deep down, he never thought all of them would show.
In fact, he was pretty sure none of them would make the trip. It’s not like an all expenses paid jaunt to Minnesota in February was the opportunity of a lifetime.
But they were all here, right below him, drinking cocktails and talking as if eight years hadn’t passed since they’d parted ways after graduation. Sure, at first their conversations were stilted, awkward, with a lot of “damn, I forgot how insanely cold it gets here” and “you look exactly the same as you did back in college” when in fact all of them had changed dramatically. Ollie knew. He’d spent the last month flipping through the yearbook, the one that contained nary a picture of him.
The bartender, a middle-aged guy as slim as a cigarette, gave him a fresh martini.
“Oh, thanks,” Ollie said, taking a sip of the chilled liquor. It was his second in the past hour, which would make it one more martini than he’d ever drunk in his life. He wasn’t too keen on the high-octane taste or the way it singed his tongue and throat, but he needed something to take the edge off.
Plus, if you wanted to attain any level of sophistication, you had to learn to enjoy a good martini.
Jeez, why am I looking to James Bond movies for life lessons? he thought. Because 007 is a freaking badass, that’s why.
By the time martini number two was finished, his brain was buzzing and his feet and hands felt as if they’d been filled with helium. Inspecting his pants, he rapped on the bar and said, “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, sir,” the bartender said, his smile so good it almost seemed genuine.
He called me sir. Wow, that sounded weird.
Then again, he’d experienced a lot of weird things over the past several months. People who never gave him a second glance now deferred to him. He knew their angle. He wasn’t stupid.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the doors to the second floor landing and paused a moment, watching his old friends. He’d made a silent entrance, so no one noticed he was there.
Lenny Burke had his elbows on a bar-top table, checking his phone while laughing at something Tara McShane said. They’d called Lenny “Stump” back in the good old dorm days, on account of an enamored one-night stand announcing to everyone at a party that he was hung like a tree stump. They’d laughed their asses off, not quite sure if it was meant to be a good thing or an insult. The guys were in no mind to see for themselves. Lenny would tell them, “Come on, you know what they say about us black guys? I hate to tell you, but it’s all true.” Lenny had gone a little soft in the middle and his trademark dreads were a thing of the past. He wore glasses now, looking the part of the absentminded professor, though Ollie knew he was a market research consultant who worked from home.
Tara McShane, or “T-Mac,” had lost her freshman fifteen and then some. She looked like the after picture in one of those fad exercise commercials. Her face was more angular now, but her green eyes still sparkled, catching the strings of fairy lights hanging over their heads. She’d cut her hair so short it was just shy of a buzzcut, and she wore a little black dress so tight, he could see the top band of her thong. She’d most definitely blossomed since he’d last seen her holding her diploma on the big stage.
Steven “Cooter” Combs knocked back a beer and was quick to order another. A country boy from Alabama, he’d always been the life of the party. He was strong as an ox and had a liver that was nigh indestructible. He still looked like a farm-raised mountain of a man, but he was now completely bald and had a scar that ran in a perfect line along the left side of his head. He’d dressed up for the night, sporting a yellow power tie and suit. Ollie chuckled, remembering Cooter telling him he’d rather vote for a Democrat than become one of the faceless corporate masses. He’d said ties were nothing more than fancy nooses. Ollie would have to ask him if he’d voted for Obama.
By Steven’s side was a pretty blonde with perfectly tanned skin. She wore a red dress with a plunging neckline. In fact, it plunged far enough for Ollie to tell that she did her tanning in the nude. Or topless, at least. Her hair was so sun bleached it was practically white. She had to be Scandinavian. Lord knows there were plenty to choose from in Minnesota. He knew her name was Heidi, which was another clue, and that she and Steven had been married for a few years. She was the one Ollie was worried about.
Last but not least was Marco Conti. He’d never been given a nickname because everyone thought knowing someone named Marco was cool and slightly exotic, even though he came from Newark, New Jersey. The guy was a born wheeler dealer. He’d gotten them all fake IDs and had somehow blackmailed a teacher into giving Ollie an A in his philosophy class when it looked like he’d flunk out at the end of freshman year. Ollie had been too afraid to ask for details. Marco had been the tarnished brainiac of the crew, a whiz at economics, who they assumed would be in jail before he hit thirty for insider training. He’d emerge from some country club prison ten years later and move to a picturesque sea town in Spain.
Judging by his scuffed shoes and ill-fitting suit, it appeared things hadn’t turned out the way they’d all thought they
would. His hair was still thick and black as an oil spill; his Roman nose and strong jawline used to make the sorority girls swoon. Ollie would be with those girls vicariously through the exploits Marco revealed to him while they drank PBR on Wanderly Hill, right next to Smith Hall where Marco had most of his classes.
Ollie enjoyed watching them from here, just as he’d been happy to simply be in their orbit in college. When he wasn’t being a thin-skinned ass, he’d filled his days and nights observing this odd collection of strangers who somehow grew to be a family. He’d thought of them as the living embodiment of St. Elmo’s Fire, though he’d always wished they could find someone like Demi Moore to pledge her allegiance to the group (and become his sex slave). Being cast aside from that family had hurt deeply, but he knew, after a year of therapy where he did a lot of couch punching and teeth gnashing, that he was the only one to blame.
And truth be told, he’d never encountered people he felt so close to before or since.
Which was why he had asked them all to come here tonight.
Asked, but never in his wildest dreams expected to see this happy reunion.
Taking a deep breath, he leaned on the rail and said, “Excuse me, this is a private party. I expressly told the bouncer no riffraff.”
Five smiling faces beamed up at him.
His entire body was lighter than a ghost’s. It had nothing to do with the martinis.
“Is it possible your hair has gotten even redder, you shifty ginger?” Lenny said. They stood around a table, drinking and laughing, falling back into the old routine of ragging on one another, all in good fun.
His old friends gave him a round of applause as he entered the room. He took a bow and was pulled into their circle by Steven, his big arm looping around Ollie’s neck.
“Hey, at least I have hair, unlike some people,” Ollie said, his tongue feeling as thick as a mattress. He’d have to slow down if he wanted to coherently explain why he’d dragged them all into the Arctic in the dead of winter.
Steven ran a meaty hand over his shiny dome. “You’ll n-never believe this, but it all fell out literally over one summer. My pillowcase and shower drain were so hairy, I thought they were goddamn Tribbles.”
He still has that slight stutter on words that start with ‘n’, Ollie thought, though it was less pronounced than back in the day.
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Tara said, her manicured hand over her mouth.
He waved her concern away. “I was horrified at first, but I’ve grown to love it. No fuss, no muss.”
“Not to mention he has a wife who grew up with a crush on Mr. Clean,” Heidi said, her fingertips grazing the thin, pink scar.
Steven knocked back one of the shots of tequila he’d ordered for the table and said, “Come to think of it, my hair fell out while we were getting ready for our wedding. Methinks my wife may have poisoned my follicles in order to fulfill her twisted fantasy.”
Heidi giggled huskily, slapping his arm. “I can’t believe it took you this long to figure it out.”
“An-any of you turn out to be cops or divorce attorneys?” Steven asked, his cheeks ruddy, a drop of tequila suspended on the tip of his nose.
They laughed, assuring him that he would never find someone as beautiful as Heidi, so it was best to accept his fate.
Lenny turned to Marco and said, “I don’t see a ring, but I’m going to assume you’re a baby daddy to at least one Jersey rug rat.”
For just a moment, so brief Ollie would never have seen it if he wasn’t studying everyone so intently, Marco’s face took on a menacing sneer. It was quickly replaced by his patented cavalier countenance. “I hate to disappoint you, bro, but my swimmers have stayed in their own pool.”
Raising his glass for a toast, Lenny said, “To the man who invented condoms and his war against child support payments.”
Marco joined in the toast but his smile was miles away from his chestnut eyes.
“So, T-Mac, what have you been up to?” Ollie asked. He’d had a crush on Tara when they were freshmen. She was dating Lenny at the time, then Steven, then Marco. The word dating may have been stretching things. What it all boiled down to was that Ollie was the one guy in their group who never had a chance with her. Truth be told, even if he’d had a shot, he wasn’t keen on getting sloppy fourths.
Tara laughed, her gin and tonic sputtering from her pursed lips. “Wow, I haven’t been called T-Mac in ages.”
“You’ll always be T-Mac to me,” Ollie said, clinking his glass against her own.
Slow your roll, Ollie said to himself. Yeah, Tara is hotter than ever, but don’t leave yourself open for disappointment.
“I forgot how much I liked that nickname. Who called me that first? Was it you, Lenny?” she said.
“That was way too many beers ago to remember.” He turned to Steven. “Though I do remember bestowing Cooter on your country ass.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“What, you too good to be old Coots McGoots?”
“Too good, too old, and n-not liking being called a slang word for vagina.”
They all went silent.
Steven stared hard at Lenny, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. For a moment, Ollie thought he was going to punch Lenny.
“Especially coming from a guy who was called a sawed-off dick.” He broke into a grin, popping the bubble of tension.
“Nice one, Coots,” Tara said.
Maybe things will turn out different with Tara when she hears what I have to say, Ollie thought.
He remembered it was Tara who had bestowed the nickname Raging Bull on him after a particularly nasty bar fight. At the time, he thought it was a damn cool nickname. And it was, until things fell apart.
Now, here was his chance to put things back together again, despite the odds. Not that he considered the improbability of chance anymore. Winning Powerball had a way of making you dismiss insurmountable odds.
Under the table and out of sight, he dug his thumbnail into his palm hard enough to jolt some sobriety into his brain. It was too easy to think that just because he was a gajillionaire, he could have anything, and anyone, he wanted. Tara had been a party girl back in the day, but she wasn’t a freaking bauble on a shelf that would fall into his cart just because he could afford it.
Tara eyeballed the pack of cigarettes on the table next to her drink. She looked to Ollie. “You think I could light up?”
“You can do anything you want. The place is ours tonight and we make the rules.”
She sparked her lighter and took a deep drag, her eyes rolling up in her head until he could only see the whites. “Oh, it feels so good to smoke in a public place. Even better than peeing in the woods.”
“You were a world class outdoor pisser,” Marco said.
“I have an abnormally small bladder.” She blew a perfect smoke ring. “Anyway, to answer our host’s question, I was a veterinary assistant for the past few years, at least until my boss died in a car accident. That was five months ago. Out in the boonies where I live, there isn’t much call for vet assistants. So, I’m down to my last month of unemployment and enjoying daytime TV.”
Lenny tenderly placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shrugged. “Shit happens. I’m pretty sure I won’t end up a bag lady. My sister lives down in Nashville. I might relocate and take my chances there. At least it’ll be an improvement in the nightlife, food, and music departments.”
“That it would,” Steven said. “Heidi and I spent a week there during our honeymoon. I think I gained five pounds.”
“More like ten,” Heidi said with a devilish smirk.
Lenny ordered another round of drinks. Everyone set to work finishing what they had.
Marco gnawed on his thumb, just the way he used to eat away at his nail during final exams. Ollie saw that there was practically no nail left, the skin red and raw and mangled.
Ollie felt the weight of the unsp
oken, the questions they all had, pressing down on him. He desperately wanted another drink, but knew it would put him over the edge. No, better to do it now.
“So, I guess you’re wondering why I brought you all here,” he said.
“Obviously to brag about how you’ve made it big time in the world,” Marco joked.
“I gotta say, your invite had me curious,” Steven said. “And thank you for the extra ticket for Heidi.”
“I wanted to meet her. Besides, I couldn’t do this properly if she wasn’t here.”
“Please don’t let it be something maudlin or depressing,” Lenny said. “I’m working on my new year’s resolution to stay positive.”
Tara chortled. “The only resolution you make is to not make any resolutions.” She nudged Ollie. “Okay, Raging Bull, spill it.”
Looking into her eyes, Ollie almost forgot everything he’d rehearsed in front of his mirror for weeks. He hadn’t counted on the overwhelming rush of nostalgia and emotions he’d thought were long lost.
“What’d you do, win the lottery?” Marco asked, chuckling when Ollie’s mouth refused to obey his commands.
Ollie started to giggle, which turned into uncontrollable laughter. He leaned his elbows on the table, spilling the remains of Heidi’s drink.
His friends looked at him as if he’d had ten drinks too many. They were right, of course, but that wasn’t why he was laughing.
When he was able to catch his breath, he said, “As a matter of fact . . . I did.”
“Wait. What?” Marco said.
Ollie wiped a tear from his cheek. “I won the lottery.”
“Holy shit, that’s fantastic,” Lenny said.
“Not just any lottery. You remember the Powerball drawing for just under a billion dollars?”
Tara grabbed onto his arm. “The one that was won by one anonymous person?”
“Yep.”
“You’re the guy?” Steven said.
“I’m the guy.”
“You’re joking, right?” Marco said.
“If I am, this night is going to bankrupt me.”
There was a long pause, then an explosion of congratulations. There were hugs all around, even from Marco who had never been much of a man-on-man hugger.
