Page 210 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
“A wet dream,” Malcolm chimes in, chortling dude-bro style. He knocks back his drink then sets down the glass. “Where are my manners? What can I get you, TJ?”
“A club soda, thank you.”
Malcolm scoffs with his whole body. “C’mon. It’s Vegas. Live a little.”
No way will I loosen my lips with liquor around these two. One’s a rhino, the other’s a honey badger. I’ll keep all my wits, thank you very much. “I’m good,” I say.
“Fair enough. But just so you know, this doesn’t count as drinks.” He slaps a meaty paw onto my shoulder. He’s sweaty, and now my shoulder is damp. “You’ll owe me a proper scotch back in New York.”
That’s a hard pass.
But do I deal with Malcolm’s invite or fend off the reporter’s questions? I pick my poison and turn to the terrifying blonde in the pink blouse. She’s like one of those tiny pistols you’d keep in an equally small purse like the one she carries, also pink.
“So, what brings you to The Extravagant tonight, Rikki?” I know Malcolm’s agenda, but I don’t know hers.
“Stone’s concert, of course. Everyone’s here. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, and it is so much easier to get around this city than Los Angeles. But enough about me. How are you? I am loving your shirt. The chipmunks are super cute.”
Maybe it’s the Southern accent, but Rikki Finch has scary charm, and I won’t fall for it.
“Thank you.” This is when years of smiling and saying little come in handy. “And I’m great, actually.”
“Oh.” She sounds like she’s feigning surprise. “Really?”
Hold on. Why wouldn’t I be good? Does she know something I don’t?
I double down with an “Absolutely.” She’s a predator, and everyone knows you don’t make any sudden moves with her kind.
“That is so good to hear. You can’t let all the ups and downs of this business get to you.” Her sympathy is a fat clue. She knows some bad news about me.
Great. Just great.
Flashing a fuchsia smile, she lifts her pink cocktail and takes a dainty sip.
Malcolm nods in solidarity. “Hear, hear.”
I’m dying to ask what they mean, but that would be a mistake. They’re trying to get a reaction from me or a scoop. The press always has an agenda. Rikki’s not here to make friends; she’s here to break stories.
I stay quiet, but Malcolm doesn’t. “I had to learn that too, TJ. You just can’t sweat the small stuff. When I started on satellite radio, a couple of douche canoes tried to rip me apart on Twitter and get me canceled. I learned to sayfuck the haters.”
He’s right, and that irks me. I hate thatfuck the hatersis golden advice.
I wish I knew what their buddy-buddy act is about. As the bartender returns with my club soda, I debate excusing myself and ducking into the little boy’s room to Google my name and find out what they know that I don’t. But they’d just talk about me behind my back. So, I drink.
Malcolm jerks his head. “What? No toast?”
How about to gasbags?I lift the glass. “Vegas, baby, Vegas,” I say instead. That’s innocuous.
He clinks. “I will drink to that.”
Rikki joins in, tipping her glass to Malcolm’s then mine. “So how do you feel about the news?” she asks me after taking a sip.
And the answer is she’s angling for a comment for a story. I thank the twenty-three-year-old reporter in me for knowing enough to ask the next question. “Is this on the record?”
She lifts her glass. “Sweetie, if I have a drink in my hand, it’s OTR.” She stops, then adds, “Off the record.”
“I’m familiar with how acronyms work,” I say drily.
Malcolm snaps his fingers. “Burn!”