Jag:Target aware of codename.
“Who’s Jag?”I ask, because apparently we’re doing this now. You know, the thing where I’ve already humiliated myself so thoroughly that there’s no point in pretending I have any dignity left.
“My head of security,” Marco says, like that’s a thing normal people have.
“You bought your security to a bar?” But of course he does. Someone of his status brings security everywhere.
I glance around, trying to spot whoever Jag is. There’s a guy sitting alone near the door, nursing a beer and very carefully not looking at us. He’s built like he could bench-press a car, with the kind of alert stillness that screams “ex special ops.”
I’ve seen him before, I realize. With Ethan and Marco. Just never put two and two together.
“Well,” I say, committing to the bit because what else can I do. “The meme... it’s accurate branding.”
Marco laughs. It’s low, and just a brief little snicker.
But it counts.
The bartender arrives with our drinks. Ethan ordered for all of us. Whiskey for him, some craft IPA for Marco, and a Moscow Mule for me because my brother actually pays attention.
I shove my empty beer mug aside, and wrap my fingers around the Mule. Then I pause.
“This round’s on me,” I announce, pulling out my card with probably too much force. Because I need to establish that I’m independent and capable and absolutely not the kind of person who needs a billionaire to buyher drinks.
I hand over my card.
The bartender swipes it.
Swipes it again.
“Um,” she says, and I already know. I can feel it coming like a freight train. “It’s declining.”
“That’s impossible,” I lie, my face becoming hot all over again. It’s not impossible.
Actually, it’s extremely possible.
It’s basically guaranteed given my current financial situation.
Why oh why do I keep embarrassing myself? In front ofhimof all people?
Worst night of my life.
“Try it again?” I suggest weakly.
She tries it again.
Same result.
I have that extra special full-body flush reserved for situations like this.
“I’ve got it,” Marco says, already pulling out his phone. Apple Pay. Of course.
“No, I can—”
The transaction goes through before I can finish my protest.
Ethan pats my shoulder reassuringly. “Your card probably just needs to be reset.”
We all know that’s not true, but I appreciate the attempt.
