The bartender places our drinks down and drops a cocktail straw in each of our glasses, giving Wesley another sidelong glance.
"Why wouldn't you read the fine print on the contract?" I ask Wesley, pulling his attention away from the TV and the bartender.
"The milk thing has gotten so old; I figured it was a boilerplate type of contract for another milk distributor. It never crossed my mind that someone would want to usemeof all people for a breast milk ad." I don't know why, but I find it attractive that he's speaking about the subject maturely after witnessing the behavior from the other men in the office.
"Do you think it's because you have a nice set of man boobs?" I lift my glass and push the straw to the side to take a quick sip. My question might need a moment to soak in, anyway.
"Wow, you're not quitting today, huh?"
"I'm just saying … when you're a model, you do things you don't always agree with, right?"
"How does that relate to man boobs?"
"It doesn't. I was just stating a fact."
"You're a funny one," he groans before downing half of the amber liquid in his glass.
"Yeah, but I'm not the one sitting at a bar with a milk mustache."
Wesley drops his glass and covers his mouth, realizing he never cleaned that crap off his face, which has probably dried like cement over the last few hours. I've been trying my best not to laugh or give him a funny look for the past twenty minutes, but it was my way of paying him back for scaring the shit out of me on the street.
However, it occurs to me, he must be so self-centered that he probably thinks people have been staring at him because of his good looks, rather than the fact that he's sporting a sweet milk mustache.That's cute and sad. "I'll be right back," he says.
I fiddle with the straw in my glass, wondering how the hell I ended up in a bar with a milk mustache model today.
Oh crap, I should let Layla know I won't be home for a bit and that I'm out with the 'Get Milk' guy. She'll get a kick out of this one.
When my display pops up on my phone, a slew of notifications flash with alerts, one by one with #VirtualGeneration flagged. I set up my notifications to inform me when the company is mentioned on social media. It's mostly from Instagram. I open one of the hashtag clogged posts and find a picture of Wesley and his milk mustache, posing with the baby. The only hashtag I can focus on is #milkman.Oh no.
@MinnieMouseLover92: The #getmilk #milkman #childstarsellout, @WesleyMoon is back and promoting milk with his rippling muscles, cute stache, and a baby in his arms for good measure. Too bad he's a dick and a moron. Wait until you hear the rest of this story … more to come. #VirtualGeneration
I hope Wesley's PR has good damage control capabilities. "Excuse me." I hold my hand up to get the bartender's attention. "Could I order my friend another drink? He's going to need it."
"Sure thing," the guy says. "Hey, uh, is he all right? He's got a little something going on …" The bartender points to his top lip.
"Yeah, it was just a misunderstanding, but he's taking care of it now."
"I don't want to know," the bartender says, holding his hands up.
No, you don't.
I don't think I have to wonder how this photo got out. Minnie Mouse didn't think twice about concealing her identity. She will be in legal trouble if she doesn't find a way to fix this, which I'm partially to blame. Mick seems all tough when under pressure but he was probably pissing himself after Wesley left, and if his Minnie saw, she probably took the opportunity to sabotage him. I can't think of any other reason why she would post this.
Wesley pokes his head out of the bathroom and shouts, "Madelyn," from behind his hand, still cupping his mouth. "What kind of glue did you use?"
"I don't know, the kids' kind. Why?" I guess I don't need to ask why since he still has his mouth covered.
"I can't get it off. I need help."
The bartender is looking at us like we're nuts. "I promise nothing crazy will happen in the bathroom. I have to help him get off—I mean get the milk off his face. It's glue and cream. Okay, there's really no good way to say this, so I'll be right back." We're the only two in here still, but there are two bathrooms for men and women, and I don't want to cause a ruckus.
I run over to help Wesley and close us into the bathroom. This place might be a bit fancier than other bars, but the bathroom is still how I imagined a man's bar bathroom. The mirrors have hand streaks, a thick film of bodily fluids covers the floor, and it smells like urine mixed with stale beer. I circle around until I locate the paper towels. "What have you tried so far?"
"Peeling it off?" he says as if I'm asking a dumb question. "I used soap and water too, but it's not working. I think it's stuck to my hair."
I reach into my purse and grab my bottle of hand sanitizer and squirt some onto the paper towel. Again, for the second time today, I have my hand gripped around Wesley's chin as I rub away at the glue, gently, so I don't irritate his skin more than it probably is.
It comes right off with the sanitizer, but the skin beneath is red, as I assumed it would be. "I don't think anyone else will notice since you have stubble. It's just a little red."
