He swaggers toward the bar without asking what I want. Cece’s disappeared, so he orders off Krissy while I hit my vape and weigh my options. If I tell him to leave as soon as he sits down with a drink, he’ll probably blow his stack. Then what? I need to sit tight and play smart.
Thrasher returns with a pint and a white wine for me. I hate white wine, but I accept the glass with a smile. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He raises his drink to my boobs. “Here’s to seeing these again.”
My disgust makes my decision for me. Revenge plan back on. And now I want the Empire State Buildingandthe Eiffel Tower. Plus interest.
I force a giggle, tap my glass to his and drink. It tastes like corkboard.
“I had a thing for you at school, ya know?” Thrasher says.
I do know. I have a folder full of batshit emails to that exact effect. “Oh my gosh,really?”
“Yeah.” He leans across the table, hitting me hard with hiswhiskey breath. “Remember that day at the bus stop? I was tryna flirt, and you got all feisty with me?”
I fill my mouth with wine to keep from screaming. There’s retconning the past, and there’s calling that grotesque incident ‘flirting.’ How do you bend your brain enough to turn pushing a girl over into some cute teen folly?
I kill the rest of Cece’s house chardonnay before I trust myself to meet Thrasher’s gaze again, but I shouldn’t have bothered. Whatever he sees in my face, he’s obviously mistaking for shyness.
“I can’t believe you had a crush on me?” I say through gritted teeth.
Thrasher’s grin is ‘Philosophy PhD’ levels of condensing. “Everyone wanted a go on the hot nerd.”
The Empire State Building. The Eiffel Tower. All the king’s horses. All of his men. Plus interest.
“You thought I was a nerd?” I say, mock-wounded.
“Yeah. Proper nerd with big tits. You were a bit shy to try to poke, but I wanted to.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. “Good to know.”
He snorts. “Forgot you’re Aussie. You talk funny.”
I want to say,“I talk funny? This whole fucking country needs nasal decongestants.”What I actually say is nothing. I just giggle.
Thrasher launches into a rambling story about his housing renovations. Apparently, slate tiles are expensive these days. I ask relevant questions, if only to stave off boredom, but Thrasher’s One Of Those Guys. The kind that likepussybut have zero interest in conversing with, much less listening to, a woman.
I stare glumly at my empty wine glass as Thrasher drones on about lode-bearing walls and wait for a pause. The second he draws breath, I head to the bar for tequila and a double scotch.
Endurance and advanced alcohol tolerance are my only assets in this situation. If all goes well, I’ll get Thrasher drunk, hopefully wring something incriminatingout of him and send him packing. At least that’s my plan until he excuses himself to go to the bathroom and comes back with pupils the size of pinpricks.
“Wanna bump?” he slurs.
Of course. Fake Kiwi cocaine. The only thing missing from this horror show. I want to tell him to fuck off out of Cece’s bar with that shit, but running a con is like improv. You don’t say, ‘No.’ You say, ‘Yes, and...’
I sneak a look at Davis and find him mercifully buried in his phone. “Why not?”
Thrasher slides me the bag, his too-hot fingers lingering on mine. I take the ‘coke’ to the bathroom and tip a little down the toilet, pinching my cheeks to give myself a flush.
“One more drink,” I tell my reflection. “Then you can pretend to start work early and bail.”
“Saw that mag you were on,” Thrasher says when I return to my playpen. “Red dress?”
I know what magazine he means,New Image, November issue. ‘Christmas Wish’ had just hit number one in the UK, and New Zealand was trying to claim me like some reverse Russell Crowe. The photos were pretty, but the headline was ‘Ada Renaldo: Making the Flute Sexy,’which only served to further imply I was fucking myself with it. I swear, the flute’s never going to beat thoseAmerican Piecharges.
“I loved that dress,” I say truthfully. “Did you like it?”
“Yeah, you looked alright. You still play the flute?”
