“Cool.”
Silence descends. I completely blank on anything to say.
“Um,” Davis clears his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing under the ink. “I, ah, just came here to tell you Ada’s getting that stag party to play Waterfall.”
“Oh God,” I mutter.
Waterfall means a circle of people pulling cards from a deck and racing drinks according to the numbers, with the first to fail made to do either a shot or a dare. Ada only starts games of Waterfall when she’s trying to ruin someone. Or many someones. “Is she playing?”
“Nope, she talked them into doing it. She’sdealing the cards, though.”
“Shit. Why?”
“Boredom?”
That doesn’t make sense. Ada would rather pull out her own teeth than drink with the stag guys. Which means she must have a plan in the works.
I get to my feet. People—men—always underestimate Ada. She’s tiny and looks like baby Monica Bellucci, and when she turns on the charm, few can resist. But under the surface, she’s pure steel. She also knows how to count cards and do sleight of hand, and has used said skills to great effect during drinking games since our early twenties. She’s also got a serious axe to grind with the boys from Pukekohe High, and an Ada out for revenge is a live grenade.
I make tracks for the door, Davis in hot pursuit.
“Want me to chuck the guys out?” he asks.
“No. I’ll flash Ada the bat signal. Get her back here. You’re sure she wasn’t drinking with them?”
“Nope.”
I don’t know why I asked. Alcohol isn’t the issue. Ada can handle her liquor like nobody I’ve ever met. People might be surprised to learn classical musicians drink almost as hard as rock stars, but they do. And Adaisa rock star on the classical circuit. She co-wrote a Christmas banger three years ago that basically makes her the orchestral Mariah Carey. She gets the kind of reactions from upper-crust crowds that you’d expect from normal people about the love child of Taylor Swift and all four Beatles.
Not that anyone around here would know. I might be trying to class up Afterglow, but even glamorous bars aren’t known for their flute appreciation. And Ada never talks about her music anymore. Even with me.
I re-enter the main bar, and sure enough, my best friend is sitting like a queen among drunken jesters in the centre booth, a deck of playing cards and empty shot glasses spread around her. Half the stags are now bare-chested, their red faces and sweaty brows revealing they’re beyond wankered.
Except for Jake. He’s sitting a few feet away, watching Ada like she’s the birthday present he’s been waiting all year to unwrap.
Ada flips a card over and grins. “That’s six again, boys.”
The guys groan theatrically, pounding one fist on the table as they raise their pints to their gaping maws. The main stag—Henry Bellinger—has Ada’s name written across his chest in lipstick.
“Christ,” I moan. “Ada!”
She doesn’t hear me over the Vengaboys, just sips her margarita with the calm blankness I’ve come to recognise the past few months.
There’s a lot about Ada that seems blank now, and not just because of her steady Mexican agave intake. Since she broke up with Name Forever Redacted, she’s been floating. She floated into my spare bedroom, and now she floats around the bar, floats through her days. Most people wouldn’t notice. Ada’s allure as a musician and a person has always been the sense that she’s slightly untouchable. But I always notice, and she’s never been like this before. There’s a hopelessness hovering beneath her calm, a detachment I can’t connect to. But as much as I love and want to support my best friend, I can’t let her commit more homicides in my already flailing murder bar.
“I can 86 them,” Davis repeats. “It’s been ages since you let me kick someone out.”
“That’s because deep down you hate being the bad guy. Besides, I need the money.” I flash him a reassuring smile. “I’ve got this.”
He frowns but lets me walk to the booth alone.
“Hey, Addy,” I say, flashing her a smile.
“Hey, Cee.”
Ada’s tone is light, but expressionless. A sure warning sign.
“Can I borrow you a moment?”
