“Bottle of Patron Gold. Two shot glasses, please. We need to forget,” Becks says.
“That’ll sure do the job,” she says with a lift of her eyebrows. “Looks like you’re going to be stuck here for a while anyway with the way paparazzi are stacking up outside.”
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
“Sorry, hon. We find out who in here called, we’re kicking their sorry asses to the curb,” she says louder than normal so those around us can hear her. She starts to walk away and then stops and turns around. “And we’ll stick ’em with your tab.”
I throw my head back with a laugh. “I like the way you think.”
She returns within minutes, our ongoing tab and prior large tips always earning us the best service. “Here you go, boys,” she says, as she sets two full shot glasses in front of us, and the bottle in between us. “May God rest your souls.”
“Amen to that,” Becks says as he lifts his glass. “What’s the first thing we need to forget?”
“Paparazzi.”
“Cheers,” he says as we tap our glasses against each other’s. “Fuck you, paparazzi.”
We toss the shots back. My throat burns as the warmth starts to flood through me. Becks lifts a lime from the bowl on the table and I mutter, “Pussy,” under my breath, earning me a flip of his finger. “Umm.” I think of what I want to forget next. “Fucking CJ.”
“Okay,” he draws the word out as he pours us another shot, “but if I’m drinking to forget something, I need to know what I’m supposed to forget since I sure as hell hope you’re not fucking CJ.”
“No. I’m not fucking CJ.” I belt out a laugh. My mind is starting to spin as I glance around the bar. “Because my goddamn hands are cuffed and not in a good way. He called earlier, said that in the eyes of the law, the tape was public. Eddie didn’t steal it from us per se. He uploaded it for free . . . isn’t making any money off it and so we can’t do shit about it. He gets his kicks fucking with us and we have no legal means to get back at him.”
“Sure as shit there are other means though,” he says with a smirk and a raise of his fist.
“Now that,” I say as I hold up my shot, “I’ll drink to. Cheers, brother.”
“Cheers.”
Our glasses clink. The tequila burns until it warms. Our laughter gets louder and our cheers get sloppier and take longer to come up with.
But I begin to forget.
About Eddie. The pressure to fix it all. And the thousands of men jacking off to the image of my wife holding her tits as she comes. And the rage over how she lost her job. And becoming a father. The need to win the next race. Being told to bite my tongue with the press.
And God does it feels good to forget.
I’m lost in thought, trying to figure out how many shots we’ve downed, when my phone rings. I fumble with my cell before answering.
“If it’s good enough to make me sober, Kelly, I just might forgive you for ruining my buzz,” I say into the phone with a laugh.
“You drunk?”
“Well on my way.”
“Understandably,” he says in his no nonsense tone. “Eddie checks in with his parole officer once a month.”
“Mm,” I say as visions fill my head of waiting for him outside the social services office and greeting him with a fist to the face.
“Don’t even think about it, Donavan. You got the restraining order for Rylee. Leave it at that. Just like I’ve told you all week long, you touch him, he’s going to sue you like he owns the Fluff and Fold and take you to the cleaners. It’s not worth it.”
Quit fucking telling me what to do.
“Let him try,” I sneer, admitting to myself he’s right but also knowing revenge gives its own special satisfaction. I begin to say something else when the thought hits me that I might be able to get him back and not lift a fucking finger. The problem is I want to lift more than a finger at him. I want a whole knockout fist.
“Thanks, Kelly. Keep me up to speed.” Thoughts try to connect through my fuzzy mind on how I can make this all work to my advantage. Fuck Eddie over. Redeem Rylee. Get back the happily ever after.
My plan could work.
“Everything okay?” Becks asks, as he looks up from his own phone.
Later, Donavan. Figure it out later. Right now? Drink.
“Fucking peachy,” I say, copying one of his go-to sayings. “Kelly’s got a line on Eddie.”
“And that pisses you off, why?”
“Just thinking.”
“That’s scary,” he teases and I slide my glass across the table so it clinks against his in response. “What is it?”
“Bad juju, man,” I finally say, trying to put into words what I think’s been bugging me the past few days. The drinking to forget didn’t numb this. “I’ve got this feeling that won’t go away.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Things have been too goddamn perfect for us. I have the fucking fairy tale, Becks. The princess, the castle, the—”
“Jackass,” Becks snorts as he points my way, causing me to laugh. Asshole. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist,” he says, putting his hands up in a mock surrender. “Please, continue.”
“Nah. Never mind.” Shut it down, Donavan. You sound like an idiot. A drunk one at that.
“No. Seriously. Go on.”
I concentrate on drawing lines in the ridges of the worn tabletop. “Shit in our life was just too good. Too perfect. And now with the tape and Ry’s job and . . .” My voice fades as I try to explain the feeling I don’t understand, but that all of a sudden feels like it’s clinging to me like a second skin. “I just keep waiting for the other shoe to drop to make this fairy-tale life of ours come crashing down. It’s a shitty feeling.”
“Feelings are like waves, brother. You can’t stop them from coming but you sure as fuck can decide which ones to let pass you by and which ones to surf.”
“Yeah, well, let’s just hope I don’t wipe the fuck out by picking the wrong one.”
Becks and I decide we’re looped enough to brave the chaos.
We push open the back door of Sully’s and are met with blinding flashes of light and a roar of sound. I wince. The alcohol makes the clicking shutters and shouts of my name sound like they’re coming through a megaphone. They stagger me. Blind me.
Anger the fuck out of me.
Sammy’s here. Pushing people back to let Becks and I inch toward the Rover. But each step, each push of the mob against me fuels my fire.
Take a step. A camera hits my shoulders. My fists clench.
“Colton, how does it feel to be the most downloaded video on YouTube in over five years?”
Another step. Questions shout. Sammy’s hands moving people back.
“Colton, are you and Rylee thinking of making a porn soon?”
One more step. A single thought: Rylee dealt with this on her own yesterday on the beach. Motherfucker.
“Colton, how is Rylee handling all of this?”
Another step. The car within reach. Flash in my eyes. Fury in my veins.
Fuck Chase’s no comment advice. Fuck everyone. I’m done. Shoved way too far one way, and now I’m coming back swinging.
“You want a comment?” I shout. Silence is almost automatic. “Well, I’ll give you one.” I glance over to where Becks is standing in the open car door, eyes full of pride, telling me I’m doing the right thing.
“The question is, do you really want to know how we feel or are you just interested in twisting your story because sex sells so much better than the truth? I get it. I do. And if you take the selfless do-gooder who’s spent her life helping others and turn her into a whore who makes sex tapes in exchange for funding . . . well shit, that sells ten times more. But that’s not who Rylee Donavan is.” I take a breath. My body vibrates with anger. My thoughts slowly click together.