Payne groaned loudly. “I feel sick.”
“Well, vomit somewhere else. This is Army country.”
“Come on, man. You tricked me. How am I supposed to beat a robot?”
“C-3PO, my ass,” Cobb said with a grin. “I’m the fucking Terminator.”
Chapter 7
Jones walked into the back room of the Palm Pavilion as Cobb celebrated his victory. The scene confused Jones, who was expecting to see a sad and somber Cobb.
Perhaps dinner wouldn’t be needed after all.
Payne spotted his best friend and shouted across the room. “Where the hell have you been? I could’ve used reinforcements ten seconds ago.”
Cobb turned and saw Jones. He leapt off his chair and greeted Jones with a hug. “Good to see you, DJ. How are you doing?”
“Great,” Jones said. “How about you?”
“Better than before,” Cobb admitted. “Thanks for coming down here. It means the world to me.”
“My pleasure, man.”
Cobb smiled. “Please, grab a seat. Can I get you a—”
Payne cut him off. “Seriously, DJ, where the hell have you been? You dropped me off, like, yesterday. What took you so long?”
“First of all,” Jones snapped, “why’d I have to drop you off to begin with? I’m not your damn driver, and you ain’t Miss Daisy. Or are you, you racist bastard? What, you couldn’t be seen with a black guy in the parking lot?”
Cobb took a step back and laughed.
“Secondly,” Jones continued, “you could have told me there was a back room to this place, but noooooooo! Instead, you made me spend ten minutes searching for you outside while Eminem’s tone-deaf cousin butchered a song by Stevie Wonder. Stevie Wonder, Jon! Blind, brother Stevie Wonder! There should be a law against that—white people singing Motown. It just ain’t right!”
Payne sighed. “Are you done?”
“Far from it!” Jones snapped as he glanced at the table. “Finally, and this pisses me off most of all. After flying a thousand miles from Pittsburgh and making my way from the hot-as-Africa parking lot through the douchebag surfers and the torturous wails of Billy Joe Jim Bob, I finally find you guys in the air-conditioned comfort of this back room laughing your asses off. And when I look at your table, I notice two — count them: one, two—mugs instead of three. What, am I not allowed to drink with you guys? Is there a bar out back for us Negroes? Or do you expect me to drink directly from your pitcher? Because I’d gladly do it, if the damn pitcher wasn’t empty!”
Cobb glanced at Payne. “Is he always like this?”
“More than you can possibly imagine.”
Jones flipped off Payne, who returned the favor.
Cobb smiled and put his hand on Jones’s shoulder. “For the record, I started to say, ‘Can I get you a drink?’ when Jon rudely cut me off. And the only reason I didn’t get three mugs is because I couldn’t carry three and a pitcher by myself.”
“What do you mean? Where was Jon?”
“He was saving us a table.”
Jones glanced around the empty room. “From whom?”
Cobb grimaced. “That’s a very good point.”
“So,” Jones said, “let me see if I got this straight: the billionaire made me drop him off at the entrance, then he made you — a guy who just lost his fuckin’ job — buy the beer, and he didn’t even offer to carry it to the table?”
“Nope. He even whined about it when I tried to save you some.”
“The selfish prick.”
Cobb glanced at Payne. “I have to admit, he has a very strong case against you.”
Payne rolled his eyes at the theatrics. He wasn’t the least bit offended by Jones’s insults because they were completely unfounded. After all, Payne had paid for the private jet that had brought them there, rented their luxury SUV, and booked a large suite at the Grand Hyatt because Jones wanted to stay on the water.
But Payne was willing to play along.
“Fine,” he said begrudgingly, “I’ll buy the next round.”
“And?” Jones prodded.
“And, what?”
“What about dinner?”
“Fine! I’ll pay for dinner, too. But I get to choose the restaurant.”
“No,” Jones said, “Jack gets to choose the restaurant.”
“Fair enough. We’re here for Jack, so Jack chooses the restaurant.”
Jones grinned. “And Jack chooses the Island Way Grill.”
Cobb looked at him, confused. “I do?”
“Trust me,” Jones said, “you’ll love the scenery.”
Cobb shrugged. “The Island Way Grill, it is.”
“But that’s later. In the meantime, Jon is going to buy us a pitcher of beer and fetch me a frosted mug while you and I catch up.”
Payne gave him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”
“And bring me some nachos with cheese and bacon. I’m on vacation.”
Payne saluted him again — this time with his middle finger — before he left the room. Jones quickly took Payne’s chair because he knew it would piss him off.
“So,” Jones said to Cobb, “why are you so happy?”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t get me wrong: I didn’t expect you to be sobbing — because, as you know, robots can’t cry. But I did expect you to be angry as hell.”
“First of all,” Cobb said, “enough with the robot shit.”
“Sore subject. Duly noted.”
“Secondly, I’ve been pissed at the world for several months now, and my trip to MacDill certainly didn’t help my mood. Talk about humiliating.”
“Yeah,” Jones said as he cleaned the rim of Payne’s mug with his tank top before taking a swig of beer. “Sorry you had to go through that, but look on the bright side: you can make a lot more money in the private sector.”
“Doing what?”
“With your skills and training, you can work as a mercenary in any country in the world. Trust me, there are plenty of top-paying jobs out there for soldiers like you.”
“Maybe so, but I think you’re forgetting about my discharge.”
Jones waved it off with a brush of his hand. “Believe it or not, some people will view that as a positive. Seriously, if you’re looking for a merc, would you rather hire a squeaky clean cadet or someone who is willing to get his hands dirty?”
Cobb shrugged. “Depends on the job.”
“True. If I’m hiring a bodyguard to protect my family, I’d choose Captain America. But if I’m looking for someone to kill a dictator, I’d hire the Winter Soldier.”
Cobb stared at him. “Who the hell is the Winter Soldier?”
Jones laughed. “You are, if you grow your hair out.”
Chapter 8
Payne returned with a pitcher of beer and a frosted mug then waited impatiently for Jones to get out of his chair. “What’d I miss?”
“My nachos,” Jones muttered. “Where the hell are my nachos?”
“Relax, princess, I ordered them. I meant, what were you discussing?”
“Jobs,” Cobb replied.
Payne grinned. “Please tell me you’re reconsidering my offer.”
“What offer?” Jones asked.
Cobb laughed. “He wants me to cut his grass.”
“Dude,” Jones said, “you should totally do it. Jon’s yard is so large that mowing is a full-time job. By the time you finish the back, it’s time to start again in the front.”
“No thanks. I’ll pass.”
“Come to think of it, that’s probably a wise choice. I mean, who wants an asshole for his boss?”