by Willa Okati
Or even better, they’d have grabbed an order to go and eaten naked in the apartment, crumbs in the sheets notwithstanding.
Harper nursed his Corona and reflected gloomily that if he’d sunk so far as to contemplate the fate of a tortilla chip at such great length, he could go nowhere but up.
“Earth to Harper. Hello?” Lisa waved two inches from his nose. “What’s with you? This is good news, and you look like you’re ready to whip out a fresh hankie and weep.” She pushed the basket of chips his way. “I get that you’re upset about their maybe or maybe not picking someone else to be head writer.”
“Very kind of you to sympathize,” Janie remarked across the table. “Rory, do you plan to eat that chip or use it as performance art?”
Rory’s grin came in for a landing at roughly one-eighth its normal wattage. “I could be the next big star at the Met.”
“I thought that was opera.” Lisa plucked the fragment of chip remaining away from Rory and popped it in Harper’s mouth. Harper chewed and swallowed automatically, not tasting any of the corn or spices, but only the faintness of cloves that Rory carried with him.
He cleared his throat to free it of residue and addressed Janie. “It’s been a long time since we were out together. Glad you could make it.”
Janie’s edges had softened under the influence of a strawberry daiquiri made with fresh fruit that she swore, after three sips, tasted of sunshine in Madrid. Harper thought, for a second, about taking her hand and kissing the knuckles in play, as if paying homage to a queen. Nah. Just because the tiger was sleepy didn’t mean it had lost its teeth.
Rory might be able to get away with it.
“Wouldn’t miss a chance to eat dinner on someone else’s tab. You are still paying for the group, aren’t you, Lisa?” Janie chuckled to herself at Lisa’s gasp of horror and nibbled at the remnants of a crushed red berry. “Kidding. I do remember how to and I am still human, you know.”
Harper sensed, rather than saw, Rory’s tiny flinch.
No one else seemed to notice. Janie wiped her fingers on her starched white napkin and picked up her conversational thread, seemingly oblivious of subtext. “I wouldn’t worry too much about the head writer’s position. Odds are good the decision won’t come in for a while, not unless they’ve already got someone in line.”
“But what happens if they don’t want him? Which they will.” Lisa jabbed Harper in the chest.
“It’s possible they won’t.” Janie cut a glance at Harper, who shrugged. “They could want their own person to take a different spin, in which case Harper should get a big check for selling the concept.”
“He did all the work, though. That’s not fair.”
“Such is the nature of the beast. I seem to remember you found your way to Twilight Rising in dead men’s shoes.” Janie sipped the mostly watered down tequila at the bottom of her glass. “I’m not worried. I do believe in being prepared.”
“Okay, fine. Spoilsport,” Lisa huffed. “Harper, in the meantime, eat, drink, and be merry. Really merry. You get me?” Lisa propped her head on Harper’s shoulder. “I think I’m drunk.”
“How many margaritas was that? Two?” Rory’s eyebrows knitted. “Does she normally have the tolerance of a church mouse?”
“A teetotaling church mouse. Don’t worry, it’s not too bad. She’s not dancing on chairs yet,” Harper bantered back without thinking.
He and Rory fell instantly silent.
Harper itched beneath his skin, indignation growing in a storm cloud. For God’s sake, they weren’t teenyboppers ditched at a lindy hop. They were grown men, even if one of them was an abstract concept in human form, and they ought to be able to wrestle this out.
Except he wasn’t about to concede his point and didn’t figure Rory would back down either, which danced them right back to square boned, with no lube.
A second beer sounded like a fantastic idea. Harper drained his to the dregs, sucked the lime into his mouth, and bit. There. Now he had an excuse for his sour face.
“Pfft. Neither of you are any fun,” Lisa declaimed. “I’m not even involved, technically, and I’m ready to party. Rialto…the Rialto…liked your concept and your scripts…yours ‑‑”
“She grows italics like kudzu when she’s excited, doesn’t she?” Rory directed his question to Janie, not Harper.
“I have noticed this over the years, yes.”
“I’m talking here!” Lisa protested. She attempted to brush her hair away from her face, the fruit-enhanced liquor she’d consumed so far making her forget she’d chopped it off into three-inch spikes. “It’s party time, Harper. You know they’ll contract you as head writer. They have to.”
“Nothing’s sure in life but death, taxes, traffic jams, and gravity.”
“Okay.” Lisa leaned over the table, addressing herself earnestly to Janie. “What’s he gotta do to make it fact?” She pounded the wood. “Grease some palms or cross them with silver?”
“That’d be Salomei,” Rory said quietly. “When she thinks she’s up against a rube.”
“And Osborne’s the first one who fools her, instead,” Harper replied, equally hushed. He licked his lips. “Rory, I ‑‑”
“Shhhhhhhh.” Lisa pressed her hand over his mouth. “This is important. Janie? Lay it on me. What’s Harper gotta do to make that job his?”
“Outside of blowing the veep? No offense, Rory.”
Rory mumbled something noncommittal around an abrupt mouthful of chip.
“Technically? There’s nothing left to do but wait,” Janie concluded. “I’m not telling you this, mind, but if they come to you asking where the story goes from here, might be they’re looking for intel on where you saw it heading. Could do you some good to write a few extras. Good stuff, better than before. Blow ‘em away and show ‘em you’re valuable enough to keep around.” She peered at her empty glass. “Not that you heard that from me. Where’s our waiter?”
Hope floats. Harper had suffered through the movie once and hadn’t quite gotten the point. Now he did, a thin slice of optimism rising like lemon through tea. Hmm. His metaphors suffered under the influence. But if he still needed Rory even though the show had been acquired…
Though he couldn’t tell, he thought he could hear Rory not breathing. His hands flexed, aching to squeeze Rory’s.
“You look so sad,” Lisa mourned, pouting at him. “Cheer up, emo kid.”
“I’ll emo kid your ass.” Harper tweaked a tousled spike of hair. “I am happy,” he lied. “Happy as a barrel of monkeys. See?” He pasted on a Joker’s manic smile.
Lisa seemed temporarily satisfied. Rory snorted quietly and Janie rolled her eyes.
“There’s a lie if I ever heard one, and it’s starting to get on my nerves. I ‑‑” Janie interrupted herself with a sharp shake of her head. “It’s been a hell of a few months, children, and I for one plan to drink half my weight in tequila and soak it up in fajitas escarole. I suggest you join me. Senor?” She arrested the attention of a passing waiter as she did anyone crossing her path.
A smart man with a sense of self-preservation, or possibly one who could smell a large tip, he stopped. “Si, senorita?”
“Quatro tequilas, por favor.”
“No, no, no. Not enough. Make that ‑‑” Lisa counted on her fingers, singing a Sesame Street vintage jingle under her breath. “Ocho! Ocho tequilas. Wait, wait…what’s the word for twelve tequilas?”
“Stomach pump,” Rory replied. Harper smothered a snicker in his cerveza.
In that brief moment, their eyes met, Rory’s the sparkling green of mischief managed to Harper’s. Rory’s grin faltered as Harper’s slid cleanly away.
He attempted to reach past Lisa to his muse. “Rory, I ‑‑”
“I need a smoke before the appetizers get here,” Lisa announced, shoulder-checking Harper. “Move it, hot stuff.”
The moment shattered. Rory cleared his throat and turned his attention to a rapt study of the original, semipro
fessional oil painting on the wall behind their booth.
Harper wondered if he’d been around to inspire the artist’s hand, and the beer turned to the taste of ashes in his mouth. “Want me to come with?”
“Not unless you want to go to the ladies’ with me as well.” Lisa found that funny for some reason ‑‑ who knew what went on in her head on occasion? She wiggled her way out of the booth as soon as Harper slid free.
Wobbling on her feet, she scowled at Harper and pointed accusingly at Rory. “This is the biggest night of your life, and you two are sulking. Kiss and make up before I put a stiletto through each of your eyes. I have two. Enough to go around. Hmph. That’ll show them.”
“Lightweight,” Janie muttered. “Something tells me I should accompany her to make sure she doesn’t fall in. Would you boys excuse me?” She tucked her purse ‑‑ no small, elegant clutch for Janie ‑‑ under her arm and made to slide out. “And by the way, I suggest you do what she said. The tension between you two, I could slice it like a tomato. Celebration or not we’re nowhere near done yet and you’d better not lose your edge. Do what you have to and get it back.”
“Damn right.” Lisa hiccupped.
The silence that fell when the two women left was palpable, thick and pulpy as mashed fruit, bitter as unripe figs. Harper worried the soft meat on the inside of his cheek and ran his finger around the rim of his otherwise untouched water glass, listening to the thin crystal chime. Talk to him, you idiot. Open your mouth and use your words.
He couldn’t think of a single one. What was he supposed to say, anyway? “Sorry?” That’d fix everything, boy howdy.
“You need inspiration for this, too?” Rory joked, his heart so far from in it that it wasn’t even on the horizon. “Harper…it’ll be okay. I promise.”
“Somehow, I don’t think so.” Those weren’t the words Harper had wanted. He wasn’t sure which ones they’d be.
Fuck this noise, anyway. Harper slid out of the booth, sure as shootin’ that he’d pop off at the fists if he sat there any longer and drowned in the choking awkwardness. The innocent tequila shots arriving hadn’t done anything to deserve that kind of ill treatment. “I’m going to get some air.”
“I could come with ‑‑” Rory started to rise.
“No. Don’t. I’ve gotten out of the habit of being alone. I could use some practice.” He tried for rueful and came out bleak. “Maybe I could work on some brooding, too.”
Rory snorted softly. “Trust me, you don’t need any help in that department, my friend.”
Something tiny yet fully audible went pop in Harper’s head. “Am I your friend? I’d thought so. Maybe I was wrong.”
“Harper, don’t. If you’d shut your yap and listen to me for a minute, I could ‑‑”
“Explain?” Harper laughed without humor, the sound scratchy. “That might have worked earlier today, when I ran after you and you turned the cold shoulder.”
“I didn’t know what to say.”
“And now you do. I don’t know if I want to hear it.”
“Calm down, Harper,” Rory hissed, reaching for him. “You want to explain a catfight to Janie?”
Harper had passed the point of listening to Rory. “Still calling me friend. That’s priceless, Rory. What was I to you? A walking dildo? A bonus in the real world, getting to scratch your itches when you’re human, for however long it lasts?”
“You can be a real bastard sometimes, you know that?”
“I’m inspired.” Harper kicked free of the booth. “And I was taught by the best.”
“Fuck you.” Rory wrestled his way out and past Harper, not looking back. “Find your own damn muse for the rest of this project. You won’t listen to me? Fine. I’m done. Have a good life, Harper.”
“Go to hell!” Harper shouted after Rory. He waited until the door had closed behind his muse and dealt the table a vicious kick.
Converse sneakers were not the best for this operation. Toes bruised and temper black, Harper headed for the exit. Not chasing his muse, no. Just…after that fresh air. That was it. Yeah.
Chapter Thirteen
Outside, the night was cool and clear, the air thin as white wine and refreshing as spring water. Harper thumped the back of his head to the brick facade at the side of the restaurant door and looked up at the sky. “How’d things get this wrong?” he asked himself out loud.
“Lover’s spat?” Patrick swung out of the shadows, smirking gleefully.
Harper closed his eyes. “It’s the icing on the cake. Hello, Patrick. And good-bye. Sorry you had to leave so soon.”
Patrick tsked. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette. Probably Gauloises, unfiltered, French. “Whoever your boy toy is, he’s a bad influence on your social skills.”
“You have no idea.” Harper exhaled through his nose. “What do you want, Patrick?”
“Me? Not much. I heard the good news through the grapevine ‑‑”
“From whom?”
“I have my sources. Especially when I have a personal interest. Smoke?”
“Depends. Can I set you on fire?”
“Ouch. And the claws come out,” Patrick murmured. “Harper, would you at least do me the courtesy of looking at me when offering death threats? Smile for the birdie.”
Harper’s eyes popped open. “You’re not recording this.”
Patrick smirked. The look didn’t work half as well for him as it did for Rory. “That’s for me to know, and for you to find out.”
A fast scan showed no cell phone camera or LED gleaming anywhere on Patrick’s person. Didn’t mean he wasn’t packing. “You came to congratulate me.” Harper gritted his teeth. “Thank you.”
“Was that so hard?” Patrick flipped his cigarette away. The ember rolled to the curb and tumbled down a gutter. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to a sound bite about what viewers can look forward to on the new venture you’re so obviously celebrating?”
“Ask until you turn blue in the face. You won’t get a word out of me.”
“So nothing’s official. You’re partying, yet things could still go wrong. Interesting. Say, how much have you had to drink?” Patrick held his hands up, framing Harper. “Up-and-coming scriptwriter a secret alcoholic? He does have a habit of talking to himself in public. You, the viewers, get to decide. Sources say ‑‑”
“I have no problem telling the world about the size of your dick, Patrick. Microphallus, isn’t that what they call it?”
“Only if you’re comparing penis length to horses or elephants. And that was childish, even for you.”
“I’ve had recent experience to provide a decent contrast, Patrick. Horses wish they were hung like ‑‑” Harper stopped himself.
“Hmm. Like the gentleman who rushed past a minute before you, zipping out of here as if his tail was on fire? Interesting. A bathroom blowjob not go so well? Too much tooth action?”
Harper rubbed his eyes. “Are we going to stand around trading insults all night, or is there a point you think you could come to anytime soon?”
“Harper, Harper, Harper,” Patrick chided. “What’s it going to take for you to realize that we’re not enemies?”
Harper snorted. Eloquently.
“Fine, I’ll concede the point.” Patrick rubbed a thumb over his chin. “We were good together, you know. What happened?”
“February eighteenth of this year, you were caught selling confidential information to a tabloid. February nineteenth, you were fired.”
“That’s the job. Not us.”
“You were selling my storylines! Forgive me for being cross about it.”
“Details, details.” Patrick withdrew a sleek leather cigarette case from the breast pocket of his suit ‑‑ tailored charcoal, fitting him like a glove ‑‑ and tapped out a fresh smoke. “That’s all in the past. We should work together toward a brighter future.”
“One in which I spill enough secrets for the network to jettison us before the ink’s dry? Sure thing. Wher
e do I start?”
Patrick’s lips thinned. “I’m trying, Harper. Fling all the sarcasm at me you want.”
Huh? “Trying for what?” Harper asked, confused.
Patrick gazed at Harper over the glowing ember of his cigarette. “We were good together,” he repeated. “Maybe I’m interested in reliving the old times.”
“I think there’s something in my ear. I cannot have heard you right. You’re insane.”
“It’s possible. Maybe you’re not as uninterested as you’d like me to believe,” Patrick went on, silky-smooth. “The man who went past me, the one I hear you’ve been fucking like a bunny on a binge, didn’t look too pleased, and as for you, I could package your mood and sell it to Dr. Kevorkian.”
“The most telling part about this conversation is the unspoken understanding that you have no idea how completely unfunny that is. I wouldn’t fuck you with someone else’s dick, Patrick. Are we done?”
“Not even close.” Patrick blew out a plume of stinging smoke. “You don’t want a roll for old times’ sake. Fair enough. How about revenge?” He slouched, one hip forward. “There’s nothing like sticking it to the one who’s done you wrong. You know we set the sheets on fire back in the day.”
Harper’s tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth.
“What do you say?” Patrick moved toward him. “I’ll leave your precious wheelings and dealings alone if you come home with me tonight. My hand on a stack of Bibles, I won’t say another word until everything’s signed and sealed wherever you’re going next.” He reached Harper and ran a finger under Harper’s lapel. “We could be a team again. I can respect your need for monogamy, if that’s what it takes. No more running away and leaving you behind.”
Up on tiptoe, he flicked his tongue over Harper’s ear. “What do you say?”
“I say…” Harper swallowed, the sides of his throat grating. He thrust his hand between them and pushed Patrick off. “I say no way in hell. You’re not getting anything out of me, not if I can help it, and you’re not getting in me even if that means I have to sew it shut.”
“Hmm.” Patrick withdrew, looking…pleased? No. Better than good. A cat faced with a dish of canaries in cream. “Funnily enough, I hoped you’d say as much.”