Chapter 35

35

He stole my idea. He stole my show. He stole my spot.

It’s that simple and that shitty.

Normally, I’d go to Gin Joint right about now.

Okay, well, not exactly right about now because it’s five in the evening and that’s workout time, and a workout is precisely what I need. An hour at the gym, some time on the exercise bike, some Beatles and Rolling Stones, and maybe, hey, maybe some Eric Clapton too, since my countrymen always reset me properly.

But after a shower, I can still smell fumes of annoyance wafting off me. I hate being annoyed. I hate feeling like I’m spinning on a hamster wheel.

And I wish I could go to Gin Joint, catch Malone singing, grab a beer with Nick if he’s there, then chat with Truly. I want to sort out this epic ball of frustration inside me by talking to friends. But I can’t separate this knot from her right now, as much as I want to.

Rationally, I know it’s not her fault. She made an offhand suggestion to a barman. A smart idea too. The same suggestion I’d give the guy. Hell, it’s the advice I spew out all the bloody time.

And yet, it’s bitten me in the arse.

I head to a club in the Meatpacking District where Walker is deejaying, figuring a stiff drink certainly can’t hurt matters. That’s exactly what I get when I arrive, ordering whiskey amid the haze of cosmopolitan-this and martini-that going out to the young twenty-somethings in leather pants and tight tops that slouch off the shoulders. I grab my drink, knock it back, and check my watch. Walker told me he usually puts on a longer mix and takes a short break at nine.

As I turn around to make my way to a booth, I spot my buddy Josh, who looks as out of place as a man in dress pants, a crisp white shirt, and a silk tie can look at a dance club. I stop when I see him, eyeing him up and down derisively, practically shouting, “Didn’t you get the memo to dress for the occasion?”

“Yeah. This is my occasion. Business. That’s why I dress like I’m wheeling and dealing millions of dollars in pro athlete contracts.”

I break out my imaginary violin. “I feel so bad for you, what with all those rich athletes you have to represent.”

“Hey, I have to be a virtuoso, because there’s this new basketball player in town that everyone’s trying to get a piece of. Including Haven.”

“Ah, Haven. The one, the only.”

He shoots me a look, like he can’t believe I’d refer to her that way. “No, Haven is not the one, the only. She’s this . . . this . . . She’s a total ballbuster. She’s a pain in the ass. She’s a double serving of I can’t even .”

“Sounds as if you fancy her.”

He shoots me a searing look. “No. Just no.”

I clap him on the shoulder. “Have it your way. Why don’t I treat you to a glass of whiskey, Mr. Monopoly?”

We head to a quieter bar in a corner of the club. When I see Walker making his way through the crowd, I motion for him to join us.

He claps us both on the back. “What brings you cats to my club? You can’t resist the skills I share with the night owls, right?”

“It’s barely nine. It’s hardly night-owl hour. More like Wall Street and Madison Avenue hour.”

Walker rubs his thumb and forefinger together. “And they bring the greenbacks to hear me spin.”

We catch up for a few minutes about business, and I order another drink while Walker asks for a water. As we talk, Josh jerks his gaze toward the dance floor occasionally, then Walker narrows his eyes at me. “What’s with you tonight, Reynolds? You’re not your usual chipper self.”

I drag a hand through my hair, slumping against the bar. “It’s that obvious?”

Walker points his thumb at Josh. “As obvious as his interest in Leather Pants Woman.”

Josh snaps to attention. “What are you talking about?”

“The woman in the tight leather pants and silver-sequined top. The one who looks like she’d have your balls for breakfast along with a kale smoothie, all before she goes to her Zumba class. C’mon. You think I didn’t notice you were staring at her? You forget who you’re dealing with. I see everything.” He points to his eyes.

“She’s not having my balls for breakfast.”

“But is she having the kale smoothie before Zumba?” I ask.

“Whatever. That’s Haven. She’s . . .”

“She’s the ballbuster?” I supply.

Walker pats Josh’s shoulder. “Maybe you need your balls busted. Ever consider that?”

“No. But maybe you need yours waxed. Ever consider that?”

“Who’s to say I don’t wax them already?”

Josh cracks a rare smile, then signals a time-out. “TMI.”

“We’ll put a pin in the ball convo for now.” Walker turns to me. “All right. Serve it up, man.”

I heave a sigh as the bartender brings my drink, and I thank him then answer Walker. “I’m just annoyed. I was on Ryder’s show this morning, and everything seemed to be going well. He asked me to come back—there’s an opening there, and I felt like I was primed to nab it. On my way out, though, I ran into this other guy—who’s bloody fucking British too—who might as well have been carrying the job around like a wrapped present, playing with the bow so everyone looks at it.”

Walker sighs sympathetically. “Happens to the best of us, man. Somebody’s always taking jobs. That’s just the way it goes.”

“Not really what I wanted to hear.” I knock back some whiskey.

Josh shoots me a look. “Why is that not what you wanted to hear? That’s the truth. That’s the truth of business. I lose business to Leigh Jensen, to Scott Borehead, to CAA and that guy who looks like Dwayne Johnson. And they lose business to me. We’re all reeling our lines off the same boat, angling for the same fish. Right now, the shortstop on the Yankees is up for grabs. And Haven wants Lorenzo too, I’m sure.”

“The shortstop. Always the shortstop,” I say with a groan.

Walker simply shrugs. “If I were a shortstop, I’d literally want for nothing in life.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” I say.

Josh barely notices our exchange. He just picks up where he left off. “I’m not going to let Haven win him though. Not after I lost two clients to her in the last month.” He growls in her general direction. “Haven Fucking Delilah.”

Walker rolls his eyes. “Hey, Josh. Why don’t you tell us how you really feel?”

“You want to hear what happened? Because she poached my clients, man.”

“Yeah, I’m dying to hear all about the poaching. Tell us about Leather-Pants Poacher,” Walker says dryly.

Josh huffs, dismissing it with a wave. “I’m not talking about her. I’m done talking about her. She pisses me off too much. Plus, look at her.” Our eyes drift toward the aforementioned Haven. The poacher. The evil one.

The complete and absolute babe.

“Seems you can’t stop looking at her,” I remark, and he snaps his gaze back to us.

“Anyway, let’s help our sorry-ass friend,” Walker says, meaning me, and downs his water quickly. “I have five minutes.” Walker turns to me. “Here’s the deal. You had an opportunity. It looks like it went to someone else. You just move on.”

“I know. I know. It’s just that some days I feel like I make progress, then I’m back to square one.”

Josh lifts a glass. “Welcome to the grind, man. That’s how it is. You have to get used to it, and don’t stop moving.”

“I’m used to it. Don’t you see? It’s what I’ve been doing for the last six or seven years.”

Josh shoots me a look. “Dude, I’m in my mid-thirties. I’ve been hustling since I was twenty-one. Wait, no. I’ve been hustling since I was six and watched Montana win back-to-back Superbowls, and decided I wanted to rep superstars like him. It never ends.”

Walker points to himself. “I’ve been a hardcore music fan since, well, since I was in the womb, I think.”

Josh nudges him, a smirk on his face. “Please, tell us about the music you listened to in the womb. That sounds really fascinating. Was Mozart playing when you were in mommy’s tummy?”

I laugh. “Or did your mum get you addicted to Cyndi Lauper?”

Walker scoffs. “My mom played Mozart for me, and I’m damn proud of it. Made me smart. I graduated early from college. But the point is, this is how it goes. You take the awesome highs with the messy, muddy middles and the dreary lows, and we’ll be here to support you. That’s what good friends are for. To stop you from wallowing in your own misery. You have friends because you’re not always going to get what you want at work. Work is a fickle mistress. But friends?” He gestures from himself to Josh to me. “Friends are the glue.”

Josh nods, holding up a fist. “Bro code.”

“Man code,” Walker corrects as he knocks back. I join in, though a voice in the back of my head tells me I’m the worst violator of the code, in spite of my fresh-air sabbatical.

“Friends make it all more bearable. You see your friends, you have a drink, you listen to a tune, and you kick back. You reflect on the state of the world. You realize that there’s all sorts of shit going on that’s way worse than a gig not going your way. You donate a little money to a charity. You move on, and then you pull yourself up. When you get home tonight, give money to the homeless or to rescue dogs or to kids living in poverty, okay?”

A bit of shame coats my throat as I finish my drink. I have been wallowing, and I’m not a wallower. “You’re right. I can’t feel sorry for myself. What the fuck is that? One hundred percent unacceptable is what.”

Josh lifts his glass. “Amen, brother. To never feeling sorry for yourself.”

I clink my glass to his. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Besides, I still have the regular weekly gig. I haven’t lost that. So I’m just status quo.”

“And speaking of keeping things status quo, I need to have a few words with Haven.”

Josh stalks over to confront his nemesis, and I hear a few words of their conversation.

“You come in here to try to steal more clients from me?”

She crosses her arms. “As if I have to steal them.”

“You know that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“Maybe you ought to do a better job holding on to them.”

He inches closer, getting up in her space. “You do know there’s a reason why you shouldn’t be doing this?”

She juts her chin up at him, looking unintimidated by the way he towers over her. “And there’s a reason, too, that I enjoy it so damn much.”

I’m pretty sure he growls at her next, and her eyes simmer. I’m also pretty sure that in a parallel universe, they’d go off and fuck it out. But that’s just a hunch.

I turn to Walker. “Did you feel like you just accidentally tuned into the start of a new TV romance or something?”

“That was some of the best theater I’ve ever seen. Rivals, eh? I want to hear more, but now, I need to get back out there and spin some tunes. Why don’t you get on the floor and dance? Everything in life can be solved with a dance-off.”

“I have nobody to dance-off with,” I say.

He gestures to the entire floor. “The place is packed. Find a stranger. Dancing clears the mind. Sorts the thoughts. A few dances, and you’ll know exactly what you need to do next.”

I do move with the crowd for a few songs.

It does clear my head.

I do feel better having seen my friends.

Walker is right. When it comes to work disappointments, you move on, and you don’t let them get you down. You brush them off and keep chasing the dream.

By the time I leave the club, I’ve lightened the load and shed my annoyance. As the thumping subsides in the night air, I check my phone, finding a message from Truly.

Truly: Nailed it like a gymnast hammering pinball machines!

I laugh at the absurd way she’s mixed all three analogies. I smile too, because I’m proud of her. Because I want her to have all her dreams come true.

I read the text again. Then one more time. I can’t wipe the grin from my face. I was a right idiot to be pissed at her. She’s only ever had good intentions. She tried to help Marcus, just as she’s been helping me. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s been supportive of my business and my efforts to help Abby. She’s been available for a chat, a night out, a workout, and a jujitsu class every time I’ve needed it. She’s been everything I could want in a friend, and I’m lucky to have her as one of mine.

Friends don’t only help you through disappointments.

They also cheer you on in good times, like Truly’s.

I’m not far away from Gin Joint.

Not far at all.

I make my way to her bar so I can congratulate her in person on nailing it. Along the way, I follow Walker’s advice and make a donation to an animal rescue. There. I feel better. When I reach Gin Joint, I don’t see Truly behind the counter, so I ask the guy mixing drinks where I can find her.

“She’s in her office. Is she expecting you?” he asks.

A jerk would barge in. A gentleman asks. “No. But I have to see her anyway. Do you need to call her first and tell her I’m here?”

He smiles, shaking his head. “Nah. I’ve seen you around. Go on ahead.”

I turn down the hallway, head to the last door, and knock. When she answers, she’s like a breath of fresh air, and I want to breathe her in all night long.

Because she smells like so much more than a friend.