"You…are a fucking asshole!"
He turned and shrugged. "I've been called worse," he informed her and strolled out of the apartment.
As the cold autumn night air hit him in the face, it dawned on him that he'd just walked out on a blowjob from a hot co-ed to go have a beer with Alisha Larrington.
"Fuck my life," he muttered.
He walked into Wicked Willy's and scanned the growing crowd for Alisha, spotting her alone in a large, round booth. She was staring down at the table and absently fingering a cardboard coaster. It was karaoke night and it seemed that all of New York's most untalented were in attendance. Approaching, he peeled off his jacket and tossed it down into the booth before sliding in beside her. "Hiya, Larrington," he greeted with a crooked smile, leaning back casually.
Alisha startled, and her eyes snapped to his chiseled face, found him grinning at her. God, why did I call him of all people? "Hey," she said tentatively, picking up the glass in front of her and gulped.
"Something troubling you, Shorty?" he asked, lifting a hand to signal the waitress. She snorted into her glass and downed the rest of her drink in one greedy gulp. He was pretty impressed. "I'll take that as a yes." What he didn't know is why she would've called him rather than Maggie or Russell.
She sat her glass down heavily on the table and scrubbed her hands over her face before turning to look at him. With a steadying deep breath, she opened her mouth. "Ugh. Okay. I was having a really great day off, and then I got some news I would have been more than happy going the rest of my life without knowing. I didn't want to be at home because if I was at home I would have felt sorry for myself and that's the last thing I want or need. And I didn't want to call Maggie or Russell because as much as I love them, I would have had to talk about it endlessly and I really just can't handle the Spanish Inquisition tonight. I'm not sure why I called you. In fact, that was probably a mistake. I just figured that you wouldn't ask a ton of questions and I didn't want to drink alone. Don't get the wrong idea about this or anything…this is not me coming on to you or giving into the bevy of sexual overtures you toss in my direction every time I see you…I just figured that since we were sorta friends now…you know what, no, this was a mistake. I'll just go—"
"Larrington, Larrington, Larrington," he interrupted. Sweet Moses she could ramble on and at alarming speeds. "Take a breath." He was beginning to regret walking out on whatsherfuck—but not nearly as much as he probably should have. Where was the damn waitress? He needed a goddamned beer.
Alisha did just as he'd instructed and took a big breath, then pressed her lips into a thin, tight line as her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. He was looking down at her with a sly grin on his face, his eyes dancing mirthfully. She wanted to die. This was such a poor decision, Alisha. It was yet one more thing she could blame Gregory for. "Sorry," she murmured, reaching for her glass, forgetting it was empty.
"You're good, motor mouth. But just so we're clear, we're not talking about whatever's bothering you?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Alright. And you're not hitting on me?"
Her lips twitched into a smile seeing the roguish look on his face. "No."
"Pity," he said impishly. "Okay then…so you want to get drunk and maybe make some bad decisions?"
Alisha laughed then. She could only imagine what constituted as bad decisions in Big's universe. "Nice try, but I think I'll just stick with the drunk part."
"Larrington!" he scolded playfully. "You're no fun."
She shrugged and toyed with the scarf around her neck. Her phone buzzed on the table and she eyed it warily, but reached for it, discovering she had several new messages.
Maggie: Call me.
Russell: Q just filled me in. R u ok?
Maggie: Want 2 talk?
Russell: Where r u?
Maggie: UR not home & UR not answering. I'm worried.
Russell: Answer ur phone!
"Ugh, just leave me alone!" she yelled at her phone, feeling like a crazy person. She fired off a quick I'm fine to both of her concerned friends and dropped her phone back on the table.
"Alright, Larrington—we're gonna break rule one of our little fight club tonight."
Her brows furrowed in confusion as she stared at him, blinking owlishly. "Excuse me? Fight club?"
"It—" he shook his head. "Never mind. What's wrong? Clue me in really quick and then I'll get you plenty drunk and then we can show these tone-deaf assholes a thing or two about karaoke." Someone was currently butchering Johnny Cash and offending his ears. When she hesitated, he nudged her shoulder. "Come on," he prodded, "it might make you feel better to talk about it with someone who doesn't know all the details." Jesus H. Christ—he was prodding her to talk about feelings. This was some bizarre-o shit right here.
Alisha eyed him cagily while she pondered his words. Blowing out a big, slow breath, she reached into her bag and pulled out the newspaper, tossing it onto the table Gregory side up. "My ex and the strumpet I found him fucking in our bed," she snapped, stabbing her index finger onto the announcement for emphasis. "I'd send them a gift, but I don't know that there's a Pricks & WhoresR Us around and there's nothing suitable at Sheets-n-Things."
His first instinct was to laugh, because it seemed that only Alisha Larrington would use the term strumpet and then follow it up with pricks and whores. Quickly realizing that laughing would be a really dumbass idea, he picked up the paper and read.
Tallulah Marietta von Libereitz…
"Tallulah Marietta von Libereitz?"
