Page 77 of Up In Smoke
This guy who’s been bothering me at more and more meetings just happens to come to a cheesy bar out of town that’s frequented by ninety percent women celebrating birthdays and getting married or divorced?
“You’re here with friends?” I ask, scanning the crowd. Unless he’s snuck in with his sister or is a really out-of-place member of the group of glittery twinks currently singing their hearts out to Chappell Roan, I’m unconvinced. I know I shouldn’t judge, but something about this guy gives me the creeps.
Case in point, he steps closer, just enough so it’s uncomfortable, and I don’t have room to back up unless I go into the dressing room.
I’m tempted, if I’m honest. But I don’t want to be rude and risk peeing in the pool of people that’s become so vital to me. If I piss this guy off, it might make things really difficult for me at AA, and I desperately need that support system.
He’s got me in kind of a bind, here.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here with friends,” Emerson says with a vague wave of his hand. “I knew you could act, Jesse. But wow! I never knew you could dance. You’re so good!”
“Um, thank you,” I say placatingly, my skin prickling. He knows I can act? I’ve never mentioned my time in Hollywood or Leroy Puck in a meeting once. On the other hand, I’ve specifically talked about my dilemma with working in a bar many times, so he’s full of shit right now.
“Hi, there!” Trixie pipes up from beside my elbow, thrusting her perfectly manicured hand out toward Emerson. Her nails aren’t just painted and sparkly, they’re shaped in long ovals that would probably do some damage if she jabbed them in, oh—say, someone’s eye? “Are you a pal of Jesse’s?”
Emerson looks her up and down and guffaws. I’m not sure what’s so funny. Tonight’s skintight dress is covered in butterflies which she’s paired with a black leather jacket and knee-high boots, dangly silver moon-and-stars earrings, and a hot orange cowboy hat.
She looks fire and I wouldn’t be laughing at her if I was his scruffy ass.
“Oh, honey,” he says in a condescending tone. “You know he’s gay, right? There’s no point in hitting on him.”
My blood runs cold as my fists clench. “This isTrixie,”I grind out. “Her name is on thedoor.”
Apparently completely oblivious of how rude he’s being, Emerson just snorts and rolls his eyes at me. “Oops, my bad. Hey! You want to grab a drink with me? We never get the chance to talk properly.”
“Oh, he’s still on the clock,honey,”Trixie says, sounding highly amused. I’m still furious, however. It doesn’t matter if she was the bar owner or the cleaning lady. His chauvinism is revolting, and I find myself inching in front of her to try and get him to back off.
He’s not getting the hint.
“Surely you can take a break, Silverman?”
I freeze.
It’s against the rules to use full names in meetings, so there’s no way I would have told him that.
He recognizes me from TV. That’s why he’s so obsessed with becoming my friend. He’s some kind of delusional fan.
Oh my god. The baseball facts. The true crime podcasts. He’s been trying to impress me this whole time.
No. He’s been trying to impress Leroy Puck. I’m horrified and ashamed and more than a little unnerved.
I’m also pretty certain from getting this close that he’s not entirely sober.
“Are you drinking?” I blurt out, fear mixing in with my anger. I’m not sure why. If he’s made a dumb decision, that’s on him. But for whatever reason, knowing he might have relapsed makes me feel threatened.
He rolls his eyes again, though, and laughs. “Relax, dude. It’s just cherry coke. You can try it if you want?”
The second he holds out the glass, I jerk backward into Trixie, almost sending her flying. I spin and throw my arm around her shoulders before any harm can befoul her, but that’s the moment Lucas and Riley come jogging off the stage with myearnings they’ve swept into a bucket, clearing the way for Abe to go on with his metal grinder.
Except all three of them rush to me and Trixie as we’re righting ourselves again.
“Whoa!” Lucas cries. “Everything okay?”
Abe’s music starts, signaling he should be getting on stage. Instead, he eyeballs Emerson.
“Is there a problem, Mama?” he asks.
Emerson laughs and holds up his hands as well as his drink. “What? No! I’m a friend of Jesse’s. This woman just tripped.” He holds his hand up to his mouth and talks to us as an aside. “I guess some people can’t hold their liquor. Am I right?”