Page 52 of Right Man, Right Time
“Makes sense, given your profession,” Gloria says. “Well, that was quite a story.”
“Yes,” Roberts says with a smile on his face. “Seems like Silas will need something stronger if that story keeps getting repeated.”
“Something like Scotch,” Silas says.
“I’ll have the finest brought to you.” And with a wave of his fingers, Roberts orders Silas a Scotch while I feel a drop of sweat scoot down my back.
Well, that didn’t go as expected.
* * *
“What the actual fuck was that?”Silas asks while Roberts and Gloria are pulled to the side to meet with another couple. I heard mumblings of a big sponsor from one of Roberts’s assistants, which means Roberts needs to shake hands.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I was nervous.”
Silas leans close to my ear, his hand still curved around my waist so he can pull me in even closer. “How the fuck was that nervous? That was a disaster.”
“Disaster seems a bit drastic,” I say. “More like a great story.”
“Says the girl who didn’t have a rock shoved up her nose.”
I wince. “Yeah, that is slightly problematic for your image, but hey, it garnered some sympathy. Instead of a run by fruiting like inMrs. Doubtfire, this was a glide by rocking.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“Is it not working?” I ask, his nose now mere inches from my cheek.
“Not even a little.”
“Can I offer you an apology?”
“Not sure an apology can cure the damage done.”
“What damage?” I ask. “You came off endearing.”
“That was not endearing,” he says, his voice dripping in anger. “It’s not the fucking rock that I’m overly concerned about. It’s that you practically said I had my penis out while marveling at donkeys. They’re going to assume I’m some sort of public voyeur with a sick animal fetish. And domestic donkeys? Really?”
I turn toward him so it looks like we’re having an intimate conversation rather than him scolding me in my ear. “First of all, I did not claim you were jerkin’ your gherkin while staring at the donkeys. All I said was your fly was down. If you took that as something else, that’s on you, sir.”
“While eating a goddamn chicken tender. That’s weird behavior, Ollie.”
“I couldn’t think of the word of that stick dough thing with the cinnamon.”
“A churro?” he hisses.
“Ohhh . . . yeah, that’s it. Churro would have made much more sense.”
“So you wanted to say churro but opted for chicken tender instead?”
“What the mind wants, the mind gets,” I respond. The way he snorts steam in my direction makes me believe he doesn’t like that response. “Also, why are you breathing all heavily at me when you could have stopped me and taken over the conversation at any point. Almost seems like you wanted to hear the rest of the story. I can’t be completely at blame here.”
“The fuck you can. This is all on you. Jesus fuck, Ollie, you said I dip tenders in mustard and mayonnaise. Do you know how vile that is?”
“Made me gag just saying it out loud.”
He stares at me, those ice-blue eyes screaming murder. “We had a fucking story, a simple one, so what happened?”
I pat his arm and kindly say, “It’s called panic. Welcome to the show that is my life. Strap in, it’s going to be bumpy.”
