Lovergirl.” He sat back and flipped the TV back on. “Just tell me who we’re mad at, and you know I’ll play along.”
Jayse and I didn’t get to talk much the rest of the week. We were both buried in a blur of studying, classes, and tests. I got 97% on the Pharmokinetics test I’d crammed for, so all was right with the world as far as I was concerned. The rain continued its relentless assault on Savannah, and I didn’t even bother to ride my bike to the cemetery, knowing it would have been an absolutely pointless endeavor.
The piano bar was completely dead on Wednesday, and I got sent home from work early. I was pretty damn happy I’d overcharged Trip for the rubbings because the missing tips would have squeezed my infinitesimal budget pretty hard. I had hoped Black Keys would be busier Thursday because I adored that place and didn’t want to have to quit and go to some shitty sports bar out by the mall. I loved the classy music and the location in the historic part of town. As lame as it sounds, working at such an upscale place somehow made me feel like I’d come a long way.
Fortunately, Black Keys was slammed on Thursday night, so I had nothing to fear. The pianist was wildly popular, a foul-mouthed bit of a local legend. He told bawdy stories between numbers, and the crowd gobbled it up like kids at a build-your-own-sundae bar. They drank bucket after bucket of beer and tipped as if it were their last night on earth.
While I was settling the tab of a snotty table of country club widows/divorcees, I caught sight of Trip seated in his regular corner booth. Sitting across from him was a pretty blonde, and they appeared to be having a very animated conversation. With her heart-shaped face, she rocked a pixie haircut and she had an hourglass figure that Jayse would have described as “va va va voom.” I tried not to feel like a gangly giraffe as I assessed her and wondered who the hell she was.
After clearing the table of aging “mean girls” and pocketing their lame excuse for a tip, I approached my boss, Martin. Hyper as always, he shuffled behind the bar, nearly salivating as he opened the cash register. Martin was an easy guy to work for. He never objectified me, and he’d been in the industry for longer than I’d been alive. Consequently, he knew almost everyone in town. Since he loved to name drop, I knew it was likely he’d have intel I needed.
“Hey,” I whispered to him, “who’s the blonde sitting with Trip Beaumont?”
Martin barely looked up from the tall pile of receipts as his savvy eyes peered at their corner. “Violet Duchamp. His ex. She’s a class act. Those two were really something back in the day.”
“What happened?” Unable to keep my eyes from searching the former couple for clues, I observed that Violet seemed unable to talk without using her hands. In the few months that I’d know Trip, I’d never seen so much emotion on his face. At that particular moment, he looked surprised and disturbed, like when Sam mentioned leaving law school, but ten times more so.
Martin paused and blinked at me uncomfortably. I may not have been able to read Trip, but I could read Martin like a book. He’d seen me talking to Trip on more than one occasion, and he wasn’t sure how much he should say. “Trip’s a wee bit too much like his father.”
I felt a shiver down my spine, though I had no idea what he meant by the statement. Martin, as a character witness, was way further removed from the source and therefore much more reliable than Sam in my book. Hearing him corroborate that Trip had problems not only raised a red flag, it illuminated my KYPO list with all the wattage of the Fremont Street Experience in Vegas.
“Truth is, they were doomed from the start. A classic tale of a couple that burned too hot not to fry out. Now, enough chit chat. Go and take them their drinks.”
I raised my eyebrows as he handed me a tray with a club soda and a frou frou umbrella drink perched on
Jayse and I didn’t get to talk much the rest of the week. We were both buried in a blur of studying, classes, and tests. I got 97% on the Pharmokinetics test I’d crammed for, so all was right with the world as far as I was concerned. The rain continued its relentless assault on Savannah, and I didn’t even bother to ride my bike to the cemetery, knowing it would have been an absolutely pointless endeavor.
The piano bar was completely dead on Wednesday, and I got sent home from work early. I was pretty damn happy I’d overcharged Trip for the rubbings because the missing tips would have squeezed my infinitesimal budget pretty hard. I had hoped Black Keys would be busier Thursday because I adored that place and didn’t want to have to quit and go to some shitty sports bar out by the mall. I loved the classy music and the location in the historic part of town. As lame as it sounds, working at such an upscale place somehow made me feel like I’d come a long way.
Fortunately, Black Keys was slammed on Thursday night, so I had nothing to fear. The pianist was wildly popular, a foul-mouthed bit of a local legend. He told bawdy stories between numbers, and the crowd gobbled it up like kids at a build-your-own-sundae bar. They drank bucket after bucket of beer and tipped as if it were their last night on earth.
While I was settling the tab of a snotty table of country club widows/divorcees, I caught sight of Trip seated in his regular corner booth. Sitting across from him was a pretty blonde, and they appeared to be having a very animated conversation. With her heart-shaped face, she rocked a pixie haircut and she had an hourglass figure that Jayse would have described as “va va va voom.” I tried not to feel like a gangly giraffe as I assessed her and wondered who the hell she was.
After clearing the table of aging “mean girls” and pocketing their lame excuse for a tip, I approached my boss, Martin. Hyper as always, he shuffled behind the bar, nearly salivating as he opened the cash register. Martin was an easy guy to work for. He never objectified me, and he’d been in the industry for longer than I’d been alive. Consequently, he knew almost everyone in town. Since he loved to name drop, I knew it was likely he’d have intel I needed.
“Hey,” I whispered to him, “who’s the blonde sitting with Trip Beaumont?”
Martin barely looked up from the tall pile of receipts as his savvy eyes peered at their corner. “Violet Duchamp. His ex. She’s a class act. Those two were really something back in the day.”
“What happened?” Unable to keep my eyes from searching the former couple for clues, I observed that Violet seemed unable to talk without using her hands. In the few months that I’d know Trip, I’d never seen so much emotion on his face. At that particular moment, he looked surprised and disturbed, like when Sam mentioned leaving law school, but ten times more so.
Martin paused and blinked at me uncomfortably. I may not have been able to read Trip, but I could read Martin like a book. He’d seen me talking to Trip on more than one occasion, and he wasn’t sure how much he should say. “Trip’s a wee bit too much like his father.”
I felt a shiver down my spine, though I had no idea what he meant by the statement. Martin, as a character witness, was way further removed from the source and therefore much more reliable than Sam in my book. Hearing him corroborate that Trip had problems not only raised a red flag, it illuminated my KYPO list with all the wattage of the Fremont Street Experience in Vegas.
“Truth is, they were doomed from the start. A classic tale of a couple that burned too hot not to fry out. Now, enough chit chat. Go and take them their drinks.”
I raised my eyebrows as he handed me a tray with a club soda and a frou frou umbrella drink perched on
Similar Books
