Page 8 of Revelry

“So, are we done here? Guidelli didn’t say anything about what time I was supposed to finish,” I say.

“I think the term ‘personal assistant’ kind of extends to you being at our beck and call at all hours.”

I blink up at him. “You’re shitting me?”

“Permanently.” Cooper smirks.

“They do not pay me enough for this.”

Cooper holds out his hand and says, “Give me your phone”

“No.”

“Give me your phone. I need to know where to reach you.”

I let out a resigned sigh and pull out my phone. It’s a piece of crap. I’ve had it for the last ten years, but it still works. Sometimes. “Fine.”

He snatches it from my hands and frowns down at the cracked screen. “How do you use this thing?”

“It’s an art.”

“It’s a piece of shit. Tomorrow you’ll go get yourself a new one.” He rapidly pushes buttons on my mobile, and then he fishes his wallet from his pocket and hands me a shiny black Amex card. “Here, take this. It’s the band’s expense account. We need to be able to contact you around the clock, which means you need a reliable phone.”

“I’m not taking your money, and I don’t need a new phone.” I push the card back into his hands and snatch my phone, sliding it in my pocket and ignoring the archaic sound as it dings from behind its denim casing.

“Well I guess we’re done for the day. Oh, after you hit the bottle-o, that is. It’s gonna be a long one, so if you could bring back a carton of Crowns, I’ll have a bottle of Jack, and Zed likes Sambuca. Make sure to grab some shot glasses while you’re there. Glass, not those plastic ones. He likes to set them alight before he downs a shot, and honestly we don’t need another fire breaking out.” He places the Amex card back in my hand.

“Another fire?” I shake my head. “You do know how far we are from a store, right?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Decker’s studio is the best though; we won’t record anywhere else,” he says. “So I’ll see you back here in an hour? Zed needs a hit of something heavier than coffee if we’re gonna work him all night.”

“You really weren’t kidding, were you, when you said you weren’t going to go easy on me?”

“You asked me not to do you any favours.”

“Yes, but I didn’t think the extent of my job would be buying liquor for a bunch of frat boys.”

“Okay then, I’m glad we cleared that up.” He smirks, and god damn is it a pretty sight. What is it with guys and the sexy smirk? Do they pull boys aside in high school and teach them that crap? Like a 101 of how to get a woman to drop her panties for you instantly?

I thumb the proffered Amex card and leave the studio with my head bent low. I’m just about to open my car door to inhale the stench of the cat from hell when my phone dings in my pocket. I pull it out and scan the messages.

Me: Coop, your voice makes me want to take my clothes off and roll around in your scent.

Coop: Thanks, Red. You say the sweetest things.

That rat bastard. If I’d known he’d hijacked my messages while he had my phone I would have kicked him in the nut-sack. In fact, I really wanna go back in there, but settle instead for a typed message.

Me: Cute. Though I think the seventh grade wants their clichés back.

Coop: I may have to get you to drop off my dry-cleaning tomorrow, as long as you promise not to roll around in my unlaundered clothes.

Me: You know what’s funny? That you can know someone for such a short amount of time, and still want to beat the shit out of them.

I pocket the phone and slide into the car. My bastard cat meows from her cage on the back seat. I should take her to a shelter. I mean, it’s pretty cruel to leave her in the car all day—not to mention illegal. At least at work I could hide her in the storage closet down the hall that no one ever used. There’s no love lost between that cat and I, but she belonged to my grandmother and she loved it enough to leave her to me in the will, and I don’t know, her angry purr does kinda make the car seem like a less lonely place to sleep.

My phone dings again and I fish it from my pocket to check my messages.

Coop: Shall I bring the whipping belt, then? Or do you have your own?

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