Page 30 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
“Don’t be silly. You at least have to come say hi. Who knows when we’ll get the chance to hang out again? I want to heareverything. How many takes? Did they stick to the script? Did Angus behave himself? I bet he stared a lot. God, the staring! What is that about?” She laughed in a bright, impossibly cheerful way and Marlowe couldn’t help but laugh with her. Tanareve’s energy was a lot to take in, but she was like a bulldozer made of pinwheels and twinkle lights, one that suggested getting run over might feel okay.
Despite a continued protest, Tanareve was soon dragging Marlowe by the wrist through the crowd, rattling on blithely while 90percent of her words got lost in the din. As the two of them eased out of the tight swarm of bodies, Marlowe spotted Idi and Whitman standing at the bar, lining up shot glasses. Around the corner from them, facing away from her, was a guy with a familiar head of red—or whatever color it was—hair and a broad back packed into a snug white T-shirt. Marlowe tensed but she continued to stumble onward, lacking a viable escape plan. Lacking any escape plan.
Idi was the first to spot her, breaking into an easy smile with gentle eyes and deep dimples in both cheeks. He was friendly both on camera and off, and the bright red toque that pressed his dreads downward gave him an almost childlike appearance.
“Look who you found!” he called as they reached the bar.
Whitman offered up a warm greeting but as Angus turned around and caught Marlowe’s eye, his lips pressed together and he settled into a pronounced glower.
“Of all the gin joints…” he pushed through clenched teeth.
“I tried.” Marlowe tipped her head at Tanareve, who still had hold of her wrist.
His glower brightened a little as if in recognition of the unstoppable force that was his girlfriend. Then he turned away and gulped down a tall glass of what Marlowe hoped was water. It had to be water. Anything harder would’ve knocked him flat.
“How are you feeling about your first day?” Whitman called over the rumble of the crowd and the thumping music. He was blond and blue-eyed, quick with a laugh or a smile. He wore a faded black concert T-shirt, though Marlowe was used to seeing him in crisp button-downs or cashmere sweaters as the privileged rich kid on the show. “Tired of delivering fake pie while Lex tells you to smolder harder?”
“I think I can manage two more days. I’m probably done withpie, anyway. And smoldering.” Marlowe felt her wrist free up so she took a step back. “I just came to say hi. Great to see you all. Don’t let me interrupt your game.” She took a second step back, ready to turn and bolt, but Idi, Whitman, and Tanareve all encouraged her to stay, while Angus remained silent, his back to Marlowe, his attention glued to his glass.
“I’m here with friends.” She pointed over her shoulder. “I should really—” Her third step caught on someone’s foot. She teetered, leaning hard on the guy behind her. They almost toppled together, but somehow they righted themselves. As she apologized, she backed into a woman sipping a beer, causing the beer to spill down the woman’s front. With a second round of apologies, Marlowe gave up trying to flee. She planted her feet and mustered a self-effacing smile. “I’m not drunk. Just clumsy.”
Angus eyed her over his shoulder. “Or unlucky?”
Her smile went flat. “Or cursed.”
His shoulders juddered but she couldn’t tell if he was laughing with her or at her. It didn’t really matter. Tanareve was already drawing her into another conversation with more rapid-fire chatter. She described her acting debut at age ten, how overwhelmed she was, and how long she took to adjust to the Hollywood scene. She even plugged her private number into Marlowe’s cell in case industry questions arose and Marlowe wanted advice or a sympathetic ear. Idi and Whitman shared their own stories about their first roles. Idi recalled a vampire film that was plagued with so many natural disasters they eventually canned the whole enterprise. Whitman laughed about a minor stunt gone wrong. Marlowe tried to listen, and she loved how quickly everyone had embraced her as part of the group, but she was too aware of Angus brooding to her left, drumming his fingers on his glass and looking anywhere but at her.
Eventually she couldn’t stand it anymore, so she sidled up beside him and murmured, “I’m sorry I was so judgy earlier today.”
He shifted a shoulder. “Better to know now, I guess.”
She frowned at that. “As opposed to?”
“After I started those garnish classes.”
“Big plans with serrated strawberries?”
“Thought I’d start with carrot curls. Balsamic drizzles. The occasional olive.”
“I’ve always had a soft spot for an occasional olive.”
“I had a feeling.” His lips twitched but he didn’t quite smile. His posture also remained rigid while his eyes stayed locked on his glass.
Marlowe turned her attention to her right where Tanareve was deep in conversation with Idi and Whitman, her eyes bright and her gestures animated, a stark contrast with Angus’s quiet and stillness. What an odd pair they made, though perhaps that was their strength. Then again, if they were so strong as a couple, why had they broken up so many times over the years? And why had he flirted?
Actually, that one was easy. Flirting was part of Angus’s well-honed fan interface charm. It was probably subconscious by now, like a default switch getting flipped when female attention was available. He’d turned it on for Babs and the women in the shoe stores. Why not turn it on for Marlowe, too?
While she shook off that thought, Tanareve rallied everyone to play Shot in the Dark. Marlowe had never heard of the game, but she quickly grasped that it was a variation on Truth or Dare—mostly Dare—with the dares provided by strangers and collected in a basket to draw from. There were also plenty of opportunities to drink. Marlowe avoided the drinking while enjoying thedares. Idi belted out the refrain from a Taylor Swift song, a song half the nearby crowd was singing by the time he’d finished. Whitman swapped shirts with a stranger, much to the stranger’s delight. Tanareve made a pyramid out of sixteen shot glasses but failed to balance them all and had to drink. Others got into the game, cheering each other on, but eventually all eyes were on Marlowe.
“I’m only watching,” she said.
Whitman slid three shot glasses her way. “That’s the skipping toll.”
Marlowe eyed the shots, unsure she could manage three and remain upright.
“Angus doesn’t have to pay a toll,” she argued.
He raised a fresh glass of water. “Driver’s privilege.”
