Page 64 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
Down the creaky stairs, the bartender barely looked up, as if watching two women haul a half-conscious musician out of the club in broad daylight was part of the daily routine.
At Teterboro, the tarmac glittered under the blinding sun, the cracked asphalt reflecting off the jet’s spotless white fuselage. The crew waited with professional smiles and dark sunglasses, prepared to handle anything… or almost. Bernie, limp as a sandbag, was hauled to the steps with all the elegance of a badly planned move. One steward took over with the calm precision of someone trained to handle fragile cargo: one arm under Bernie’s, one hand at his back, a quick maneuver, and he was lowered into a cream leather seat. His head lolled back, mouth hanging open, like a fallen king settling in for a thousand-year nap.
The flight was a catalog of excess: champagne flutes refilled before they were empty, trays of strawberries polished like rubies, seats reclining at the touch of a button. Out the window, the Atlantic coast unrolled like an infinite postcard.
Tess held up the onboard menu, then turned toward Bernie, who sat with the sax propped between his knees and sunglasses sliding down his nose. “Bernie, darling, how about the oysters? Or the foie gras? We’re on a private jet—we have to live up to the occasion.”
Bernie grunted. A low, gravelly, vaguely threatening sound.
“Is that a yes or a no?” I asked.
“It’s artistic language,” Tess replied, as if she were translating poetry out of Morse code.
The flight attendant appeared with two glasses of champagne. She handed one to Bernie, who accepted it solemnly, studied it for three seconds, then drained it in one gulp and handed it back like it was cafeteria water.
Tess watched him with equal parts admiration and concern. “See, Bea? There’s no compromise in this man. It’s all or nothing.”
Another grunt. Then his head tilted back, his breathing slowed, and he started snoring again—still clutching the glass.
“Perfect,” I said. “A private jet, rivers of champagne, and we’re traveling with a giant teddybear in alcoholic coma mode.”
Tess smiled. “The manual couldn’t have picked a better ally.” She poured herself another half flute of champagne and leaned toward the window, as though she could read her destiny written in the clouds. “Bea… tell me this isn’t pure magic. The power of books. This,” she said, pulling the Countess’s manual out of her bag, “I got it free from the library. Free! And now, ten days later, I’m sipping champagne above the clouds. Isn’t that insane?”
I nodded, glancing at Bernie, head thrown back, mouth wide open. “Yeah. Hard to imagine a scene like this ten days ago.”
Tess leaned closer. “Think about how many people borrow books only to let them gather dust on their nightstand. I read one page and I act. This book has more power than a hundred motivational YouTube talks. The Countess says every page is a door, and me, Bea—I open them all. Even the ones marked ‘staff only.’”
I raised my glass. “Then here’s to the Brooklyn Public Library. Not only did they give you a job, they put you on a private jet—for the annual fee of ten bucks.”
“Staff don’t pay the fee. I got it all for free.”
“Wait—are you still technically employed there, or did you quit for good?”
“I’m still burning through my vacation days. Noway am I gifting unused hours back to the City of New York.”
“Fair enough. God forbid you make a charitable donation to the municipal budget.”
Tess lifted her champagne with solemn flair. “Anyway—cheers to the library. Keeper of the world’s knowledge… and the launchpad to my personal glory.”
Without opening his eyes, Bernie muttered something that sounded like more gin before slipping back into silence.
37
Thelanding in Tampa was as smooth as a sip of gin for Bernie—meaning, completely imperceptible. He didn’t move an inch until the flight attendant pried the empty glass from his hand and Tess waved a mini liquor bottle under his nose like a school bell.
Outside, Florida air hit us like a wall—humid heat, wrapped in saltwater and cheap sunscreen. A black limousine waited at the curb. It rolled out of the airport and into Tampa’s streets, sliding past palm-lined boulevards swaying lazily under a flawless blue sky. We passed pastel-colored motels, neon-lit diners, and billboards advertising cruises, magic shows, and all-you-can-eat shrimp buffets. The limo’s air-conditioning was arctic, but every time a window cracked open, a rush of humidity and ocean tang reminded us where we were.
On the beach, Bernie was deposited onto a lounge chair between us. He still wore the Hawaiian shirt from the flight, corduroy pantsrolled up to his knees, and plastic sunglasses that had given up the fight to stay on his face. He looked like a tourist lost in the wrong travel brochure.
Tess rubbed tanning oil into her skin with Olympic precision, while I tried to read a book through the stop-and-start rhythm of Bernie’s snores. The water, clear and tempting, shimmered under the afternoon sun, while opportunistic seagulls hovered above, scanning for abandoned fries. The whole scene played to a soundtrack of reggae drifting from a nearby shack, mixed with the sweet smell of sunscreen and frying fish.
The sun slid toward the horizon, painting the sky with orange and pink that spilled across the water. The sand, now warm and clinging, seemed reluctant to let us go. But Tess spotted a beach bar nearby, its wooden tables strung with lanterns swaying gently in the breeze.
We sat down and ordered two mojitos, plus a glass of rum for Bernie, who accepted it like a rightful tribute.
As I sipped my drink, I checked the time and did a quick mental calculation. “You know this means we’re going to be late to the concert, right?” I said.
Instead of answering, Tess adjusted her sarong like it was the most pressing issue in the world and ran a hand through her dark hair. “The Countess Éloïse writes: Absence, when calibrated, is the most powerful accelerant of desire.”
