Page 7 of For a Goode Time Call…
A nod, a subtle, almost-missed-it jerk of her head.
I raised a hand, and Bast came over. “Shot of whiskey for our friend here.”
“Vodka,” Cassie whispered. “Please.”
Bast filled a shot glass with Grey Goose, and Cassie threw it back. Shoved the glass toward Bast, who filled it again, and then left the bottle. Cassie tossed back another shot, hissing.
“Aren’t you going to tell me that getting shit-faced isn’t going to solve anything?” she muttered.
I shook my head. “Nah. You’re an adult. And the fact that you’re asking me that tells me you already know it.”
“Sometimes you just…you just need to get blitzed, you know?”
I nodded. “I do.” I laughed. “That can be tricky when you’re physically incapable of getting blitzed.”
She twisted her head sideways to look at me without lifting up. “Why are you being so nice to me?” She frowned. “I’m not going to fuck you.”
I sighed. “I had no expectations that you would.”
She frowned harder. “What’s that mean?”
Dangerous ground. “Nothing. I’m not being nice to you for any reason other than sometimes you just need one person to be nice for no reason. I’ve been on the other end of that, so I know.”
Her eyes were cloudy, by now. Woozy. Looking me up and down. “You’re complicated.”
“I know.”
“I’m getting tipsy.”
I laughed. “I know.”
She stared at the food in front of her—she’d done a hell of a number on it, but there was still a lot left. “I can’t eat any more.” The bottle of vodka. “He left the whole bottle?”
“Bast don’t fuck around,” I said.
Cassie carefully poured herself more, threw it back. “Mmm. Goose. I love Goose.” Another shot. “I don’t suppose you happen to know where my mom lives, do you?”
I laughed. “No, I do not.”
Cassie shrugged. “I don’t want to go back there anyway. She’ll just irate me—um. I mean.Be-rate me, I mean, for drinking so much.” She shoved a mozzarella stick into her mouth defiantly. “And for eating…” her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Junk food.”
Another shot.
“Maybe you oughta slow down just a teeny bit, huh?” I eyed her drink. “Those are gonna catch up and hit you like a truck.”
“Already been hit by a truck. That’s the whole fucking problem with my life.” She poured yet another shot, tossed it back, and now I physically removed the bottle and pushed it away before she gave herself alcohol poisoning. “A fucking truck. They called it a—a lorry. But it was a truck. Like a semi. Had fish in it. Lots of fish. Tuna fish and salmon, and lots and lots of fish. Ran right into us. Fish everywhere.”
“Cassie…”
“I told you. I told you I was gonna get blackout. I just had to warm up to it, okay? Some beer, some food. So I’d have something to throw up, later. And because I haven’t eaten junk food since I was…since I was thirteen. I had a piece of strawberry cheesecake from Juniors in Times Square on my thirteenth birthday. It had four big strawberries on it, and it was the size of my head. They sang Happy Birthday to me, but it was the wrong tune. Just me and Mom and Dad. We went to Broadway shows and a ballet and they took me shopping, and I got a piece of strawberry cheesecake all to myself. Ate the whole thing.” A long pause. “I haven’t had any junk food of any kind ever since. A few alcoholic drinks here and there, like when I went to Tennessee with Charlie last year. It was my twenty-first birthday so I could legally drink in the US. Of course, the drinking age in most of Europe is eighteen, so I’d been drinking with my troupe now and then for years. But.But. Alcohol is not junk food. You know what I eat?”
She peered at me, pointing a finger at me.
“Do you know what I eat? Every day?” She tapped the bar top with an angry finger. “Rabbit food. All day. Salads. Egg white omelets. A handful of almonds. More salad. Veggies. So, so, so many vegetables. White meat, as lean as possible, in very small amounts. And you know what I do all day? I dance! All day. Practice starts at seven in the fucking morning. Dance all fucking day on an empty stomach. Probably burn a thousand calories by lunch, and then eat like a fucking baby bird, and then dance until dark. Past dinner. More bird food and rabbit food. For years I’ve done this. Fuckingyears. You know I haven’t had a fucking French fry since fourth grade? First French fry I’ve had since fourth grade.” She picked a fry off the pile of fries, which she hadn’t gotten to until then.
“So you’re a dancer?”
“Was? Am? I was, I am. I was-am.” She blinked hard. “But the truck. The truck took it away.”
