“I’m Sloan Bennett.” She looks down at herself and tugs at her robe to straighten it.
“I didn’t doubt that for a second. Your beauty speaks for itself.” I extend my hand to greet her. “Pleased to meet you.” I make sure the charm is on full force as I try to take this job seriously.
She rubs away some black splotches from under her eyes. “I’m so sorry I’m not dressed. In all honesty I was expecting a Dominick Dunne type, not . . .” She clears her throat. “Never mind. Come on in.”
I laugh and flash her another smile. She leads me to the suite’s main area. The room is large and spacious. Modern chairs and sofas done in monotone colors cluster around a large wooden table.
“Please sit down. Can I get you something to drink?” she asks casually.
I sink back on one of the black cushions of the sofa and open my briefcase to remove my list of questions. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
I look over the list I wrote in my small notebook.
Questions for Sloan Bennett
How did she and Tike meet
Who is designing her gown
Will the vows be traditional or hand written
Who is attending
Where will it be held
She pours herself a glass of white wine out of a crystal decanter from the bar in the corner and has a seat very close to me. She sets her glass down and reaches across me to grab a pack of cigarettes off the table. “So, Ben, how does a guy like you get a job like this?” she asks tapping on the pack.
“If I told you you’d never believe it.”
“Oh, there’s a lot I’d never believe, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen or isn’t true.” She takes one of the cigarettes and lights it up, handing me the pack.
“No, thanks.”
She shrugs and tosses the pack on the table. “You’re a real goody two shoes. Don’t drink, don’t smoke, what do you do?”
“Trust me. Goody two shoes, I’m not.” I stand up. “I think I’ll have that drink.”
She nods. “Help yourself.”
The bar is loaded. I survey my choices, soda or alcohol. I opt for the amber colored decanter. I think I’m going to need it to get through this. As I pour the rich colored liquor from the fine crystal bottle, the familiar scent floods my nose.
“I can’t stand the smell of scotch,” she says.
“The scent of Band-Aids doesn’t appeal to you?” I mock.
“That’s exactly how it smells. Oh my God, you’re so right.”
“They’re both made from the same phenols. That’s why they smell the same.” I tell her.
“TMI,” she answers, the tip of her cigarette flaring as she inhales it. “I may never drink that again now.”
I laugh and sit back down. “Are you ready for this?” I ask.
She nods, blowing out a stream of smoke as she does. I press record on my recorder and set it on the table. I used the same Sony version for years until I had to “die.” I wonder for a moment if the old one is anywhere in my shit that’s stored in my mother’s attic. I make a mental note adding it to my list of things to look for. I clear my throat and start asking her the ridiculous interview questions I prepared. Although she answers each one in a rather flirty manner, the matter-of-factness tone of her actual answers makes me question her motive for marriage. Thirty minutes and one drink refill later the interview is complete. Thank fucking God.
Sloan reaches into the seat cushion and pulls out a small baggie. “Okay, Goody-two-shoes. Time to prove you’re not Dorothy.”
I shake my head but can’t help but smile. She’s holding a bag with at least a dozen joints in it. She lights one up and inhales, handing it to me before breathing it out. I look at it, and I look back at her. I figure what the fuck and grab it.
A few hits later she asks, “Can I ask you a question now?”
“Sure.”
“Do you like being blown?”
I cough, choke, and almost spit. “Come again?”
“I asked, do you like blow jobs?”
“Is that a trick question?” I wave off any more of the weed she’s trying to pass me.
“No, just answer the question.”
“Um, yeah, what guy doesn’t?”
She snorts and takes one last hit. “My fiancé, that’s who.”
My eyes meet hers. “Well, baby, shame on him.”