“Will you at least meet him? You two can have a private lunch at Audrey’s and get to know each other a little before you decide either way. What do you say, sugar?”
Grey realized that Renata had been withholding the most important piece of information: the identity of the other client. Maybe there was a reason for that. Her blood chilled at the possibility that Audrey would ask her to be an accomplice in rehabilitating the image of some creep who’d been caught banging the nanny, sending skeezy DMs to underage fans, groping his costars—or worse. There were more than enough potential candidates in an industry crawling with men who knew that their wealth, fame, and power would shield them from ever facing consequences for their actions. No career boost was worth selling her soul like that.
Grey steeled herself for the worst, a rejection on the tip of her tongue. “Who is ‘him’?”
She was so startled by Renata’s reply that she almost dropped her phone in the dirt.
ETHAN ATKINS FELT GOOD. OR at least he didn’t feel bad, which at this point was almost the same thing. The lift in his mood probably couldn’t be attributed to the atmosphere. Neon beer signs hummed and flickered, pool balls clacked, competing games blared from multiple televisions, and both the bar top and the floor were sticky with decades of spilled beer.
Maybe it was just the novelty of being around people. Aside from the one weekend a month he spent with Elle and Sydney, limited by his custody agreement with his ex-wife, Ethan frequently went days at a time without seeing another living soul. But then, that was by choice. And even now, he wasn’t exactly mingling.
It was still relatively early, but he’d never seen this bar with more than a handful of people inside. There were one or two small groups of men in the booths, intermittently cheering and swearing at the TV; a few guys flirting their way through a game of pool with the only woman in the place south of sixty; and a couple of sad, tired-looking loners sprinkled along the barstools. Ethan supposed he should probably include himself in that last category.
He closed his hand around his third bourbon of the evening and took a long swallow. Warmth spread through him, sending pleasant tingles down through his body all the way to his fingertips. On days when Ethan let himself go out to drink in public, he abstained for a day or two leading up to it. He wanted his head clear, his nerves raw, so he could fully savor the descent into oblivion. The first drink dulled the edges, the second one added a dreamy, hazy filter to his surroundings. Now Ethan felt himself drift outside his body, floating up near the water-stained foam tile ceiling, looking down at himself. Maybe the source of his good mood wasn’t so mysterious after all. He picked up a greasy, oversalted french fry from the plate in front of him and dipped it in ketchup. The fries didn’t hurt, either.
Once or twice a month, he had his driver escort him from his home in Pacific Palisades to Johnny’s, a shitty dive bar hidden deep in the Valley, and leave him there for a few hours. The long ride down the 405 was worth it to camp out on the fringes of the bar, where he could be as alone as possible while still surrounded by people. Nobody recognized him. Nobody bothered him. Nobody wanted anything from him. Nobody pitied him. Which was good, because he pretty much had the market on self-pity cornered.
Maybe it was a stretch to say nobody recognized him. Ethan would probably have to travel to the moon to find a place completely free of double takes, that telltale squint as they racked their brains to figure out where they had seen him before, that wide-eyed gasp of recognition when it dawned on them at last.
Slouched in a secluded corner, Mets cap pulled low over his eyes and a heavy shadow of graying stubble covering his jaw, Ethan was as close as he ever got to invisible. Context was on his side. Nobody expected to see him here, so they didn’t.
Even so, the group at the pool table had started stealing more and more looks at him, their formerly raucous conversation dropping to whispers. Ethan took another long draw from his glass, draining it in anticipation of the inevitable next step.
Sure enough, he saw someone approaching him out of the corner of his eye. The man had clearly had a few drinks of his own, as indicated by his swaying walk and unfocused eyes. He leaned over Ethan, his concept of personal boundaries obviously as impaired as his motor skills.
“Hey. Hey,” he whispered theatrically, spraying hops-scented spittle on Ethan’s shirt. “I knew you were you this whole time…but don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Ethan shoved a few more fries into his mouth, his eyes glued to the television above him.
“I think you have the wrong guy. Sorry.”
The man shook his head, crowding Ethan even further.
“It is you. You’re Ethan Atkins. What are you doing in a shithole like this, dude?” His voice got louder. A few more heads turned.
Ethan finally tilted his head to look at the man, a grim smile slowly creeping across his face.
“Nah, I’m nobody. Just trying to have a quiet drink like everyone else.” He lifted his empty glass to punctuate the sentence, catching the eye of the bartender, who grabbed the bottle of Maker’s and headed over to top him off. The bartender glanced at Ethan’s new friend, eyebrows raised. Ethan shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. It’s okay.
Ethan lifted his newly full glass toward the man, who blinked at him a few times.
“Cheers. Have a good night, man. Next round’s on me.” He knocked back half of it in one swallow, then pointedly turned back to his fries.
The man looked like he wanted to say something else, but the bartender cut in, asking what he and his friends were drinking, and assuring him he’d have another round coming right up. Ethan closed his eyes as the murmured conversation between the bartender and the man faded into the vague, rippling ether that enveloped him. Everything was going to be okay. He could almost feel the vibrations of the universe pulsating through his body.
Wait, maybe those were the vibrations of his phone. He dug into the pocket of his jeans and squinted at the caller name. Audrey Aoki. Normally he would let it go to voicemail since he was in public, but after that last round, he was feeling downright chatty.
“Audrey. Babyyy.”
Audrey snorted, her clipped British accent oozing over the line. “Why do I feel like I could set your breath on fire right now?”
“That’s what you get for calling this late.”
“It’s eight-thirty.”
Ethan could feel renewed attention focusing on him from the pool table. He downed the other half of his drink and reluctantly slid off the barstool, taking a moment to regain his equilibrium before shuffling out the front door.
It was January, so the Valley was about as chilly as it ever got. Not cold enough to wish he’d brought a jacket, but a welcome relief from the stifling heat of the bar. Everything was still and silent. Even the solitary car going through the Jack in the Box drive-through across the street seemed to be moving in slow motion. Beneath his feet, a few blades of grass had optimistically sprung up between the cracks in the concrete, the only green thing he could see in any direction.
Ethan leaned on a low cement wall and pulled a crumpled pack of American Spirits from his back pocket. As he fished around for his lighter, he made sure to over-enunciate every word.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can you come into the office for lunch on Friday? There’s someone I want you to meet.”