Page 30 of Blame it on the Bet
“Okay,” she says reluctantly, at last. For a second I think I’ve misheard her.
“Did you say okay?” She nods.
“I did. Now, do we write up a contract or something?” “Well, you’re the attorney, so I guess we can if you like.”
I rummage around in my briefcase for a legal pad and pen. We spend fifteen minutes hammering out the details. She signs. I sign. The scary sister witnesses.
“I think this calls for a toast, don’t you?” I ask when we’re finished, and I raise my shot glass. She picks up her cocktail.
“To Mayhem,” I say. “And to our partnership.”
“I’ll toast to Mayhem, but there is no partnership, Bryan. Just a bet. That’s all. We’re not friends. We’re not colleagues.”
I shrug. “Have it your way.” We clink. We drink.
“Oh, and Bryan?”
“Yes, Hennessy?”
“I think maybe you’d better start preparing your ego for the shock of losing. Because this is one time you are not going to get what you want.”
“We’ll see about that.” I chuckle and for a split second wonder what it is, exactly, that I do want.
…
I’m grinning like a fool as I walk out of the pub and around the corner to where I’ve parked the Lexus. In a matter of seconds, I’m looking more like a fool than grinning like one, when I pivot a little too quickly and fly ass-over-teakettle onto the pavement.
“Owww!” I howl, feeling the sting of rock salt on my palms. Maybe I should’ve skipped the third shot. Especially since I haven’t had anything to eat in a while.
I do a quick inventory, and all bones seem to be intact. And, since none of the good Samaritans of Mayhem have rushed over to help me, it’s safe to say my fall from grace has gone unnoticed.
I scramble up onto my feet very carefully and am about to head back to the Inn when I see it. The sign is huge, with three-foot-high letters and a giant hockey stick outlined in chaser lights. Very gingerly this time, I turn around and cross Main Street, careful to avoid the icy lakes that they call potholes around here.
Campbell’s Outdoor is the closest thing to a big box store that the town of Mayhem can boast. When I walk in, a big fat gray-and-white striped cat greets me. In a sparkly pink sweater. She brushes along my feet, swishing her tail and looking up at me with a coy meow.
“What’s your name?” I murmur, reaching down to pet the top of her head.
“That’s Katty Perry,” comes a voice from behind me. I turn to see a girl, no older than seventeen or eighteen. She’s wearing tight jeans and a hot-pink hoodie, her blonde hair in a messy knot atop her head. She looks strangely familiar.
“Are you…are you related to Hennessy?”
She gives me a frosted-pink–lipped smile. “Yup. I’m her sister.”
“Let me guess… You’re Margarita. Or, maybe Kettle One? Finlandia?”
She snorts and rolls her big blue eyes. “Right? Please, I’m lucky Pops didn’t name me Guinness or Michelob! Nah, I’m Bailey.”
I slap my forehead, realizing that I already know this. “Right, of course you are.” I grin, shaking my head. She shrugs and cracks the wad of gum she’s chewing. “You must be that guy. The L.A. guy.”
“That’d be me.”
“So, do you know Brad Pitt? Or Ryan Reynolds? Oh! Or Ryan Gossling?”
I start to say no, but she doesn’t give me a chance to do much more than shake my head.
“Oh! What about… Taylor Swift?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I laugh, holding my palms up in surrender.“No, I don’t know any celebrities…not personally, anyway. Though, I once bought a building from Tom Hanks’s brother-in-law,” I offer.
