Page 19 of Room Serviced
“So,” Sloane said, dipping a chunk of pretzel into mustard. “You’d get me a bear?”
She popped it into her mouth and chewed, both elbows on the table, watching Max so intently he wondered if she could see through his skull. Sloane had wavy dark brown hair and light blue eyes. It was striking. Startling, even, despite the fact that Max had been looking at her for hours now.
“What do you need with a bear?” he asked, spinning his champagne flute between his finger and thumb.
“What does anyone need with a bear? Companionship, obviously,” Sloane said. “Earlier you said if I wanted a bear, you could get me a bear in five minutes. And I would like a bear, please.”
“Right now?” Max asked, and leaned back in his chair, grinning. “You want a bear right now?”
“Well, in five minutes.” She took a sip of her own cocktail, and Max watched her swallow. “More like four minutes and thirty seconds now.”
“What kind of bear?”
“Up to you. Whichever kind you can get in a little over four minutes.”
“I think the best I can do in four minutes is a ghost bear,” Max said as seriously as he could. “If I get some salmon, a Ouija board, and an assistant who can let go of her skepticism and open herself to possibility for a few minutes, I bet I could call upon the ursine spirits.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault I don’t get a bear,” Sloane said. She was leaning further forward now, and Max was not going to look down her tank top.
Well—he was, actually. Just for a second.
“Bears are for believers,” he said, and waved his other hand in a gesture that probably communicated I am one with the spirit world. Or…something.
“Just admit you can’t get me a bear,” she said, tearing off more pretzel.
“It’s for your own good,” Max told her.
“Deciding what’s good for me is my job,” she said. “Getting me a bear is yours.”
“If we were in Last Chance, I could get you a bear,” Max went on, tearing off his own pretzel chunk. “Maybe not in five minutes. But by tomorrow morning for sure.”
“That barely counts. All you’d have to do is leave the lid off a garbage can.”
“Which was exactly my point.” Max pointed a chunk of pretzel at her. “Bears up in the Sierras are a dime a dozen. Here I’d probably have to steal one from the San Diego Zoo.”
“I think the mountains here have bears, too,” Sloane said. “At least, the ones outside LA do, and we’re not that far.”
“I think it’s ghost bear or nothing. Sorry—I never said what kind of bear.”
“That’s a lame bullshit excuse and you know it,” Sloane said, but she was leaning even further in and grinning, like not getting a bear was the best thing that had happened all week. Given that a wild bear would be a bad pet, it probably was. “Next time, you owe me a corporeal bear. In the flesh.”
“I know what corporeal means, Sloane.”
“Then you know what kind of bear I want.” She drained her drink, and slid off the chair. “Next round’s on me. Do you have a request, or should I surprise you?”
She was standing close—closer than she needed to. There was plenty of room, and the bar wasn’t even that loud. She had one elbow still leaning on the table and her hips cocked in a way that made Max’s lizard brain start buzzing. Those see-through-your-soul eyes were locked on his.
“Surprise me,” Max said, and downed the rest of his drink.
“I guess I’d kill Death Valley,” Sloane said. She was frowning a little, her chin in one hand, staring off into space. “It’s too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. Also, it’s called Death Valley—you kind of have to.”
“If you say so.”
“I think… Wait, I can’t fuck whichever one I marry, right? Like it’s a celibate marriage?”
“And you can only fuck the fuck park once.”
Sloane nodded very seriously, as if this not only made total sense but was a matter of great importance. Max wasn’t sure how you’d fuck a national park—or marry one, for that matter—but he’d already said he’d marry San Francisco and fuck Los Angeles, so they weren’t going for realism.
