Page 43 of Love on the Main Stage
“I didn’t come here to torture you. I came here because this was my obligation—myjob—and I am doing what I do.”
“Which is why you look like this?” I asked.
“Like what?”
“Like… this!” I gestured.
She shifted, pushing her hip out.
“You really want me to say, don’t you?” I sighed.
Betty flared her nostrils. “Preferably in your mother tongue yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it means more.”
I groaned and did the thing not because it made sense and not because it was half English cognates anyhow. I just knew she wanted it, so I did it.
“You’re hot,” I said. “You look amazing. It’s unfair.”
She relaxed. “Tusen takk. That’s a start. Now, order me a drink and we can talk.”
I led the way to the bar now. She settled in by me.
“What do you want, Your Royal Highness?” I asked, annoyed that I even had to question what to call her.
“I’m honestly good with a?—”
Suddenly, the Norwegians arrived, accompanied by the Danish brethren. They sang an old drinking song and demanded a bottle of aquavit.
“Shot glasses for all!” Ivan declared. “Go on.”
“I really have to be on a plane at the ass crack of dawn,” I protested.
“I have to ride tomorrow before the sun is up,” Betty added.
“Nonsense,” the tallest Dane—some very flamboyant man in a pair of painted on red pants—said. “Come on! Don’t be fun sucks.”
The bartender made eye contact with Betty as if she alone held the power to allow this nonsense.
Please say no, Betty! Please!
Betty gave the slightest of nods and he lined them up.
Well, fuck!
Now, we were forced to take a shot of the cursed liquor, hazed by a thing I still believe no one wanted to drink.
“Mer! Mer! Mer!” Kiersten pounded on the bar in a frighteningly guttural way. The death metal poured out of her.
Once more, the barkeep lined them up.
Betty made eye contact with me as she raised her shot. The adorably pained look on her face melted me.
“We will get through it together,” I snickered.
I threw my shot back, but she held hers.
