Page 8 of Don't Point at the Moon

Quite unnecessarily, Tommy turned away to smirk.

“I told you. You’re getting worse than Grandma. Mitchell Baxter. One of Harold Choi’s like-and-subscribe followers.”

Sammi’s head popped out of the box.

“Ah yes, Mitchell Baxter. Hang on, I remember this. You’d been chatting with two older guys, one a cute drunk and the other a little wild and uncultured, but they both seemed game for some post-cocktail fun. Did I get that right?”

“Exactly. Anyway, the roughneck invited us back to his place. We’d barely made it to the front of the taxi queue when this asshole friend of Harold’s shuffles up. He starts chatting to Mr Handsome-But-Drunk, asking how his wife was and how many days left before their baby’s due—”

“Wait! You never told me that,” said Sammi. She froze with a newspaper-wrapped container in her hands, staring at him open-mouthed and horrified. “This guy’s out partying while his wife’s at home pregnant with their baby, about to give birth—”

“Chill, will you? He was attending on her behalf. And I’d hardly call it partying—”

“Honestly, brother. You are a total dick sometimes.”

“Anyway, this friend of Harold’s gets Daddy-To-Be all guilt-ridden until he cries off, saying he really ought to cab it back to Wifey. Meanwhile, this other not-so-hottie, Dash something, still seemed pretty keen—”

“Hold on. Dash? Not Dash Hernandez?”

“I didn’t get his last name—”

“Honey, how many Dashes are there in this town? You never mentioned his name before. Otherwise I would have remembered. Did he look like an olive-skinned Captain Spock but with earrings and long, greasy, black hair?”

“Uh, yes, that sounds about right.”

When he looked over, his sister had walked to the counter to search through a pile of old newspapers before pulling one out.After checking a few sections, she folded a page and held up a news article containing a small photograph.

“Now what?” he asked as she brought the paper over.

“Tommy, you have got to be more careful. Dash Hernandez is trouble. Look at this news article. There’s an ongoing court case at the moment. One of his guests overdosed on the bathroom floor at a party he was throwing last September. Dear old Dash denies all knowledge, alleges the girl turned up with a friend and brought her own shit. But everyone close to him says Dash has even been rumoured to deal. If you want my opinion—and I know you rarely do—I think you dodged a bullet that night.”

Tommy stared at the photo of Dash, who admittedly looked a bit like Jack Sparrow’s less attractive older brother. When he had suggested they go back to his place for more drinks and a bit of fun, Tommy’s mind had instantly latched onto the idea of sex. Drugs had never even crossed his mind. Perhaps his sister had a point.

At the taxi rank, Dash had simply shrugged off Daddy-To-Be bailing on them until Mitchell suggested Dash might want to make sure the man got home safely, offering to phone the hottie’s wife and tell him they were on their way. And just like that, the after-party promise was flushed down the pan, with Tommy left feeling righteously pissed.

He had waited for Mitchell to finish the call before going for the jugular.

“What the fuck was that all about?”

Having just popped the phone back into his jacket pocket, Mitchell had looked reassuringly startled at Tommy’s anger.

“I know his wife. We work together. He should be at home—”

“That’s not your call to make, is it? He’s a grown man. Who do you think you are? His mother-in-law?”

“Of course not, but—”

“And both of them don’t have pregnant wives, do they? Why did you chase the other guy off?”

Even beneath the stark streetlight, Tommy had noticed Mitchell’s face drain of colour. Maybe he’d had a sudden epiphany about being a prize asshole, but his argument for the defence had seemed to have evaporated.

“Just when I thought I’d salvaged something out of this car wreck of an evening, you come along and steal the tow truck. What gives you the right?”

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t think, did you? I am sick of Harold and his judgemental queens thinking they’re so much better than everyone else and having an opinion about everything. You should all try looking in the mirror at some point. And keep your nose out of other people’s business.”

Tommy had twirled around and attitude-strutted down the pathway pretty damn confidently—a move he’d picked up fromDrag Race—just in time to witness a red taxi pull up. Maybe he had overreacted a little, but his point had been made.

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