Page 98 of The Holy Grail
Evan read the text as he unlocked the door to his third-floor apartment, then ignored it in favor of grabbing his bottle of Casamigos Blanco and a shot glass. He’d bought the tequila based on the fact it was George Clooney’s brand (because Clooney=hot) and Evan had been pleasantly surprised when, just like the man himself, the tequila was also smooth as hell.
The first shot went down lickety-split, and Evan was pouring his second, when his phone buzzed again with another text. Before he pulled it out of his pocket, he knew it was going to be from Jules, who was not only out of his reach, but also sleeping with Malcom.
Thank God Evan didn’t have to work later, because he was going to see how much damage he could do to George Clooney’s tequila, consequences be damned. His worst nightmare had kicked him in the balls today at a Farmer’s Market of all places—and to add insult to injury, he hadn’t brought anything home to eat, so he was likely going to be having Lucky Charms for dinner.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
JULES: I said, I need to talk to you.
JULES: Quit ignoring me.
Evan downed the second shot, with a roll of his eyes, as if Jules could ever really be ignored. God knows, he’d tried, with zero success.
JULES: Evan.
JULES: I know you’re reading these.
With a sigh, he typed out a response.
EVAN: Sorry, but I’m really not in the mood to talk.
JULES: Too bad. I need to talk to you.
JULES: Where are you at?
EVAN: Home.
EVAN: And I’m not inviting you over, so we’ll have to talk some other time.
JULES: Wrong. I’ll be there in ten minutes.
EVAN: Good luck, since you don’t even know where I live.
JULES: Actually, I do. Remember all that paperwork I went through for the bar?
JULES: Yeah, your address was in there.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Evan poured a third shot and dispatched it with ease; Clooney’s tequila really was smooth shit.
EVAN: I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU.
JULES: Too bad. I’m on my way right now.
JULES: And your big scary capital letters aren’t going to stop me.
JULES: See you in eight minutes.
EVAN: I’ve already had three shots of tequila, so … this really isn’t a good idea.
JULES: When I get there, I’ll catch up with you.
Having never been to Evan’s place, Jules didn’t know what to expect, but an attic apartment in an old Victorian house wasn’t it.
After reluctantly letting her in, he led her to the living room, and for a moment, all she could do was look around. The space had classic crown moldings and a parquet floor, juxtaposed with a white, 1970s shag rug, a long, bottle-green, velvet sofa with a low, tufted back and deep cushions. Adding to the groovy vibe were a pair of chairs opposite the couch, upholstered in the brightest pattern of red, pink, and purple flowers she’d ever seen, with gold painted, elaborately carved legs and arms, and high, throne-like backs.
There was a coffee table in the middle which looked like someone had thrown it out a window to the curb, just in time for Evan to find it and bring up to his apartment. There were stains, nicks, scratches, and possible burn marks on it, as well as a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses.
