Page 50 of Fireworks Flame
“However,” Deiss says, leaning back in his chair with his chin tilted up so he can look down on Mac like a benevolent god, “I choose to forgive you. So, you may have free drinks.”
Mac perks up and declares his own forgiveness, sanctioning drink distribution for everyone. Within a few minutes, we have an entire page of specialty cocktails in front of us and are trying to narrow it down to the four with the most unusual combination of ingredients. I end up with one that pairs strawberry and peach with basil, while Phoebe’s contains elderflower and mint.
“I’m telling you,” Deiss says, defending his choice, which involves orange juice and coconut, “it tastes good.”
“I’m not saying it doesn’t.” I squint doubtfully at his glass. “I’m just saying that it reminds me of one of those homemade hangover cures of orange juice and milk designed to make you vomit the previous night’s shame.”
“That’s a lovely image, Liv.” Deiss pulls his glass back as if he doesn’t want it tainted by my words.
I giggle, already feeling a little drunk after half a glass. It must be the giddiness that comes from free cocktails in the middle of a workday, because everyone seems to feel the same, and none of them are half the lightweight I am. Phoebe keeps eavesdropping on the table behind us and excitedly reciting everything that’s been said, despite the fact that each of us has confirmed more than once that it is not, in fact, Margot Robbie she’s spying on.
The next couple of rounds are much less strategically ordered. They involve pointing randomly at the menu, thenpicking our favorite colors when the server arrives with them. I sip at the newly arrived neon-green one and grimace before covertly swapping it out with the untouched one in front of Deiss.
“Where’s Simone?” I ask, hoping to distract Deiss from the fact that his cocktail has transformed from a cranberry hue to something that oozes out of sewers in superhero movies. “Did anyone invite her?”
There’s a silent pause where I feel, rather than see, the guilt that bounces between them.
“We don’t—” Mac says before getting cut off by Deiss.
“We tend to assume the drive is too far for these kinds of impromptu things,” Deiss says with a too-casual shrug.
“Plus, it’s weird between her and Sebastian now,” Phoebe adds quickly. “You know how agents are. He acts like he wants to sign everyone, but of course he just wants everyone tothinkhe wants to sign them. But Simone called him daily for months because ‘you have to push for what you want.’ ”
“Phoebe’s doing lots of air quotes,” Mac says with delight. “That means she feels guilty about something.”
Phoebe shoots him a look, but it’s unnecessary. I know exactly what she feels guilty about. I wasn’t supposed to find out that my adherence to a normal work schedule and the distance of my condo has excluded me from agent-sponsored drink-a-thons—just like I wasn’t supposed to discover that Phoebe still sees Deiss and Mac almost daily, while I’ve been so lonely I sometimes wonder if my voice will dry up entirely from lack of use. It doesn’t matter, though, because we’re here now. And it feels just like old times. And if I can just stay near them, I’ll never have to be lonely again.
“I’m looking at rooms for rent in Silver Lake,” I blurt out.
“You are?” Phoebe squeals and clasps her hands together.
“And Los Feliz.” I look at Deiss, searching for signs that this is too stalkerish for him, but his eyes drop to his drink.
“Have you found anything?” Phoebe asks.
“I’ve reached out to a couple of people,” I say.
“You have?” Deiss’s head jerks up. “When?”
“Whenever I spot a good one. They fill up really quickly, though. I won’t be able to pull the trigger on anything until I get my account restored or find a steady repeat client.”
I search his face for signs of relief, but it’s gone blank. He picks up his drink and side-eyes the one in front of me.
“I’m so excited,” Phoebe says, clapping. “I’ve gotten so used to seeing you every day. I didn’t know what I was going to do when you left again.”
“So, Deiss is going to have his place to himself again?” Mac asks. “You should let me move in. There’s no point in letting an empty room go to waste.”
“You have a place to live,” Deiss says before lifting his eyebrows at me as if to say,Look what you’ve done.
“But it’s always dirty,” Mac says.
“Sorry-ola,” Deiss says. “Liv is staying.”
I look at him in surprise, but he merely smiles smoothly and drags his drink back in front of him. Without breaking eye contact, he pulls the straw out of the sludge-filled glass I’ve swapped his for and slides it into the lovely red. My eyes narrow.
Sharing is one thing. This reckless color contamination is another. Especially considering Deiss hasn’t used a single straw since the rainbow-colored processional of cocktail deliveries began. He’s been doing that guy thing where he leaves the strawin the glassbut pushes it out of the way and drinks around it.
Slowly, with his eyes firmly on me, he bends toward the glass and puts his ridiculously gorgeous mouth on the straw. The liquid inside the glass begins to drop in volume, but he doesn’t pull back after a sip. His eyes stay locked on mine as he continues to suck. It’s not until his lips curl that I realize he intends to drain it all. With an outraged gasp, I shove his shoulder ineffectually and scoot closer, ducking for the other straw.
