Page 21 of The Dramatic Life of Jonah Penrose
“Drinks?” Omari said, returning from the bar with a black tray in hand filled with shots. He placed it down on the table, and the unmistakable scent of aniseed invaded Jonah’s nostrils. Sherrie reached for a glass, her hand missing it so her fingers dipped into the top of the alcohol, before getting it the second time and throwing it down her throat with ease.
Bastien narrowed his eyes at Omari, who gave a nonchalant shrug in response. “It’s her birthday,” he said and took a shot himself. “And they’re from Dexter, not me.” He nodded his head toward the bar, where Jonah saw Dexter standing and talking with a woman he didn’t recognize.
He hadn’t shown himself after the evening show; Jonah didn’t see him lurking around backstage or continuing to lap up praise from stage door despite not being part of the performance. Jonah relaxed, thinking Dexter might skip Sherrie’s birthday drinks, but of course he showed up, ordering a tray of sambuca no less. The podcast they did kept replaying in Jonah’s mind. The falseness of it turned his stomach, and Dexter’s overly friendly gestures and the pet names falling from his lips only made his mood curdle.
Dexter finished up his conversation at the bar, then made his way over to their table. Other members of the production greeted him as he went, but his attention seemed fixed on Sherrie as he approached. Jonah couldn’t stop himself from looking him up and down, not checking him out, definitely not checking him out, but rather not-so-subtly judging his attire. Like usual, he wore something a mother might dress her child in if they were ludicrously rich and called Cyril or Cuthbert. Chinos, cream, cut off at the ankle again, but this time white socks poked out of ugly brown shoes that went into points at the toe. Yet again a white shirt covered his torso, hidden beneath another jumper, and Jonah stared at it as the man drew closer. Instead of a small bear with a bowtie on the breast pocket, or an abstract kite, this stunning piece of couture bore the face of an embroidered Golden Labrador. It was the single most hideous thing Jonah ever had the displeasure of seeing. Even worse than some of the questionably infected dick pics clogging up his FullStack inbox.
“Fucking hell,” Bastien said under his breath as he leaned close to Jonah. “He looks like a knockoff Prince Harry.”
“Don’t be mean. Prince Harry would never wear something so rancid,” Jonah said, reaching for a shot to down before Dexter got to the table.
“Happy birthday, Sherrie,” Dexter said, a wide smile across his lips that didn’t look pink like usual, but red, deep red, as if stained by the petals of a rose. “Thank you for inviting me.” He took the vacant seat next to Jonah.
“Nice jumper.” Jonah spoke without thinking, the sambuca giving him a momentary rush of confidence.
Dexter narrowed his eyes at him, then wiped his hand across the front of the dog’s face. “Yes. It’s Piniquo.”
“Piniquo?”
“Yes.” Dexter frowned. “Very high-end designer, I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it. This piece was a limited run for the fall collection last year.”
Jonah raised an eyebrow and allowed a smirk to form on his lips. “Piece? It’s a jumper, Dexter. And you mean to tell me you paid for this? It wasn’t forced on to you by relative?”
Dexter picked up a shot and drank it before grimacing slightly. Of course he couldn’t handle sambuca. The absolute wet wipe. “That’s rich coming from someone who looks like they’ve raided their grandfather’s wardrobe.”
Jonah looked down at his own clothes. Black cotton trousers, oversized, nice, they made his arse look great, and a black shirt buttoned to his navel to reveal a black T-shirt underneath. Then, to finish his rather perfect ensemble, a beige cardigan that, yes, perhaps a grandad might enjoy, but who in their right mind didn’t like a good cardigan?
“You both look abso-bloody-amazing,” Sherrie gushed, empty shot glass in her hand, and Jonah couldn’t tell if it was the one from earlier or if she’d drank another. “I should know, I’m a fashion queen.”
“I don’t know if those are fashionable,” Bastien said, and gestured to the pink jelly shoes on her feet. “My sister used to wear those when we were kids.”
Sherrie swallowed thickly and gave a sambuca-filled gurgle. “Then shewas bloody cool, Bash. Anyway,” she said as she narrowed her eyes at Dexter. “Romana has been at rehearsals, right? You’ve seen her? Has she said anything about me?”
“Oh, give it a rest, Sherrie,” Omari groaned before taking a sip of a glass of water. Apparently one shot was enough for him. “She’s clearly not interested.”
“That’s not true,” she whined. “She was interested when I had my head between her legs.”
“Sherrie!” Omari screeched, raising his hands defense. “I donotneed to know where your head has been.”
“Champagne?” The welcome distraction came courtesy of the sound technicians, who, after bringing three bottles to the table and taking up the rest of the chairs, admitted it wasn’t champagne but some cheap knockoff that tasted the same. Sherrie didn’t seem to care, and she swayed in her seat, champagne flute in hand and a glazed-over expression on her face. Gold-colored bubbles danced across their tongues as the music got heavier, the beat louder and louder until Bastien pulled them to their feet and dragged whoever he could onto the dance floor.
At some point, Dexter took his jumper off and tied it round his waist and loosened three of the buttons on his shirt, his blond hair sticking to his forehead as he danced with Sherrie, their bodies flickering beneath the disco ball. Jonah wasn’t watching him. He certainly wasn’t watching the way his hips moved and didn’t marvel at how big his hands looked splayed across the small of Sherrie’s back. And Jonah certainly wasn’t looking at the flash of exposed skin on his chest, because, actually, wait, no, he totally was. Jonah drank more, deciding that if he must socialize with Dexter, then he needed to be completely smashed to do so, and if he were drunk, he wouldn’t remember feeling a weird sense of attraction to him in the morning. He leaned against the bar and watched as his cocktail pitcher was mixed before him. Vodka. Peach schnapps. Cranberry juice. Bloody delightful.
“You’re so fucking gay.” Bastien laughed as he sidled up beside him.
Jonah laughed before placing a hand over his heart and gasping, feigning shock. “No way? Am I?”
“We are drowning in beer and shots and you’re over here ordering a pitcher of... what is that? Woo Woo?”
Jonah nodded, impressed. “Itisa Woo Woo.”
“You’re getting two glasses, right? We’re gonna share?”
“No, babe,” Jonah said, taking the pitcher from the bartender then grabbing a straw to dunk in it. “This big gay drink is all for me.” He ignored Bastien’s pout and hugged the glass pitcher to his chest as he sucked on the straw. A man from across the bar looked over at him—neatly trimmed beard, long hair tied back into a bun—and Jonah could feel the stirrings of attraction brewing, an attraction he hadn’t experienced since Edward dumped him.
“Hello?” Bastien shouted in his face, waving his hand to get his attention. “Don’t zone out on me just because there’s a hot guy. You promised you would dance with me.”
“Dexter’s dancing,” Jonah said, nodding toward the tall blond surrounded by the rest of the cast on the dance floor. “Go dance with him.”
