Page 94 of Slots & Sticks
“I’m good. I’ll just lie here.”
“Are you at least going to come to my show tonight?”
I groan and roll face down onto the sofa.
“But I left tickets at will-call.” I can hear the pout in his voice.
I roll my head to one side so that I can speak without a mouthful of cushion. “Tickets? Plural?”
“Well, you know. For when you and Dot get back together. Laughter is a great aphrodisiac.”
“It’s not going to happen, Geo. She doesn’t want me. I’m alone.” I curl into the fetal position. “I’m going to be aloneforever. I’ve loved her for so long that I can’ imagine being with anyone else. I don’t think I can give anyone else a chance. It’ll be me and my cat and hockey until the day I die.”
“Unlikely.” Geo sounds perfectly cheerful. “If you don’t get your act together, the Venom will let you go. And then how will you pay for Soot’s cat food?”
I turn back to the pillows and let the stuffing swallow my answering groan.
“Sorry for raining on your pity parade. Come to the show. You can heckle me as revenge.” He hangs up before I can tell him no. It’s a very Geo move.
I lie there for a few minutes, marinating in my self-pity. The thing is, Geo has a point. My deep funk—and my career—won’t be improved by lying here and letting my depressing thoughts cycle on loop forever. Besides, he always makes me laugh, even though I seem to end up as the butt of his jokes during a suspicious percentage of shows.
“Fine,” I tell Soot. “We’re going.”
From her perch on the cat tree, Soot blinks down at me like she knows I’m lying to both of us.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That’s what I thought.”
* * *
I’m alone at a two-top near the front, nursing a soda like a divorced dad at a kid’s talent show. Beer felt like a bad idea. So did living, frankly, but here we are.
The lights drop, and Geo struts onto the stage in his usual black tee and jeans. The crowd cheers. He looks loose, confident.
“Good evening, Las Vegas! Everyone looks hot tonight. Some of you… in a felony way.”
The room laughs. Geo shades his eyes, scanning the crowd. “Sir, in the button-up—yeah, you—did you iron that shirt with a panini press? Respect.”
Another laugh. He paces. “Who’re you here with?”
The man points to a woman.
“Your wife? Nice. Way to bring sand to the beach, my man. How long have you been married?”
“Ten years,” the man answers.
“Ten years! That’s not marriage, that’s hostage negotiation. Blink twice if you’re safe.”
He kills for a few minutes, working the room with his warm grin and mean streak perfectly balanced.
Then his eyes land on me.
“Oh-ho. Well, look who crawled out of his emotional support blanket fort—my buddy Camden Beck! Give it up for Cam!”
A spotlight swings straight into my face. I raise one hand, mortified. The audience applauds.
Geo grins. “Cam’s had a rough couple of weeks, everybody. You can tell because he’s drinking soda at a comedy show. Nothing saysI’m spiraling safelylike a Diet Coke and tears.”
The crowd laughs again—until my phone starts ringing. Loud.
