Page 10 of No More Billionaires

“Sure. Meet you back here at six-thirty?”

* * *

We ended up going to Darby’s, apparently a favorite hangout of the Toons Network folks as well as theOverstreet Livecrew. Jason claimed they served the best mouth-blistering Buffalo wings in the city.

“And I am in the mood to torch my tongue,” he said. “Plus, they’ve got six-dollar pitchers on Monday nights. See? I’m a cheap date.”

When I did a double-take, he added, “Just kidding. Though if youwantedto go halfsies—no seriously, just kidding.”

I asked the hostess to seat us at a table in the corner, far from the bar, hoping to get to know Jason better and avoid the WNN crowd (and Larson) if they happened to come in.

She did as I asked, but we didn’t end up spending the evening in quiet conversation.

We’d been there about ten minutes when Jason spotted a group of his co-workers and shouted to them across the bar. They came over with smiles and high-fives, pulled a nearby table up to ours, and joined us.

As others drifted in after their shifts, our corner became more and more crowded and raucous.

It was fun, actually. And I wasn’t the only one who found Jason entertaining. He was clearly popular at work.

He spent the evening stuffing himself with more hot wings than I would have thought possible and telling stories that had our entire table laughing. I mostly smiled and tried to avoid getting sloshed with beer from the numerous pitchers being ordered and poured around me.

After a couple of hours, the hilarity wore a bit thin—there’s nothing quite as tiresome as being around drunk people when you’re sober.

At times I’d definitely been one of those drunk people, but knowing I had a long drive home tonight, I’d limited myself to one beer.

Jason, on the other hand, had been challenged to quite a few shots and downed them in quick succession. What had started out as a promising evening had taken a definite downturn.

I reached across the table and touched his hand. “I think I’m going to head out.”

He gave me the smiling head nod and held up a finger while finishing a story.

Needing to find the bathroom, I didn’t wait around. He was still talking as I left the table.

I moved through the crowded bar heading for a back hallway I hoped would lead me to the bathrooms.

Word of six-dollar pitcher night had apparently spread far and wide. Or maybe Darby’s was always like this. The place was packed thickly with a mixture of Monday Night Football fans and young professionals who had no need or desire to go straight home after work.

I saw an opening in the throng and was making my move when I was sideswiped by a huge man in a Falcons sweatshirt, which sent me slamming into a man on the other side of the aisle.

If the unfortunate crash-victim’s arms hadn’t come out to grab me, my next stop would’ve probably been the sticky floor.

“Thanks. I’m so—”Sorrywas the word I’d intended, but my voice died of shock as I looked up into the face of my rescuer.

Larson.

“Kenley. Wow. I’m surprised to see you here. You ran out after work, and I just didn’t expect—did you just get here?”

“Oh. No. I’ve been here awhile. I came with someone. Else. Someone else.” I rushed to add, “But I’m not staying. I’m just going to the restroom, and then I’m leaving.”

“I see. Well, that’s too bad.”

His hands were still wrapped around my biceps. He looked down at me for a few seconds as if searching for the right words. Then he released my arms and reached down for one of my hands.

“Here—I’ll help you get through the crowd.”

Twisting so our joined hands were behind his back, Larson made a path through the bar and delivered me to the ladies’ room door, where there was a line.

Of course. At least it was only three deep. It wasn’t like I had another option—no way my bladder could survive the drive home.

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