Page 75 of Whiskey Splash

“That wasn’t in the context of your entire apartment being turned into a vodka-fruit cannery,” he says dryly.

“I think my fruit juice to alcohol ratio is off,” Arie says, when her second attempt doesn’t catch on fire. “I wonder if the season and the ripeness of the fruit plays a part?”

“Oooh, what is this?” a fourth voice joins the choir, and Simon—Arie’s business partner—walks in from the back offices. He wears a striped button-up shirt and horn-rimmed glasses, sporting the nerdy Clark Kent look like it just became the latest fashion. Simon’s the accountant. Arie’s the talent. “Are you trying to come up with a new drink for the movie wrap party?” Simon asks, walking up to the bar and picking up the latest red-dragon blood concoction and taking a sip.

Connor rolls his eyes like that sweet little chunk of change is not going to be worth his girlfriend’s soaked-fruit obsession.

“I call it insanity,” Connor quips. “She calls it creativity. It’s not like the menu we already have isn’t explosive enough.” He raises his voice with that last statement to make sure Arie heard him.

“Famous people. Hollywood,” Arie retorts, listening but still engrossed in her drunken edible arrangement. “This is a high-profile gig. Explain to them that this is important, Simon! I have to pull out all the stops.”

“She has to pull out all the stops,” Simon echoes sarcastically, not taking sides.

Arie rolls her eyes. “Plus, Esme’s boyfriend will be there, and we’ve got to impress him.”

“Correction,” I interject. “He’s not my boyfriend.” I hold up a finger before swiping the lavender drink and plucking out the blackberry that’s balanced across the lip with a toothpick.

“I’m sorry,” Arie corrects, abandoning her fruits to finally look up at the three of us. “Her hotter-than-sin fuck-buddy.”

“Oh, he’s not that either!” I toss back, pulling the blackberry off the toothpick with my teeth. “We haven’t even done that hot little deed.”

“I was thinking about coming up with a cocktail that uses his last name,” Arie says, not paying attention and obsessing over her next idea, turning back to the shelves of alcohol that are lined on the wall.

Connor looks at me and raises an eyebrow, surprised she hasn’t skewered me with what I just said. “She totally missed that little comment, now didn’t she?” Connor says quietly, and I nod.

“You know, something that has apikein it,” Arie continues. “He is the star. I could use some sort of mini cocktail spear and stab it through some fruit or something.”

“Maybe all these booze-soaked berries for a start?” Connor offers sarcastically, but she isn’t listening.

“Whatever you make, keep it in budget,” Simon says, grabbing some papers from behind the cash register and heading toward the door. He points to Connor. “Make sure you keep her in line.”

“I’m not her keeper!” he tosses back indignantly.

“Yes, you are!” Simon says, heading for the elevator.

“Clearly this whole Hollywood soiree gig has her off her game,” I toss at Connor, who nods his head like I haven’t seen anything yet.

“Maybe the pike could light on fire,” Arie continues, not even paying attention to us. “You know, when you pull it out of the drink. In honor of Mr. Movie-star-bedroom-buddy.” Connor and I both laugh and she looks up at us suspiciously. “Why are you two laughing?”

“No reason,” I say, walking past her and behind the bar. I start pulling out green liqueurs—Midori, Absinthe, Apple Vodka—and placing them on the corner next to the litter of abandoned and unfinished drinks. Welcome to the island of misfit cocktails. “The film has a radiation monster in it. Maybe go with a green liqueur and throw in an octopus tentacle or something.”

Arie picks up one of the bottles and tilts her head to the side, the wheels in her head churning. “Hmmm, not a bad idea,” she admits, reaching for an empty glass to start experimenting.

“On the subject of the wrap party,” I say. “Will you need me to work the event or are you fully staffed?” Arie’s head snaps up like I’ve grown three heads.

“Work the party?” Her face scrunches up like I poured milk into her orange juice. “You’re going to be Desmond’s fucking date. Hello!”

I shake my head. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The wrap party is a work thing for Desmond. You know, Hollywood people, high-profile.” I point at her. “Those are yourwords. If I’m at this event, it’s only going to be because you have me tableside, juggling flaming oysters.”

“For the record!” Connor interrupts. “Esme is not allowed to juggle anything that is on fire!” He looks at me with a don’t-kick-my-balls smile. “For the record, I think your awesome. You know I do. But let’s all be honest about the fact that your delightfully charming awkwardness sometimes sets clothing—and sometimes people—on fire.”

“Let’s not forget,” I defend, “that the first time anything came close to catching on fire in my presence was your brother’sfault! Or yours, technically, because you’re the one who clocked him!”

“Point taken,” Connor glowers. “But I still don’t think flaming acrobatics are your strong suit.”

“I can happily man the salad bar,” I toss back at him.

“We don’t have one of those.” Connor frowns.

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