Thirteen

Ben’s unexpected appearance and abrupt disappearance left Riley’s complexion flushed, her heart racing, and her mind flooded with questions: Why didn’t he text me? Holy crap, he’s hot! Has he been dancing long? Riley giggled. Actually, his ‘moves’ answered that question!

Squeezing through the rowdy throng of women during the intermission, she crossed paths with a few shirtless dancers serving drinks, but Ben wasn’t one of them. She craned her neck, looking over heads bobbing to the music and around arms waving colorful cocktails, but after a second loop of the club, there was still no sign of him. She gave up her search, slipping into the ladies’ room. After a lipstick re-application and a fluff of her hair, “Pony” began to throb through the club’s sound system. The midnight show—the dancers were on stage again.

Heading back, Riley’s eyes shot over the sea of women in front of the stage, landing on the muscled hunk who had been dancing with Leia earlier, slick with body oil, thrusting away, his jaw-aching bulge barely contained in a tiny purple G-string. A woman to her right held up a sign with a huge purple emoji—the eggplant. Of course. Riley chuckled, veered to the left, and spotted a green baseball cap by the bar. Ben? She took a detour and a chance, weaving past several drunk women punching the air with large inflatable penises. Claiming a spot just shy of the guy’s left elbow and his coat, which were piled up on the wooden bar like a barrier, she leaned in: Boston Bruins hat—check, dark hair flicking out underneath—check, cheekbones to die for—check. He turned his head and quickly turned away again. Vibrant blue eyes—fleeting, but check. He hung his head and slouched over three empty shot glasses. His left hand was entertaining itself in a bowl of bar nuts.

Is he okay? “Ben?”

He stared at the bar, plunging a finger of his now healed right hand into an empty glass, spinning it round and round. The bartender returned with two full shots of a clear liquid. Ben mouthed, “Thanks.”

Vodka? Riley leaned in. The sleeve of his purple hoodie was torn, hinting at a tattoo of some sort lurking on the inside of his right forearm. She ducked slightly, trying to see under the peak of his cap. “Hey…again…”

He focused intently on the peanut bowl, not responding.

“I almost didn’t recognize you up there without your hat. Is this research?”

“Research?” Avoiding her eyes, his chin retreated into his hoodie.

“Yeah, for a role. Going all Channing Tatum?”

He snorted, his posture stiffening as his hand abandoned the empty glass for a full shot. “Like anyone would want to cast me.”

“What? Oh, jeez. The Netflix thing…you…?”

“Didn’t get it.” Ben tossed back the vodka and winced, promptly exchanging that glass for another.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Riley set her jacket down on top of his. “Did you find out today?”

He laughed joylessly, the full glass teasing his wet lips. “I found out mid-audition.”

“Weeks ago?”

“Yep.” He downed the shot and slammed the empty glass on the bar.

“But you were celebrating in LA. You said—”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still refusing to look at her. “Yeah, celebrating the end of my dream of being an actor. Why just celebrate our successes? I reckon we should celebrate our failures, too, send ’em on their way with a bottle of whiskey and a cheeky middle finger.”

“So, why did you tell m—”

“I lied, all right? Because no bloke tells a pretty girl he’s just met that he’s a fucking failure.”

Pretty? A slight smile raised her lips but quickly dissolved.

He shoved the empty glass away. “The audition was a disaster. They handed me a script I hadn’t seen before, not the one my agent gave me to rehearse. I got nervous, couldn’t even read the lines…”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad. Maybe that role just wasn’t right for you.”

“No, I mean literally—I couldn’t read the script. I’m dyslexic, okay?!”

“Dyslexic—really?”

“Yeah, really. I don’t see things properly. Letters move around, words get jumbled up when I read, and it gets worse when I’m stressed out.”

Her heart dipped. Poor guy. “You should’ve told them.”

He shook his head. “They showed me the door in less than a minute. I was gutted, and furious. I smashed a mirror in the gents’ toilets with my fist.”

Riley glanced at his healed hand. “The bandage.”

“Yeah. Smart, eh? Every time I saw it—a reminder of the truth.” Ben made eye contact for the first time.

Riley felt an immediate wave of concern; he looked sad and defeated.

He gave her a tired smile, placing a finger to his lips like he was letting her in on a secret. “Want to know the truth, Ms. Hope?” Without waiting for a response, he leaned closer. “I’m just not good enough, and I’m done knocking my head against a brick wall. That’s why I'm in New York—’cause I can’t face going home…not yet. I can’t be a fucking disappointment.” He stuffed his fingers into one of the front pockets of his dark jeans, pulling out some folded cash. He opened the small stack, fanning the bills out on the bar. Riley counted one, two—two fifties, maybe three or four twenty-dollar bills, and a couple of crinkled ones.

“Ben—”

“Have a drink with me.” He waved a fifty at the bartender. “Four more, please.”

“Thanks, but I’m not drinking.”

“Why?”

“I need to keep a clear head.”

“Why?” He leaned on the bar, looking at her with a squint.

“Ben, more booze isn’t going to help you.”

He sat back, shaking his head again, his fingers digging through the bowl of peanuts. “You have no business telling me what to do! ’Specially not after giving me the wrong bloody number.” He threw a hard glare her way, his hand flying from the bowl and scattering nuts across the bar. “Why didn’t you just say, ‘Ben, piss off you loser’? Bish bosh, message received loud and clear.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t give you the wrong number.” She held out her hand. “Give me your phone.”

Ben slapped an ancient smartphone with a cracked screen into her palm. He returned to the bowl, grabbing a fistful of peanuts and shoveling them into his mouth, chewing quickly and scowling at the rows of liquor bottles lined up behind the bar.

He’s got the same old phone as me. No security code necessary, Riley skimmed through the few contacts he had, all listed by first names, no last names to go with them. She spotted ‘Rilee’, but the number was off by one digit. He punched it in wrong. “You tried to text me?”

He shrugged.

Riley didn’t make a huge deal of it. “See the six at the end? It should be a four. I’ll fix it and send a text to my phone so I have your number, too, okay?”

He turned his head slightly, barely looking at her. “Hope, go back to your friends and leave me alone. I’m gonna stay here and get pissed and blot out every little bit of my shite life.”

She set his phone on the bar. “Ben—”

“I’ve got nothing: no career, no home, no—” He hiccupped, his eyes locked on the approaching bartender. “Let me have something…and right now, it’s waiting for me in these wee glasses.” The bartender lined up four full shots. “Cheers, mate.” Ben raised one to his lips, the liquid gone in a gulp.

“I know losing out on the Netflix thing must be disappointing, but you know better than anyone that rejections are part of an actor’s life, right? Sure, it hurts now, but it will fade and you’ll get other auditions, other roles. You have to keep trying—”

“Oh, you think so, eh? Think it’s that easy? Since drama school, I’ve only had a few acting jobs: some voiceover work, an advert or two, a play in a pub, and a small part in an indie film in LA, so all that crap about other auditions, other roles—tell it to someone who gives a shit.”

Riley jerked her head back. “I get it, you’re upset, but getting wasted isn’t the answer, and what’s your boss here going to say—seeing you drinking the bar dry?”

“My boss?” He laughed. “He’d say, ‘Thanks for the wages back, loser.’ Besides, I got sacked tonight.”

“What—?”

“Yeah! I had two weeks to prove myself. Apparently, I didn’t. How’s that for shite? I can’t even take my clothes off properly.” He patted his cash on the bar. “And this is all I have to show for it.” He downed another shot and chased it with a handful of nuts.

“So…”

Ben picked up the dish of peanuts and dumped the remainder into his open mouth.

“Take a breath, Ben. It’s like you were raised by wolves…”

He dragged another bowl across the bar. “I’m starving.”

“Slow down.”

“I have to take what I can get before the owner spies me and kicks me out. Can’t a guy have some dinner?”

“Free peanuts are your dinner?”

“Yep, so if you don’t mind, leave me to it. I’d rather dine alone.” Downing another shot, he gave her a quick glance, but his sad blue eyes belied his liquor-soaked swagger. “I don’t need anyone—never have.”

He has no one here. That fear of being alone, of having no one pinched Riley’s heart. She knew that fear well, that black cloud…looming, about to smother and suffocate, to blanket you with an unbearable ache that seeps into your bones. She blinked away the stinging suggestion of tears and picked up her coat then his. “C’mon.”

“Riley, just go, okay?” He snatched a handful of his jacket.

“Fine, I will”—she shifted, pulling his coat out of his grasp—“but you’re coming with me.”

“No, I’m not!” He propped his elbows on the bar like a kid, mid-temper tantrum. “You can keep my coat. I don’t need it. I don’t need you…don’t you get it?”

“Don’t you get it? I’m just trying to be a friend. Jesus, you’re being such a jerk!” Frowning, she dumped his coat back on the bar and turned away, stuffing one arm into her denim jacket, followed by the other.

Doing a double take, Ben peeked out from his cap, his eyes softening. He reached out, touching her back. “Riley! Shit…I’m sorry.” His shoulders relaxed. “You’re the last person I expected to see, and tonight hasn’t been…well, you know—my finest hour.” He winced. “And I’m a complete arse when I’m hungry.”

Riley fidgeted with her clutch, snapping it open and closed, then faced him again. “Who isn’t?” She breathed out slowly, her stomach snarling underneath her jacket. It had been twenty-four hours since her last meal. “I know a place with cheap 2-for-1 pizza slices…”

“I’m not a pizza fan.”

“Okay, well, how ’bout a diner? You know, milkshakes, dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets? Fries? You like fries, don’t you?”

“Is my name Ben Fagan?” A slight smile curved his mouth.

“I don’t know—is it?” Riley smirked and stood up straight, picking up his coat again. “Let’s go.”

“But…” He looked over his shoulder. Erika was waving Hunter’s purple G-string in the air. “Won’t your friends be pissed?”

She followed his stare. “Yeah, pissed drunk. They won’t notice I’m gone. They’ve only got eyes for Vlad the Impaler—” Argh, awk-ward! Her cheeks flushed red as her eyes shot back to Ben, a cheeky grin creeping across his stubble. “Never mind, Tragic Mike. Let’s get out of here.”