CHAPTER FIVE
RIGGS
Later that night, I stopped at the Brewtherhood, a bar favored by aging hipsters. There was nothing overtly special about it, other than the fact that it was too run-down to attract tourists, and the playlist swung heavily toward ’90s and early 2000s music.
Arsène, Christian, and I sat at the bar. I was crashing at Christian’s while in town. Since I had just become betrothed, I was racking my brain for a creative way to tell him his bedroom would be needed for a few more weeks while Duffy and I tied the knot and filled out paperwork. No fucking way was I sharing a confined space with Cruella de Vil. Cohabitating a city seemed too much at this point.
Both my friends’ wives were great catches, albeit in different ways. Christian’s Arya was a bossy, sassy, red-heeled ballbuster with world-domination aspirations, and Arsène’s Winnie was a doe-eyed actress with a southern drawl and the best peach pies on the East Coast. They both seemed chill about my using their places as hostels. It was Arsène and Christian who wanted me out of their hair so they could continue humping their partners’ legs uninterrupted.
“What can I get you, gentlemen?” A new bartender, with spiky green hair and a collection of piercings, winked my way as she slid coasters across the bar.
I ordered a local brew, Arsène a Japanese beer, and Christian a whiskey, neat.
“Coming right up.” She beamed at me behind her shoulder, peppering the gesture with a wink.
“This new one seems extra jolly.” I patted my jeans. “Did she just steal my wallet or something?”
“For what purpose? You look like the kind of guy who only holds used gum and a Costco membership in it. No, you porked her,” Arsène articulated graciously, an astronomy book propped under his elbow.
“Fuck.”
“Aptly put.” Christian was typing an email on his phone.
“When?” I may or may not have promised my friends to stop hooking up with the staff here. Quality, quiet dive bars were becoming hard to come by downtown.
“Between Chile and Mozambique,” Christian supplied, reluctantly ripping his gaze off his phone. “She asked about you a dozen times after you went away. Apparently, you told her you had one year to live and were on a mission to travel the world, so no relationships for you.”
That sounded like something I’d say while zipping up my pants on my way out.
“We figured you wouldn’t remember her, so we told her you were suffering from amnesia.”
“Thanks, pal.” I clapped his shoulder.
He shook me off. “Instead of thanking me, stop feeding women bullshit stories. We’re tired of cleaning up your mess, Bates.”
What else was I supposed to tell them? The truth?
“You’re great, sweetheart, you really are, but due to a fucked-up childhood and deep-rooted abandonment issues, I would rather feast on my own leg for the next week or so than get attached to another human.”
After our drinks were served, and the bartender gave me a poor thing pout and told me she was always here if I needed to talk, Christian swiveled on his stool in my direction. “So when’s your new assignment starting?”
“You mean, when am I getting out of your place?” I tipped my beer in my mouth.
He swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler. “You speak Christian Miller fluently.”
This was my in to break the news to them.
“Actually, now that you mention it, it might take a minute or two before my next project.”
“Let me guess, you’re banned from most civilized places for impregnating the locals and causing overpopulation.” Arsène flipped his phone to check if his wife had texted him. He was so thoroughly whipped I was surprised she didn’t use his balls as a door knocker.
“That too. But mostly . . .” I flopped back on my stool, opening my arms wide with a victorious grin. “I’m getting married.”
Christian sprayed his whiskey all over the bar.
Arsène’s quiet, skeptical glare dug its way under my skin as he watched me from behind his beer bottle.
“You do understand that part of telling a joke is making it funny,” Arsène drawled.
“It’s not a joke.” I shook my head. “I’m getting hitched.”
“Sorry, I’m not buying what you’re selling.” Christian had recovered, wiping his chin with napkins he’d retrieved from behind the bar. “You. Marriage. The fact that you put the two in the same sentence. You jumped the shark.”
“You not only jumped it, you’re not even in the same body of water as said shark.” Arsène raised his beer in agreement. “You lack the capacity to recognize a woman you hooked up with last month. Twice. You taking a stab at monogamy is probably going to kill the concept completely.”
“Sorry to disappoint, ladies, but I’m about to become a taken man.”
Taken hostage, more like.
“Are we gonna do this for a while?” Christian flagged the bartender for another round of drinks. “Because, as previously established, this joke isn’t funny. Be serious.”
“I am serious.” I knocked back my entire drink. “What’s so hard about envisioning me getting married?”
“I find it easier envisioning you shitting in your own hand and clapping.” Arsène squinted at nothing in particular, as if watching a film of the situation in his head. “Frankly, you seem happier clapping on your own crap too.”
“Domesticating you is akin to herding a six-pack of Bud Light,” Christian explained, using an unfortunate analogy. “No woman in her right mind would marry you. Wait.” His face clouded. “She is in her right mind, yeah? Is she of age, fully mature, and doesn’t live in a closed psychiatric ward? New York State’s laws are pretty strict about that.”
Smiling cheerfully, I dug through my front pockets and produced two middle fingers, erecting them Christian’s way.
“Notice you haven’t answered my question.” Through his squint I could see him already calculating the bail they’d put on my ass if I got arrested.
“While it’s true I don’t have a lot of experience with relationships, my settling down isn’t more outrageous than you two getting hitched.” I peeled a sticker off the bar, quietly but thoroughly pissed. “If anything, I’ve never been mean or abusive to my partners.” I pinned Christian with a glare. “Nor have I ever bullied anyone.” My gaze shifted to Arsène. “I always try and say my goodbyes while inflicting minimum damage. Compared to both of you, I’m a gentle soul.”
“A gentle soul who keeps mason jars with his farts in a Brooklyn storage space from when we were in ninth grade.” Christian raised his new whiskey glass in a dropped-mic gesture.
“They’ll be worth a fortune one day.” I gave him a chiding scowl. “When future scientists will need to know shit about the twenty-first-century diet, who do you think they’ll turn to?”
“Good question.” Arsène pretended to mull this over. “Our generation is grossly undocumented. I wish they’d invent the internet already.”
I made a mental note to return these friends to the store and get new, less contentious ones.
“Keep laughing at my business ventures. I just might release one of these jars’ contents in your house one day.”
They both shifted in their stools, probably remembering the sheer amount of chili con carne I consumed during the days I’d filled those jars. I wasn’t really keeping them for anthropology experiments. I was keeping them because the knowledge amused my friends, and even though we often gave each other shit—zero pun intended—I enjoyed seeing people I cared about happy.
“Back to the subject—so you’re really getting married?” Arsène eyeballed me.
“Yeah.” I polished off my drink and reached for the second bottle immediately. “But you’re right, there is a stipulation involved. She needs a green card.”
Christian frowned. “How is her needing a green card your problem? You didn’t knock her up, did you?”
I shuddered. The idea of touching Daphne made my skin turn inside out. She’d probably ask me to bathe in Purell and deep-peel my cock beforehand.
“We’re not involved like that. I’m doing her a solid.”
“What’s in it for you?” Arsène insisted.
“She caught me nailing her boss and blackmailed me into it. The boss is married and high profile,” I explained. “Turns out, her timing was perfect. I need a placeholder. A responsibility. An excuse not to do a shitty task Discovery is asking me to do.”
“You need responsibility? Get a fucking hamster,” Arsène suggested.
“You do realize this is a federal offense. You could get fined out of your ass.” It was Christian’s turn to shit all over my parade.
“Since when does Riggs care about money?” Arsène wondered aloud. “He’s been beefing with the concept ever since we met him.”
“We both need this cover story,” I said mildly. “It’s a done deal.”
“You’re digging yourself a pool-size hole.” Christian scowled.
“More room for me.” I tipped my beer up in a cheers gesture.
Christian pointed at me with his drink. “You can’t just marry someone for a green card. There are rules, regulations; you’ll have to meet specific requirements to make her eligible for a visa.”
“Break it down to him,” Arsène goaded, a cruel smirk on his lips. “Use simple words. Maybe some illustrations on a napkin.”
My grin widened. They were giving me shit because I was good looking, rich, and worked a job I loved. Christian, meanwhile, worked his ass off to support his lifestyle, and Arsène did what he did because of deep-seated daddy issues.
“For one thing, you’ll need to live together,” Christian explained. “And have utility bills with both your names on them.”
“That’s not a problem.” I shrugged off this piece of news.
Actually, it was a MAJOR FUCKING PROBLEM, but I’d already gotten so much shit from them about this stupid marriage, I wasn’t backing down on principle. “She’s already offered that I move in with her. What else?”
“You’ll need to establish some kind of history together. You’ll have to take mutual pictures, introduce each other to people in your lives, book vacations together, the whole shebang,” Christian proceeded. “There’s a list somewhere online, and it’s extensive. Immigration law officers are no dum-dums. They’d want receipts to back up your story. I can refer you to a colleague of mine. She is a star immigration lawyer, but she ain’t cheap.”
This whole thing sounded intense. Much more intense than Duffy led me to believe.
The green-haired girl glided her elbows across the bar, getting in my face just as I was shoving my arms into my leather jacket.
“Hey. So, you probably don’t remember me, after everything you’ve been through . . . with your emergency surgery . . . and the amnesia . . .”
Staring at her, I pretended to be confused. In my periphery, Christian and Arsène tittered like two teenage girls sharing a secret. I couldn’t believe these asshats had saddled me with a side plot of a soap opera.
“But I just want you to know that if you ever want to, uh, talk to anyone, I’m here. My aunt was in a coma for three days, so I know how it is.”
Jesus Christ, I needed to stop lying to avoid me having to call her the next day. Or at least keep a notepad on my phone to keep all my lies straight.
“Thank you.” I reached to squeeze her hand. “You’ll never know how much I appreciate it.”
I got up, fished out my wallet, and threw a wad of cash onto the counter. “I’ll see you fuckers around.”
“Aren’t you crashing with us today?” Christian looked confused. He sounded like the mother I never had. “Arya said she’ll make your favorite refried rice, but this time you have to remember to take your laundry from the washing machine. You’re stinking up the whole place.”
Suddenly, I realized Duffy wasn’t completely off when she said having a place of my own wasn’t the worst idea. Throughout the years, I thought renting a place in New York—or worse, buying one—was useless with all the traveling I did. I didn’t want to be tempted by comfort and banality. I lived a shark’s life. Always on the move. But there was a flip side to being on the go. I was at my friends’ mercy. Always ping-ponging between them, abiding by their house rules. It almost felt like an extension of my years at the Andrew Dexter Academy.
“Nah.” I shoved my fists into my jacket’s pockets. “I’ll stay at hers.”
She did offer.
“Sure you’re not mixing business with pleasure?” Arsène arched an eyebrow.
If only they knew Duffy’s company was about as pleasurable as shoving your dick into a KitchenAid mixer set to the fastest speed.
“Positive.”