FIRST CAME… CASAMIGOS?
Mr. S.
“You serious right now?”
The bourbon satheavy in my hand, condensation slipping down the glass onto the bar top.
I wasn’t even in the mood to drink, but it gave me something to do while I listened to my brother disappoint me… again.
On the other end, Marcus exhaled as if he’d been carrying the weight of the world all damn day.
“I’m sorry, man. Something came up and I just can’t make it tonight.”
I swirled the ice, let it clink against the sides of the glass. “Something always comes up with you.”
“Don’t start,” he said. “You know my schedule’s not like yours. I can’t just take a night off whenever I want.”
I let that slide because even he knew that was a bold-faced lie.
“I ain’t askin’ for a night off, Marcus. I asked for an hour. One hour with your brother who flew across the fucking country.”
“Mar—”
“Nah.” I cut him off, staring past my own reflection in the mirrored wall of liquor bottles. “I’ve been sittin’ at this hotel bar, waiting for an hour like a clown, and for what? Nigga, I had to call you! You couldn’t even tell me earlier you weren’t gonna make it?”
Silence.
Then a low, tired sigh. “I thought I could. I really did. But the meeting ran over, then dinner with a client?—”
“Ohhh. Okay, so fuck me and my time,” I muttered in annoyance.
“Don’t be like that.” His voice softened, but it didn’t reach me. “We’ll do drinks tomorrow. My treat.”
I laughed without humor. “One. I ain’t one of the broads you cheat on your wife with, I don’t need you to pay for my drinks.”
He groaned. “Why you always thinking somebody cheating on they wife?”
I ignored that. “And two, tomorrow is the Launch party. You know that.”
“Fuck, that’s right.”
I took a sip of my watered-down drink. “I’m guessing I won’t see you there?”
Another pause.
“Of course.”
“Brother,” he said finally, “you know I want to see you. I just?—”
“You just can’t make the time.” I pushed my glass away, signaling the bartender for another even though I didn’t need it. “Don’t worry, I’ll stop askin’. Save us both the back-and-forth. Take care, Marcus.”
Before he could answer, I ended the call and shoved the phone into my pocket. When the bartender finished pouring, I took a slow sip, letting the bourbon burn all the way down.
Now I felt like a little bitch.
The bar was emptier then when I first arrived and I leaned back in my chair, people watching as my mind swarmed.
Marcus and his bullshit excuses can go to fucking hell for all I care.
