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“What’s done, sweets?” Topper asks with his eyes scanning my outfit while he frowns.
“I’m engaged.” My voice comes out indifferent, as if I’m sharing what the weather is like, instead of a life-altering statement. But at the moment, it’s only anger and an urge to lash out that keeps me from wobbling on my heels. Topper’s mouth hangs open before he caresses his chin as if he has a full beard. It takes him a while to respond.
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I was, Tops.” His face falls before he nods his head, taking in my outfit once more. Maybe I could pretend that they are lies, but that wouldn’t stop my brother from arranging everything. It would only dull the pain for the time being, until I’m forced to put on an expensive designer wedding dress and march down the aisle to let my brother ruin the rest of my life.
“I want to strangle him.”
“I’ll help you,” I say hastily, before walking into Topper’s modern white apartment straight to the kitchen. I open his fridge, taking out the bottle of pink champagne that he keeps cold at all times.
“Do you know who you’re going to marry?”
“No idea.” Once again, I’m surprised by the tone of my voice. It sounds like it’s not me who’s going to marry soon, but some other captive woman. I’ll realise the magnitude of this revelation tomorrow. I’ll have a lifetime to understand its consequences.
But for tonight, fuck Frederic.
I pop open the bottle before bringing it to my mouth and taking big gulps of the tasteful liquid that is champagne. My eyes flicker to Topper. He’s biting his lip before he nods his head.
“Then we’ll dance until our feet fall off. We’ll drink until we forget our names, and we’ll laugh like it’s our last day.”
“Hell yeah,” I say, offering the bottle to Topper. He takes it out of my hands, but I still catch a sliver of pain and pity in his eyes. He brings the bottle to his lips.
“And fuck Frederic,” I add powerfully.
“Fuck Frederic,” Topper yells, raising the bottle in the air like a pirate rallying up his crew to hunt for treasure.
Chapter Twelve
Chester
Atechno version of “Eye of the Tiger” by Survivor drums against my ears. The songs Prescott decided to play in Apollo are popular older songs, but adapted by techno artists. I’ve recognized some of the more famous ones, but I can’t get myself to appreciate them. The only thing I’m up to is having a drink and staying away from any negativity.
I stare out at the sea of people dancing in the middle of the club. It doesn’t spark any desire in me to join them, but it does keep my mind from things that happened a few hours ago.
It’s Evangeline my mind tries to push to the front.
What’s with this woman and my endless thoughts about her? Some wanted, some not so much.
I scan the bar to distract myself from thoughts of Evangeline and the pain in her eyes when I shared the news.
When Prescott bought the property, he wanted to turn it into a bar named Apollo, where people could have a drink and a chat, but it quickly became a place where people end up dancing until the sun rises. The building has a rustic feel, with its brick walls and wooden whisky barrels shaped into a bar that runs from one side of the room to the other. The wordApollohangs on the wall behind the bar. It’s lit up and surrounded by the largest collection of whiskies from around the world. A collection worth thousands of pounds, if not more. An investment made by Prescott and his passion for the alcoholic beverage.
The first few months, old and unstable chairs and tables stood in the middle of the large room, until people had no need for them, wanting rather to dance to the tunes from the invited bands or DJs. The dance floor is surrounded by leather booths, which are situated a few steps higher than the rest of the bar. Those, Prescott kept. There’s no VIP area because Apollo serves as a free space to let loose, not to divide people.
Most of the time, regulars dance around while sampling Prescott’s collection. There’s a familiarity with the guests that frequent the bar. They’re after one thing only, and that is to enjoy their evening.
The only thing they mix your drinks with is indeed whisky. But hey, the man has a hobby, and I can’t complain because some taste spectacular.
Every drink comes with a long list of facts on how it’s brewed and what you’re supposed to taste. Even after years of friendship with Prescott, I still can’t distinguish certain tastes, but I do know which one is my favourite.
A hand taps my shoulder a few times, before the owner himself drops down on the other side of the booth. Prescott’s wearing a white shirt and brown trousers with suspenders. He drops two glasses of dark whisky onto the table, before sipping from one of them. His face scrunches before he shrugs his shoulders.
“Tastes like piss,” Prescott mumbles before offering me his glass. “You’ll like this one.” He wipes the friendly smile straight off my face, and I snag it out of his hands. I drink from it carefully, and yeah, my friend is right. I like it.
Prescott takes the second glass before taking another sip. He’s trying out new brands or drinks to figure out if he wants to add them to the menu.
“Tastes like…”
