Oh My God, They Were Roommates

20 | Only In Dreams

"S-Silver! What are you doing here?" David stammered in the face of a handful of patrons at the bar.

    Sora wasn't exactly sporting his Sunday Best—in fact, he was still in his clothes from class that day and wearing an equally dreary expression. If his head cold wouldn't get the best of him, dealing with patrons certainly would.

    He ignored the urge to sniff and cough at the same time. "I'm here to talk to Ambrose. He's not in his office, though. Know where I can find him?"

    One of the patrons—a familiar lad who had a habit of bringing his work friends around—leant back in his chair, eyed Sora, and said, "Barely recognized you with all those clothes on, sweetie."

    Sora offered a tight, restrained smile and said, "Unfortunately, I'm never in a good mood when I have clothes on. Let's chat again when I'm feeling less restricted."

    He moved on down the bar to chat with David, and his comment gave the customers enough content to keep themselves busy with laughter and lewd commentary that made Parley crack her knuckles threateningly at the end of the bar.

    Sora propped his elbow up on the edge of the bar top as David said, "There's a bachelorette party happening in the VIP room. He's friends with the bride so he's paying her a visit."

    Sora could have rolled his eyes. Ambrose had plenty of "lady friends" from his past life as a bartender at a standard strip club. Now all of the strippers he made contact with had either A) successfully swindled a rich gentlemen in their youth and was now happily married, B) making money through online gigs, or C) graduated with a PhD.

    And Ambrose wasn't a bartender for nothing: he was handsome, charismatic, and a manipulative bastard. Plenty of his "lady friends" were past conquests twisted to seem like she bested him.

    At the thought of Ambrose, Sora's eyes slid across the floor to Charlie's stage, which was empty that night. "Are you and Charlie talking at all?" he asked, turning back to David.

    David shook his head. "No, but I've heard he's been staying at someone else's place. Has he talked to you? I saw he helped you to the hospital the other day."

    "Yeah, and I'm still pissed about it," Sora said with a groan. He rubbed at the back of his throbbing head and said, "Now my sister knows where I live. It's just... super inconvenient, to be honest."

    "That's not Charlie's fault, though," David said, and rationally, Sora knew that. He understood the terror of accidental head traumas and Charlie and Ray just wanted to ensure Sora did have, oh, you know, a subdermal hematoma go unchecked.

    He could make all of the excuses he wanted, but the fact of the matter was this: That Sora wasn't ready to talk to Charlie. Not yet.

    "I'm... gonna go see Ambrose now. About that thing," Sora said, gesturing to the stairs.

    "Right. That 'thing'," David teased, and Sora flipped him off before making his way to the stairs.

    He hurried up to the VIP section of the club where, beyond the railing, the room was enshrouded in red lighting and deep, violet shadows from the blacklights. The state of Sora's drabby appearance didn't matter quite so much there.

    Sora crossed the room where a group of girls were downing blowjob shots off of a stripper's stomach. Impressive, he thought to himself at the sheer level of expertise at which the girls conducted the shots. Sora was impartial to downing blowjob shots like that—it tended to make him gag, no pun intended.

    Much to his surprise, though, Ambrose was the silver platter on which the shots were being balanced.

    Sora stilled at the image of Ambrose stretched out on the table, his hands clasped behind his head, looking more or less like a Greek statue come to life. Ambrose glanced over at Sora, only to startle at the sight of the last worker he expected to see that night.