“Go get me a fucking beer, then,” says the burly one.
“Okay, okay, just watch,” says Jay as he hovers his hand over the empty glass. “I bet you fifty bucks I can make your drink reappear without even touching this glass.”
“Yeah, you’ll make it reappear by marching your ass over to the bar and buying me a new one.”
“Nope. That’s not how I’m gonna do it. Do we have a bet?”
The other men seem interested now, their attention on Jay and Mr Burly, the football game long forgotten. “You’re a nut, but fine, it’s a bet.”
“Shake on it,” says Jay, thrusting out his hand, and they shake. I notice that he’s not acting drunk at all anymore, and I suddenly realise it was only an act before. Part of the ruse. The camera focuses in on Jay’s hand above the empty glass. He moves it in circles, like he’s about to conjure a rabbit from a hat (or beer from a glass, in this case).
Slowly, something brown starts to appear, and then liquid is rising from the bottom of the glass, moving upward. The men around him let out a whole bunch of expletives as Jay proves that he could do it. He just made the drink reappear, seemingly out of thin air. Now the glass is full again.
“You’re joking me,” Mr Burly exclaims, rubbing at his head, a confused look on his face.
“Ah, shit, I’ll give you fifty bucks and a beer,” says one of the others as he steps forward to slap Jay on the back. “That was amazing.”
“Do you do parties?” a woman, presumably one of their wives, asks. Jay gives her an arch look and shakes his head before all the men start crowding around to congratulate him on his trick. Mr Burly chuckles. “Okay, you win, but I ain’t drinking that beer. That was fucking freaky.”
The video ends and I sit back, a big stupid smile on my face. There are more videos that I could watch, but I decide not to, knowing I’ll be up all night if I do. Instead I do a quick read-up on how to play blackjack before passing out cold.
My alarm springs to life with its peaceful morning sounds and I wake up, having dreamt of Jay shrinking me to the size of a penny and dropping me into a pint of beer. I don’t think I’ll be finding any interpretations for that one in a book.
I hear the shower come on in the spare room, so I know he’s just woken up, too. There’s something exciting about knowing we’re going to be living our lives side by side for the next couple of months.
I go grab a shower, and by the time I’m dressed and ready for work, the smell of bacon is drifting up from downstairs. Dad never cooks breakfast; he always just grabs something easy, so I know it has to be Jay. My heels click on the wood floor as I walk into the kitchen, wearing a plain black shift dress and a cream cardigan, my hair down. I’m wearing minimal makeup, mostly just some concealer over my scar, lip gloss, and mascara.
I’m not a great fan of applying makeup in the morning. Or ever, really. I think that when you have to put it on to cover something up, it becomes more of a chore than an enjoyment. And then you’re always worrying if it’s rubbed off and people can see what you’ve been trying to hide.
When I was fifteen I had a crush on this boy who lived down the street. When I tried to talk to him one day on my way home from school, he pointed and asked me what was wrong with my neck. It wasn’t so much what he said, but the disgusted look on his face that made it a horrid experience. Ever since then I’ve always tried to cover it up.
In the kitchen, Jay’s standing by the cooker with his back turned to me, while Dad sits at the table, happily reading the paper and eating bacon and eggs. I admire the sexy, muscular lines of Jay’s back and get a fright when he asks, “You hungry, Watson?”
How did he know I was there? It must have been the telltale click of my heels.
Dad chuckles at the nickname, getting the meaning right off the bat. Ever since I was a child I’ve had a curious nature, always wanting to figure out mysteries, not that I’m really any good at it. Dad used to call me Harriet the Spy, but I always hated it. I like it when Jay calls me Watson, though. It kind of makes me feel like I could be his sidekick. And that makes me cool by association.
“A little,” I answer as he turns around and puts some food on a plate for me.
“I figured I’d pay you back for dinner last night,” he says, setting the plate down as I pour orange juice into a glass.
“That was thoughtful of you. Thanks,” I reply with a smile.
“I hear you two have a night of gambling planned,” says Dad, folding his newspaper and putting it away. “I used to love the slot machines when I was young. Never won much money. I don’t have the luck for it.”