Crap. The guy probably owned the building. Reeve should have known better. He should have shut his mouth. He should have said, “Yes sir, I will take that elevator next time.” But honestly, the whole bike-messenger-in-the-service-elevator was supposed to be a thing of the past.
“Sorry,” Reeve said.
They stepped out at the same floor and walked into a glass-paneled office suite.
“Hello, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” the receptionist said and Reeve cringed as he handed her the package. “For Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Reeve said in a low voice.
He turned tail, ready to get the hell out of the office, when Mr. Fitzpatrick called out to the receptionist. “Sally, dear. Would you please look into a new messenger service for our documents?”
Fuck. His boss was going to skewer him. Why did he have to make a snide comment? Reeve didn’t usually let pointed remarks get the better of him. But, it wasn’t even the richie-rich dude in the suit that he was pissed at. Reeve was still pissed at himself over blowing a callback a few weeks ago.
It had been a plum role. A supporting part in a new Joss Whedon flick. He’d nailed the first audition, then he’d prepped and practiced his lines over and over before the callback. That was the problem. He’d wrung all the feelings from the words after one too many solo rehearsals in front of the bathroom mirror. By the time he opened his mouth for the camera that was rolling on his callback, he was on auto-pilot. He knew from the way the producer had said “Thanks, we’ll be in touch” that he’d flubbed it and Reeve only had himself to blame.
Now, he’d lost a client for Swift as Light.
He left the Park Avenue building, spotting the flashing red light on his phone. His boss had probably called to ream him out. There was a text message too. What the hell did you do??? Reeve ignored it, unlocked his bike, and hopped into the saddle, speed-demoning it down the traffic-infested streets of New York, spewing a stream of curse words as he gripped the handlebars. Now he’d have to give his best mea culpa to his boss at the Swift as Light offices in the East Village. When he arrived, he wheeled his bike inside, parked it in the cluttered hallway, and found Dave waiting for him. Hands on hips. Face lined with anger.
Reeve pulled the messenger bag over his head and dropped it on the floor.
“Sorry.”
“Dude. What the f**k is wrong with you? Don’t f**king talk to people. Just keep your mouth shut.”
“Sorry. I almost got killed out there. I’m having a shit day.”
“Welcome to being an adult. Every day can be a shit day. You don’t have to be a dick to the clients.”
“I didn’t know he was a client,” Reeve said, then instantly hated himself for sounding whiny.
“Assume everyone is. Got that? Assume everyone is a client and shut your mouth. You’re not in a Tarantino film. You’re in a job. So act like it.”
“Okay. Got the message.” Reeve held up his hands, as if surrendering.
“And go take a week off to cool down.”
“What?” Reeve’s jaw dropped.
“I gotta spend the day trying to triage this and figure out if I can save a client. If I see you around, it’ll piss me off. So get out of here, and come back in a week. We’ll see if I no longer want to strangle you with one of your dumbass tee-shirts with their stupid sayings,” Dave said, and walked back into his office.
Reeve glanced down at his well-worn blue tee-shirt. What was wrong with his tee-shirts now? This one had the words “Beehives are not piñatas” in a cool font across the front. The shirt looked good on him. Some chick at the corner bodega where he got his morning coffee had even said “cool shirt.” He could rock a worn tee-shirt like nobody’s business thanks to his lean and muscly frame.
Reeve snagged his bike, left the office and called Jill. They’d been friends for a while, but became even tighter during Les Mis, when she played Eponine. Tight in the close friends kind of way. Tight in the way a dude can be buddies with a chick.
“Come on over tonight and we’ll drown your sorrows,” she said. “My roommate’s in Paris for a business trip so we can be as loud and obnoxious as we want.”
“Because if she were here, you’d be quiet and considerate?” Reeve teased.
“As if I’m capable of that.”
“I’ll be over after seven. I’m going to the gym. I have to blow off some steam.”
“Good. Because you are not permitted to come over angry. It would totally ruin my feng shui crystal healing energy vibe.”
He laughed. “Since when are you into new age stuff?”
“Since never. But I got something nice from a marathon mommy and it’s got your name written all over it.”
“Can’t wait to see what it is. See you later, babe.”
After a stint at the gym, and a quick shower, Reeve walked across town to Jill’s apartment in Chelsea and she buzzed him up.
“I have beer and I have vodka. Pick your poison.” Jill waggled a long-neck bottle in one hand, and a short glass with ice cubes and clear liquid in the other.
“Vodka,” he said, and took a long swallow of the liquor, downing most of the drink.
“Whoa, Tiger. Slow it down.”
Reeve just shrugged, thrust the glass at Jill, and affixed his best commercial toothpaste smile. “May I have another, pretty please?”
“Fine,” she said, pouring more into the glass.
“Since when do you buy Belvedere?”
“This is the something nice I got. It was a gift from one of the ladies in my running club who finished the New York City marathon.”
“She gave you vodka for finishing a marathon?”
“Yes. And I genuflected, because I love my Belvedere almost as much as my beer. Now, come to my couch, and tell me all your problems,” she said, pointing to the mustard-colored couch, well-worn from many late-night talk sessions.
“So your roomie’s in Paris?”
“She’s on a mission to find new designs for her necklaces. That, and trying to stay away from the guy she’s been jonesing for.”
“You know she blew me off for a nightcap after opening night when we played at the Soho Club.”
Jill waved a hand in the air. “She’d have blown off David Gandy, my dear. She only has eyes for this guy. She’s been a done deal for a long time.”
“Anyway,” Reeve said as he stretched out on the couch, resting his head in Jill’s lap. She ran her fingers through his hair, but not in a romantic way. They were past that, but actors are naturally touchy people. They are used to having hands on each other, whether on stage or in rehearsals, so it becomes a natural state of affairs when hanging out.