“Darsey,” I say to him after the song ends. “Don’t we need to talk about Darsey?”
Sip. Sip. Sip. Three in a row. His first martini is empty. I pass him mine. He takes a sip. Loves it. “When he’s not blue he keeps talking about a guy named Pete. Doesn’t tell me his last name. He wants to beat the f**k out of him for some reason. All I know is that he’s younger than us, and he’s blond.”
Shit, I think. It’s the Pete I’ve created. The bogus one. The one I made up so Darsey leaves me alone so he can be with you. My gig. My gimmick.
Another sip. Two sips. “He says you know Pete.”
“I do,” I lie.
“Who is he?”
“My boyfriend.” I clear my throat, act nervous, and begin to shake my head. “Well, he used to be my boyfriend. Pete and I broke up. I dumped his ass. The s**t cheated me. He f****d arou
