The Lawyer and The Stripper

03 | The Great Escape

Three days after the hotel room showdown, the swelling around Albert’s left eye has gone down and the concealer did a superb job hiding the purple bruise on his right mandible. He is back to looking cover-page ready with a wild story to tell, while I am doing my best to keep my chin up as I face the snide remarks and side glances from my cousins. During the entire ceremony, everyone treated me like I have the plague, avoiding even eye contact at all costs, and I could not be happier.

“Your brother is putting up a great show over there with Geneva’s friends,” Carmina, Carson and Clyde’s middle sister, tells me as she hands me a beer.

“Playing victim, I bet,” I scoff.

“You boys are stupid. What’s with all this cold shoulder and stuff?” she asks and I choke on my beer.

“I’m stupid? I’m stupid? Your brothers are stupid, Carms, even more so Anderson, for siding with them. Albert has been an imbecile ever since, so that’s no surprise. But me? Seriously, woman.” I gape and she throws her head back, laughing.

“Triggered? Shoti, you’re better than them. Don’t stoop down to their level.”

“I’m not your younger brother. You’re shoti is over at the other side of the ballroom, throwing daggers at me,” I point out.

“Don’t worry. I’d much rather have you as my shoti. Nobody likes bullies, losers, or fatties who are both.” She shrugs, ruffling my hair before leaning closer and lowering her voice. “But don’t tell them that. I might get disowned before I find a suitable man to save me.”

“I told you I’d save you, but you only see me as your younger cousin’s friend. What a shame,” my best friend chimes in, the entire dessert buffet piled on his hands. “Cake?”

“You’re really a dreamboat, Migs, if only you were at least half-Chinese. Ergo, I’m afraid you don’t make the cut,” Carmina flatters him briefly but gives him that sorry pout one offers to second-placers.

“Once again, she shoots me down because I’m not half her desired race,” Miguel feigns hurt and shoves one bite-sized cake into his mouth. Even if he were half-Chinese, there is no doubt in my mind that my cousin would still turn him down. He can charm his way to any lady’s heart, and that in itself is a constant worry no woman wants hanging over her head. The eight-year age gap does not help, especially since men are known to mature later than women, maybe even later for this friend of mine.

“Okay kids, I gotta go. Singles games are up in fifteen minutes. I suggest you disappear before that s**t happens. Unless you are into one of the bridesmaids,” Carmina says before standing up and kissing the top of both our heads. Miguel’s eyes linger on her back as she walked away, pausing a little longer on her ass before turning back to me with a tight-lipped grin.

“Don’t even say it,” I warn my tactless friend before he gets any idea that I might fancy discussing my cousin’s behind with him.

“The smiling face never did suit you,” he sighs, shaking his head. "So, no problem peeing yet? Have you had yourself checked?"

"Huh? Why?"

"Albert said you f****d a hooker during Anderson’s stag. You might already have gonorrhea," he snorts.

"You should know better than talk to that i***t. She was a stripper," I roll my eyes.

"Puta, you're disgusting, dude. Go see a doctor!" he shoves me hard, his voice loud enough to garner the attention of the next table.

“Stripper, hooker, same banana. Filthy vagina.”

"Shut up!” I hiss, pulling his tie and bringing his face closer to mine. “I didn't f**k her, okay? That's just gross. And she was a stripper, not a hooker. Meaning, we didn’t hook up!"

"f*****g liar. Anderson said the same thing as your brother.” He tugs his tie out of my grip and smoothens it. “Go have yourself checked.”

“I didn’t touch her, okay?” I insist, even though a tinge of doubt still lingers in my head, taunting me.

"Whatever. So, are you still a virgin?" he asks before shoving the last bite of the éclair into his mouth.

"That’s none of your business, Migs."

“It's 'Seb', okay? Keep up with the cool kids," he rolls his eyes and picks another dessert in a jigger.

“Amazing.” This time, I chuckle and shake my head, partly because he hasn’t stopped eating dessert, and also because he is pursuing this whole name-changing idea. Do people really become desperate once they get to college?

What’s with the change in attitude, name, or wardrobe? Who are they trying to impress?

Perhaps desperate is not the word, but rather, pretentious. And part of this pretense is changing our nicknames to the abbreviation of our surnames. All for show, for acceptance into the group of friends we’ve had since childhood. I doubt they would kick me out if I didn’t change my name, but they’ve already gotten the hang of calling me Chino, instead of Aiden. I am the only one left resisting the change, and I happen to be the owner of the name.

Speaking of pretense and aliases, my mind wanders back to the hotel room and the stripper I shared one night with. When the wig and contacts came off, and she wasn’t playing the temptress, she felt like a normal person I could relate to. She was witty and refreshing, candid and grounded. She was even more dignified than my educated and titled cousins who treat women like her as second-class citizens.

“Yeah, that Carson guy got a little handsy. I wanted to cut his hand and feed it to him,” Red says as she licks the ketchup off her fingers. She initially refused to share the burger but her stomach betrayed her, wailing loudly just as she declined.

“Why are you even doing this?” I ask, frustrated at the lack of sense. If she did not want people to touch her without her permission, why work as a stripper? Isn’t it that when you apply for the job you should know what it entails and all the risks there are to it?

“I mean, you can’t expect bored men looking for ‘fun’ to keep their hands to themselves when you’re basically showing them flesh for the taking,” I add tactlessly.

She studies me briefly and gives me a sad smile before her guard goes up again. I instantly regret my comment but by the time I realize what I had done, she is flipping her hair and shelving my question. “We’re not talking about that. My turn.”

“Nope. You need to answer a question before you get your turn,” I remind her of the rules of our little game. “Simple question: What is your real name?”

“s**t, A, we need to go.” Miguel whips our napkins off our laps. When I frown yet remain motionless, he crouches and grabs my wrist. “Move, you i***t!”

We weave seamlessly across the room, smiling at the uncles and aunties, attorneys and fiscals, and everything in between. But before we reach the double doors, Blaise catches on to our plan and foils it.

“Going somewhere, boys?” His hand is immediately up against Miguel’s chest.

“Yeah, just wanted to catch some fresh air,” I lie, knowing full well Blaise isn’t going to buy it.

“Sure you were,” he sarcastically replies and pushes Miguel back, surprising both of us with his d**k move. Blaise never touched any of my friends. This is the first time, and I am too stunned to understand what just happened. Even Miguel is too shocked to disobey when Carson stands beside Blaise, discreetly brandishing the familiar gold and red family signet ring on his left small finger.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter, shaking my head and taking a step back. An ominous feeling settles in my gut, telling me I am about to get served a cold dish of revenge.

The glaring contest between Carson and me stops when Carmina and some other bridesmaids walk through the door, giving us questioning looks.

“What’s going on?” she asks. “You okay, Sh—Aiden?

“I’m cool,” I nod, not looking at her but straight back at Carson. He smirks before addressing his sister.

“See? We’re cool. Now, go talk about your designer clothes and bags somewhere else.”

A few minutes later, we find ourselves in the middle of the elegant stage with two male and four female guests.

"Just grin and bear it, bro. It’ll be over soon,” Miguel reassures as he plasters his megawatt smile on his otherwise annoyed face.

I turn to my left and see my parents standing beside each other, a look of approval on their faces, as I stand in the middle and block out the emcee’s blabbering. Scanning the room, my black sheep brother is nowhere to be found even though he was flirting with the paralegals not two minutes ago. The claps resound, signaling the start of the dreaded single’s game. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I put on a practiced smile and my game day attitude.

By the end of the ‘elimination’ rounds, I have the garter and one of the bridesmaids is seated on a Tiffany chair, back towards me, fiddling with the blindfold they used in one of their games.

“A toast before you put that garter on,” Anderson announces, walking lazily into the limelight, Geneva, his beautiful wife, in tow. How he’d convince her to be his girlfriend is an even greater mystery than what happened between Red and me.

He nods to the dark corner and in a few moments, an army of waiters marches out of the dark carrying a clear tube attached to an extra-large black funnel. If Geneva has the slightest idea what her husband is doing, she does not show it. Instead, she encourages the waiters to set up and cheers for me, egging the crowd to do the same.

There is definitely no escaping this now.

Twirling the red garter in my finger, I take my seat beside the bridesmaid who seems unhappy to see that I am way younger for her taste.

“So…I’m just going to bring this a little over your knee and stop. Is that okay?” Since I had her attention, I took the chance to introduce myself. “I’m Aiden, by the way.”

“Ah, the secret favorite shoti,” she drops the dagger looks and leans back on the chair, beaming at me while I look at her confused as to where she even got the idea.

“I’m Lia, Geneva’s very good friend. I’m told you’re the family’s golden child – next to Anderson, of course. You are your aunts’ and cousins’ favorite, but they can’t voice it out for fear of being ostracized,” she casually informs me.

“That would’ve been great if it were true,” I shake my head and chuckle bitterly. I know Geneva cares for me as if I were her little brother, which I think is another reason why Anderson hates me enough to overlook all the times Albert or Blaise tormented me.

“I’m talking about the women in your clan, not your male cousins. I can see why Geneva is fond of you.” Her eyes widen as she focuses on a spot beyond my shoulder, her grin faltering a little before she shakes her head, chuckling. At the same time, some of the guests gasp. “And I think Anderson wants you dead.”

“Why I am not surprised,” I sigh and turn to see an open bottle of whiskey hiding behind the amber beer bottles, while a wait staff holds up a pitcher of whatever poison they had mixed for me. I catch the malice in my petty elder cousin’s eyes but it doesn’t faze me. This is simply payback for the stunt I pulled on them three mornings ago, and I understand his need to redeem himself.

My eyes drift from Blaise’s smug face to Anderson who is ordering a reluctant waiter to continue filling the crystal jug with beer and whiskey, to the pitcher itself, which is close to overflowing.

I swallow my worry and act unconcerned, even though I am not so sure how I will survive that huge amount of alcohol I could probably drown in while staying seated. The scotch Miguel smuggled to our table is still swimming in my veins and just looking at the bong is already making me nauseous.

“God, I hate being the youngest.” I rub my eyes, trying to formulate an escape route.

“I’m feeling a little thirsty myself. Mind if we share?” Lia offers, her tone a mix of empathy and mischief.

“I don’t know. Are you sure?” I look between her and my fast-approaching death sentence, the urge to accept her offer growing with each step.

“Don’t worry about me, shoti. I handle alcohol just fine, though I personally prefer rum coke over whiskey and beer,” Lia ruffles my hair and stands up before I do.

She hugs the bride and Geneva suddenly squeals, bouncing excitedly. She goes to whisper something in Anderson’s ear whose face turns sour, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Geneva begs and pouts until my petty cousin concedes, eyeing the pitcher with disdain, already regretting he had poured more than half the bottle of whiskey in it in his misguided revenge.

The emcee announces the change in procedure, making the entire thing a showdown between the two couples instead of having me consume the entire liter all by myself. My partner returns to me wearing a victorious grin as if she had just conned a dirty old man into giving her a hundred grand for free.

“How the hell did you do that?” I gasp.

“Do what?” she asks with exaggerated innocence.

“What did you tell Genie?”

“Don’t underestimate the power of suggestion, shots.”

“Yeah, but Anderson had his revenge planned. There was nothing anyone could–“

“Or the influence of a woman,” she winks. “Shall we get the show started or what?”

Anderson looks even more pissed when Lia and I are declared winners when we down the booze faster. The bridesmaid sits back down, raises her gown to her mid-thigh, and cheers for me to put on the garter. I fumble with it, cautiously holding it by the lace, careful not to touch her skin as much as possible.

When the garter goes beyond her knee, I stop. Lia cheers, smiling at me like a proud sister before she throws her gown back down and stands up. She gives a warning look, telling me to get up and sprint the hell out of the place. The moment I am up, a heavy hand grips my shoulder.

“Smile for the cameras, Aiden,” Anderson says through gritted teeth, the alcohol reeking from between his teeth.

“For the show, of course,” I reply, going along with the pretense. I even go as far as giving him a hug, which makes him falter. “Congratulations, Tánggē Anderson. Achi Genie, all the best wishes. Welcome to the family.”

I rush off the stage before Anderson could decide what to do with my insolence, before anyone could come up with another punishment. Skimming the crowd, I spot my tall friend with regular, non-Oriental eyes standing beside Carmina, looking alert and wary. Patricia urges me to hurry, calling me with her eyes and hands. I have no idea what is going on but when I emerge from the wall of guests Miguel grabs my arm and drags me towards the exit, not giving me a chance to ask a question or say goodbye.

“Run, quick!” Carmina pushes us out of the door, while her giggling friends block whoever is chasing us.

“This is the most exciting wedding I’ve ever been to,” Miguel pants as we run out of the lobby and into the parking lot.

“You’ve only been to two. Why are we running?” I probe between breaths, fumbling with the seatbelt.

“s**t!” Miguel checks the mirrors before backing out, skidding to a full stop, and blazing out of the parking garage.

The bright headlights of Albert’s SUV continue to follow us despite all the dangerous sharp turns, frustrating Miguel. “f**k it, your cousins are psychos!”

“Why are they following us? What is going on?”

“I don’t know! That’s your family, not mine! Right or left? Where should we go?”

“Migs, watch out! Left, left! Hard left!” I almost scream. The sudden turn slams me to the window, knocking my glasses off and sending the bile up my throat.

“It’s Seb! Cool kids, yeah?” he insists while navigating through a Saturday night traffic at seventy kilometers per hour. I shut my eyes and brace myself, knuckles on the grip handle and the side of my seat whiter than a sheet of paper, praying to all the saints I know.

“Move, you son of a – oh s**t, oh s**t!”

Those are Seb’s famous last words before the brakes screech and the car skids, sending us spinning until we hit something hard and the airbags deploy.