Conflict of Interest

Chapter Thirty One

Carrie

"I don't know why I come to these things," I was complaining to my second chair of the time, standing in a corner and watching as much of the PD got a distinctly messy type of drunk. "The liquor is cheap, and the company is...Well. You know."

"Some of them are okay after a couple drinks," he offered. 

"Yeah," I tried. "Some of them."

"Okay, I'm with you," he relented. "Thirty more minutes to be polite, then let's get out of here."

"Deal."

"You know who's looking good tonight, though? Jenn Carver."

"Who?"

"You know, the bouncy one, with the blonde hair and the Texas accent."

"Oh," I realized. "The transfer."

"When are you going to stop calling her that? She's been here for eight months."

"I don't like change. And by the way, I'm pretty sure she's from Nashville."

"So you know her life story but you can't remember her name? How does that happen?"

"What, am I on trial here?"

"Fuck, she saw us talking about her."

"How do you figure?"

"Because she's looking at us. Fuck. It's awkward. Now she's coming over here. I don't know what to say."

"It's not awkward," I dismissed. "Get over yourself."

"Fine," he conceded. "I'm going to go find some hard liquor and leave you to explain why we were staring at her. Are you still going to drive me home?"

"Yes," I said bitterly. "Though it's impolite of you to get drunk when you know I can't."

"Not drunk," he pledged. "Just buzzed. Promise."

That was how Jennifer managed to get me alone that night, and how the two of us ended up in a situation where we would exchange more than two sentences for what seemed like the first time. It was true, she did look good, and it was hard, admittedly, to maintain the cold demeanor when she was standing right there in a screw-me dress and screw-me heels and I, perfectly single. I still tried my best, regardless.

"Did I hallucinate, or did he just say my name then walk away?" she asked with an inquisitive look.

"You didn't. He..." I didn't know how to finish that sentence. "Is just socially inept," I tried.

For some reason, she laughed. Why the hell was she laughing? That was what I didn't like about her, though I hardly even knew her; she was always happy and smiling and it irritated me. I'd even told her so on one occasion, to which she'd just smiled bigger. Go figure.

"What are you smiling at?" I wondered flatly, the same bitter expression on my face.

"You," she said honestly. "You make me laugh."

"Jesus knows why," I pondered, and she laughed again. Damn it.

"Okay, your turn," she tried. "What are you scowling at?"

"I'm not scowling," I argued like we were children. "That's just my face."

"Right," she said without meaning it. "I'm sure you were born glaring at everyone."