I force the request out. “Do you have time to, um, help me with...a favour?”
I hear some rustling noises followed by a distinctly male groan of protest.
“Youare asking for a favour?” Roxanne demands. “You, Monroe, Queen of Ignoring Her Own Needs in order to Meet the Needs of Others, are actually asking someone for help?”
“Well if you’re going to be a dickhead about it,” I grumble.
“Non, non, non!” she objects. “I’m so proud of you! What is it? Should I come over?”
More noises of a man in distress sound in the background.
“Tais-toi, Cole,” Roxanne snaps. “Monroe needs help.”
“Monroeneedshelp?” I hear him ask. He sounds out of breath, like he just finished running a half-marathon.
Or like he’s just been bumping uglies with my best friend.
“Am I, um, interrupting something?” I ask.
“Just sex,” Roxanne replies matter-of-factly. “We were almost done anyway.”
Which is probably why Cole sounds so pissed.
“Well if you don’t mind coming over, that might be easiest,” I tell Roxanne. “I managed to sneak away from work.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Monroe? I’ll be right there.”
“Oh, wait!” I interject. “Could I talk to Cole for a minute? I have something to ask him too.”
“Twofavours? You’re really going for a record today, aren’t you?” she comments before passing the phone off.
“S’up, Cole?” I eventually ask, after he decides to fill a few seconds of silence with nothing but his breathing. He’s not exactly the world’s most communicative person. It makes for some very cryptic phone calls.
“I can tell you whatwasup,” he mutters. I can practically see him glowering.
“Ew. Save the innuendoes for your fiancée. I’m sure she’ll, uh, deliver the goods before she leaves.”
That at least gets the hint of a laugh out of him.
“So, I have something to ask you,” I continue.
“Anything.” His tone goes instantly serious.
That’s one of the things you can count on with Cole: when it comes to the stuff that matters, he doesn’t screw around. Behind that I-could-crush-you-with-my-fists aura of his is a heart of the purest gold. It’s that heart that I’m appealing to now.
“What are the chances that your band could play a show at Taverne Toulouse?”
Now he really does laugh.
“My band had to play three extra nights last time we booked a gig in Montreal because there was such a huge demand for tickets. You would have a riot on your hands if we showed up at Taverne Toulouse.”
“How humble of you,” I tease.
“Just stating the facts. I’m sorry, Monroe. If it was possible, you know we’d do it, but Ace can barely leave his own apartment these days without getting mobbed. It would turn into a shit show.”
Cole plays bass for an alt-rock band called Sherbrooke Station. They’ve been rising through the ranks of the music industry for years now and are the pierced and tatted up darlings of Montreal. While it might indeed start an actual riot, having them play at Taverne Toulouse would be a sure fire way to get people talking about the bar. I knew it was a long shot, but it was also one of my only shots, and I feel the desperation I’m becoming all too familiar with start rising in my stomach.
“I figured,” I say as evenly as I can. “I just thought I’d ask.”
