Chapter 36 – Charlie's Blood-and-Tears Bill: One Meal, Three Bottomless Pits
The deep-grey Jaguar glided along the coastal highway. Outside, the sun sank into a dull seam where sky met sea, casting the car's expensive grey-leather seats in murky darkness.
Inside, however, the atmosphere clashed violently with the tranquil view.
Charlie Harper, at the wheel, slapped the finely stitched leather of the steering wheel in irritation.
His other hand flailed like a conductor's baton gone rogue, jabbing toward Sean in the passenger seat and Alan and Jake in back. Beneath the brown hair his handsome face was twisted with financial pain, almost howling:
"Jesus! Son of a—!"
The classic curse rang extra loud inside the well-insulated cabin.
"How the hell did you three manage to eat like it's your last meal on death row?"
Charlie invoking that comparison was, in its own way, a testament to their appetites.
He smacked the Jaguar badge at the hub of the wheel; the car gave a short, protesting honk.
"One meal! Thirteen hundred bucks?"
He spat the number through clenched teeth.
When Charlie first saw the bill, disbelief had blanked his face.
For a second he'd wondered if Sean had secretly ordered champagne and caviar for the whole restaurant.
Sean's response:
Not my problem, not my wallet.
Charlie's fury and disbelief weren't baseless—look at the three "talented individuals" in his car:
Sean, riding shotgun:
A big guy who'd watched sports all day on an empty stomach.
Now his large frame filled the whole passenger seat, head back, eyes closed, a ghost of a satisfied smile on lips still savoring the feast. At Charlie's roar he barely lifted an eyelid.
Alan, in back:
A guy who'd sworn not to waste this once-in-a-lifetime chance to milk his rich older brother.
He fought to stifle a laugh, face turned toward the rushing palm trees outside, shoulders twitching.
The joy of watching Charlie's face when he saw the bill eclipsed the pleasure of the lavish dinner itself.
Jake, also in back:
A little eating machine who'd run around the soccer field all day and could apparently devour an entire Thanksgiving turkey at one sitting.
His round belly bulged under the seat belt as he sprawled across the wide rear seat, smacking his lips, eyes vacant, still reliving every blissful bite of the feast.
With these three "champions" in his car, dinner had become a massacre for Charlie's wallet, leaving only his laments behind.
Of course, Charlie himself had helped.
The bill would never have been so astronomical if our dashing playboy hadn't—eager to flash his "money-is-no-object" generosity and maybe show off in front of Sean and Jake—insisted on dragging them to a high-end French place in Santa Monica.
That played straight into Alan's hands. With the firm belief of "this chance won't come again," he parked himself at the white-linen table.
Without even fully scanning the menu he gave the waiter a confident smile, radiating the air of someone spending someone else's money.
His fingers swept to the priciest section of the menu like a heat-seeking missile:
"Two prime rib-eyes, the thickest cut! Grilled New Zealand lamb chops with black-truffle sauce! Beef Wellington—yes, the one with foie gras!"
"For dessert… the signature molten chocolate lava cake with vanilla bean ice cream and seasonal berries. Oh, and first open a bottle of that Burgundy—the one with the price tag that makes my heart sing."
Sean was far more "modest." Scanning the menu, he stated his needs in few words:
"Mashed potatoes with New York strip, well-done; French onion soup; ratatouille."
"And lamb chops, two Cokes."
For Sean's sturdy frame, burning through that much fuel was normal. Charlie winced but could accept it—after all, he'd picked the restaurant.
Given Sean's size, Charlie had nothing to say about him putting away so much food; Alan, though—this guy ordered every most expensive item on the menu.
What Charlie never saw coming was Jake: such a small body, a bit chubby, but after all he's still just a kid!
In the end the boy single-handedly demolished two lamb chops, three beef Wellingtons, one sundae, and a 12-dollar imported Italian lemonade.
"Jake, listen—after this meal I think we should drive you straight to Cedars-Sinai!"
Charlie deliberately slowed his speech, sounding as serious as a scientist studying an alien:
"Let the gastroenterology experts there check whether you've got a black hole in your stomach—otherwise where the hell did all that food go?!"
Yet Charlie's "threat" fell on deaf ears.
Jake paid absolutely no attention; his plump little face glowed with pure, contented bliss, eyes half-closed, head swaying gently to the faint classic rock from the car stereo—still basking in the afterglow of that epic feast.
The marvelous taste would linger in his dreams for the next three days!
As for Alan?
He couldn't hold it any longer; he twisted his head further toward the window, shoulders shaking harder, mouth stretched in a huge, silent, vengeful grin. This meal had simply been too satisfying!
Just recalling how Charlie had frozen the moment he received that receipt—Alan felt warmth flood through him, better than the wine; it was the brightest highlight of his recent, miserable life.
Charlie drove into the glittering Malibu beach community; briny ocean air slipped through the window cracks. After unleashing that tempest of anger, his bottled-up frustration seemed to disperse with the engine's rumble.
"Tch…"
Charlie clicked his tongue, his furrowed brows slowly loosening.
On second thought, this… wasn't exactly the end of the world. After all, one high-end escort for an evening could easily hit this figure—or higher.
Compared with that, treating his cousin and brother and nephew to a good meal for this price… sounded almost reasonable?
Even though his original generous budget had been five hundred bucks, these three had pulled off a 160% markup on him!
Though he'd rationalized it, Charlie's fingers still tightened on the steering wheel at the thought.
The car stopped smoothly in front of the garage of Charlie's iconic oceanfront villa. The moment the engine died Alan unbuckled, his expression of "survival" mixed with "victory" not yet fully faded.
Instead of wisely shutting up and leaving, he leaned toward Charlie—who had just stepped out—putting on an exaggeratedly bright, mocking smile and raising his voice so Sean and Jake could hear:
"Oh! Dear brother Charlie!"
Alan spread his arms wide for a hug, but Charlie dodged in disgust:
"Thank you sooooo much for your generous treat tonight! Next time there's a chance for charity like this, be sure to give me advance notice!"
Alan patted his round, stuffed belly:
"I'll start fasting three days ahead to empty my stomach and do justice to your… ahem… generosity!"
Charlie spun around; his blue eyes now resembled ice-cold steel, pinning Alan's face that screamed "please punch me."
Charlie's chest heaved once, jaw clenched, a vein at his temple pulsing.
Looking at this shameless, smug little brother, a fierce regret surged in him:
When Mom brought him home from the hospital, why didn't I "accidentally" drop him? One wrong decision, eternal regret.
"Alan…"
Charlie's voice was terrifyingly low, carrying the calm before the storm:
"Before I figure out exactly how much rent to squeeze from your pathetic bank account to compensate for tonight's mental and financial trauma… you'd better disappear from my sight—immediately."
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