Chapter 64: Scandal & Scotch
The air outside Bar 808 vibrated with bass, a physical thump against Alexis’s chest as they approached the unmarked black door. She could feel the stares before they even entered—a few people loitering outside with vape pens paused their conversations, eyes tracking them with the kind of hungry curiosity reserved for live-streamed drama.
Mark’s hand tightened around hers. Not with anxiety, she realized, but with a steady, grounding pressure.
“Remember,” he said, leaning close so his words were only for her over the synthwave spilling from the door. “These are just people who make TikToks for a living. We have better anime merch at home.”
She laughed, a sharp, genuine sound that cut through her own nerves. “Speak for yourself. I saw that limited edition Hollow mask on eBay. We do not have that.”
He pushed the door open, and the electric hum of the place enveloped them. Neon tubes in cyan and magenta snaked across exposed pipes, casting a pixelated glow over the crowd. The walls were a mosaic of vintage arcade cabinets—Street Fighter II, Time Crisis—their screens flickering with attract modes. A DJ in a corner spun tracks that felt like driving through a cyberpunk city at midnight. The air was thick with the scent of craft beer, fried food, and the ozone of overclocked gaming PCs.
For a split second, the world seemed to stutter. A lull in conversation near the entrance. Heads turned. A dozen phones were subtly angled, screens dimmed, but cameras unmistakably active. Whispers rippled through the room like a wave crashing into the thumping music.
Alexis felt her spine straighten. She gripped Mark’s hand tighter, her engagement ring a cool, hard comfort against his skin.
Then he moved. In one fluid motion, he pulled her flush against his side, his arm wrapping possessively around her waist. He dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, a gesture that was equal parts intimacy and performance.
“Let’s give them a show worth streaming,” he murmured, his breath warm.
He didn’t wait for a reaction. He guided them into the crowd, his stride confident. The whispers died, swallowed by the music and the renewed volume of forced conversation. But the eyes followed, a palpable weight.
“Mark! My guy!”
A tall, lanky man with braids pulled back into a ponytail broke from a group near a Mortal Kombat cabinet. It was Desmond, his grin wide and easy. He clasped Mark’s free hand in a complicated shake, then turned to Alexis. “Alexis. Good to see you in person finally. This clown doesn’t shut up about you.”
It was a lifeline, thrown perfectly.
“Only the good stuff, I hope,” she said, smiling.
“Mostly how you keep beating his ass in Smash. It’s a public service.” Desmond winked. “Drinks? We’ve got a booth in the back.”
The booth was a semi-circular leather pit already occupied by Leeland and Ben, their faces lit by the tablet they were sharing, watching a clip of something. They looked up, and the welcome was immediate, a shifting of bodies to make room. No awkwardness, no probing looks. Just the casual, profane camaraderie of years.
“The hell took you so long?” Leeland asked, shoving a menu toward Mark. “We already ordered you the ginger crap you like.”
“Respect the ginger beer,” Mark said, sliding in next to Alexis, his thigh pressed firmly against hers.
For twenty minutes, they existed in a bubble of inside jokes and shop talk—algorithm changes, a new capture card, the logistical nightmare of an upcoming skit. Alexis listened, chiming in when they asked her opinion on a legal disclaimer for a video. It was normal. Or as normal as anything could be in a room where she could feel the occasional lens focused on their booth from across the bar.
The bubble eventually had to pop. Mark was flagged down by a podcaster with a significant following, a guy with a meticulously groomed beard and an eager handshake. “Networking call,” Mark muttered to her, an apology in his eyes.
“Go,” she said, squeezing his knee under the table. “I’ll defend your honor from these vultures.”
He kissed her temple, a quick, natural press of his lips, and slipped out of the booth.
The moment he was gone, the dynamic at the table shifted, but not in the way she’d feared. Desmond leaned forward.
“So,” he said, his voice dropping below the music. “That picture.”
Here it was.
“Des,” Ben warned lightly.
“Nah, it’s cool,” Alexis said, taking a sip of her cocktail. The condensation wet her fingers. “What about it?”
“Just looked like some weak energy,” Desmond said, shrugging. “Guy had his hand on your back like he was trying to sell you timeshares. Mark overreacted, but,” he glanced to where Mark was laughing with the podcaster, “I get it. Dude’s got a lifetime subscription to you.”
She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “It was nothing. A misunderstanding.”
“We know,” Leeland said simply. “We’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not looking. That picture was bullshit.”
The solid, unshakable support was a wall at her back. She felt herself relax into the booth.
Her trip to the restroom a few minutes later was less fortified. The narrow hallway leading to the bathrooms was darker, lined with posters for indie games. A woman was leaning against the wall, typing on her phone. She looked up as Alexis passed—a pretty, sharp-eyed influencer Alexis recognized from makeup tutorials.
“Hey,” the woman said, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re Alexis, right? With Mark?”
“I am,” Alexis said, not stopping.
“Cute. Love that for you.” The woman’s gaze swept over her, assessing. “Big week, huh? Going viral’s wild. You handling it okay?”
The subtext was as subtle as a neon sign.
“It’s been a whirlwind,” Alexis replied, her voice even. “Mostly just trying to find a good dry cleaner after last night.” She held the woman’s gaze, letting the implication—the torn dress, the private reclamation—hang in the air between them.
The woman’s smile froze. “Right. Well, welcome to Austin.”
“Thanks,” Alexis said, pushing into the bathroom. She caught her reflection in the mirror: cheeks flushed, eyes bright with a combative fire. She looked alive.
When she returned to the main room, Mark was where she’d left him, but the crowd around him had grown. He was in his element, storytelling, his hands painting pictures in the air. She paused at the edge of the circle, watching him. This was his world. The cameras were openly on him now, recording for Stories and TikToks. He caught her eye over someone’s shoulder and, without breaking his sentence, held out his hand.
She took it, letting him pull her into the circle, tucking her against him. He finished his anecdote—something about a disastrous livestream—to a round of laughter, his fingers laced with hers resting on his chest.
A guy with a camera on a gimbal leaned in. “Mark, man, quick clip for the channel? Introduce your fiancée to the fans?”
Mark’s body stiffened almost imperceptibly. This was the ask. The performance.
But Alexis spoke first, her voice clear and light. “Only if he admits I’m better at Tekken than he is.”
The group chuckled. Mark looked down at her, a real, surprised grin spreading across his face. “Blatant lies. But for the people…” He turned to the camera, his persona switching on, smooth and charming. “What’s up, everybody. At Bar 808 with some incredible creators. And this,” he said, squeezing her hand, “is Alexis. The rumor is true. She’s stuck with me.”
He said it to the camera, but he was looking at her. It was a look that stripped away the neon, the noise, the watching eyes. It was the same look from against the window, from the morning making pancakes. A look of naked, unguarded certainty.
They stayed for another hour. They played a round of Dance Dance Revolution, her competitive glee and his playful trash-talk drawing a cheering crowd. They laughed with Desmond about an old, terrible sketch. They were, openly and undeniably, a unit.
In the Uber home, the city lights streaking past, Mark was quiet. He had her hand in his, his thumb stroking her knuckles.
“You good?” he asked finally.
She rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m better than good. That girl in the hallway tried to come for me.”
He tensed. “Who?”
“Doesn’t matter. I told her I needed a dry cleaner because of you. Shut it down.”
He snorted, a sound of pure admiration. “Of course you did.” He was silent for another block. “You were amazing in there. You know that, right?”
“It was just a bar.”
“It was the thunderdome. And you ruled it.” He turned his head, his lips against her hair. “I felt… proud. Isn’t that stupid?”
“No,” she whispered. “It’s not.”
They rode the rest of the way in a comfortable silence, their intertwined hands resting on his thigh. When they entered the condo, the quiet was a relief. He tossed his keys into the bowl.
“So,” he said, turning to her in the dark entryway, the city light painting his features in blue and silver. “Dry cleaner, huh?”
She stepped into him, her hands sliding up his chest. “You ripped it. It’s only fair you replace it.”
“I’ll buy you a hundred dresses.” He wrapped his arms around her, his voice dropping. “Just so I can rip them all off.”
She laughed, and he kissed her, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of ginger beer and victory.
Later, as they lay in bed, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She reached for it, squinting at the screen.
It was a Twitter notification. A tagged picture. From inside Bar 808. It was them, playing DDR, caught mid-laugh, his arm around her waist, her head thrown back in joy. The caption read: “Saw @MarkPhillips and his fiancée out tonight. Whatever the drama was, they’re clearly over it. #CoupleGoals”
She showed it to Mark. He took the phone, his face unreadable in the dim glow. He stared at it for a long moment.
Then he threw his head back and laughed, a deep, true sound that filled the room.
“Over it?” he said, tossing the phone aside and pulling her close. “Baby, we’re just getting started.”