A song about being a hoe blasted throughout the club. It wasn't the coolest song nor the trendiest, but it did get the crowd pumped as they threw that sweet, delectable, green money to Andrew. But why were people throwing their hard-earned money? It might have something to do with Andrew betting he could outdrink these two from admin, Rhea and Sanrio, who gave the wrong address to the media and misplaced the shovel. He did console them before asking for a bet.
"Chug! Chug! Chug!" Andrew's officemates from different departments chanted as he stood atop a table, swallowing down a pitcher of Margarita. While two other competing men vomited beside him. Their own pitchers, half-full, sulked beside Andrew's feet. Andrew sucked the last drop of Margarita and raised the empty pitcher in the air with a victorious grin.
"Congratulations, Kris," he yelled from the top of his lungs. "For being accepted as a journalist for a major broadcasting center!"
Kris, who was supposed to be the star of the night for achieving his childhood dream, waved from his seat with a chuckle. While the crowd cheered for Andrew like he was a gold-winning athlete. He took out a black trash bag to collect his earnings from the crowd. With tonight's earnings, he was one step closer to having enough savings to quit his job.
He tossed his money-filled trash bag over his shoulder like a street-corner version of Santa Claus and sat together with his team in one of the private booths.
One of his teammates, Dennis. A tall and lanky man with stylish rimmed glasses and sharp eyes shouted at the top of his lungs. "This is what's it's about, man! No bosses no orders!"
"By the way, Drew." Sonna, a perky, curly-haired woman in her thirty's drunkenly asked Andrew. "How did you get the boss to lend you his credit card? That devil wears Prada jerk would never do that."
Andrew just presented some statistics of how companies retain their employees, and how rewarding them after grueling project increases employee retention. Andrew smiled at his senior. "He told me treat us as a way of saying thank you. Anyway. Besides, I am his secretary." He clapped his hands and got the bleary attention of his teammates. "After a few shots, let's head home. It's already two in the morning. Cheers!" After twenty-seven shots, which Andrew consumed a third of it, all his teammates had headed home.
Andrew hanged around in front of the club to get some air and get his bearings before he called a cab. He leaned against the wall and shimmied down. He kept his trash bag of money secure in his arms as he stared at a pebble on the ground. Then, a pair of brown leather Prada shoes strutted Infront of him. It looked too familiar for comfort.
"Fuck," said Andrew. Did he say that out loud? He was pretty sure he didn't.
"Fuck," he said again, to be sure.
"Are you alright, Secretary Andrew?" A deep, concentrated voice came from owner of the shoe. "You seem quite intoxicated."
"Sir Allen?" Andrew shot from the ground. Oh, how he wished he could faint at this very moment. Curse his highly trained alcohol tolerance. What was this douchebag doing here? Andrew didn't have the right alcohol-level to face his boss, but he wasn't the perfect secretary for nothing. Andrew flashed a professional smile. "I'm so glad you could attend the after party."
Sir Allen just stared resolutely at Andrew. Sir Allen's pristine dark suit was a sight for eyes in an area of full of drunkards' past midnight, screaming their throats out.
Sir Allen's posture was taut as a stretched rubber band. He nodded, decisively.
"I'll give you a ride home."
He walked past a flustered Andrew who had no choice but to pack up and follow. They went through the back of the club unnoticed. While walking, Andrew cleaned himself up to the best of his abilities, but due to the Margarita numbing some of the synapses on his brain. All he could do was change into a clean white shirt, shoved the margarita-soaked polo shirt into his messenger bag, and tied his trash bag on its strap. Andrew caught Sir Allen stealing a glance at his bag.
"It's seen better days," Andrew confessed. It used to be marvelous, an expensive leather-piece he was coerced to buy by his perfectionist boss.
They reached a black sedan in the parking lot. Andrew scanned the area for their driver who was nowhere to be found. Andrew smiled at Sir Allen. "Sir, thank you for your concern, but I can go home by myself safely. Shall I drive you home, instead? How was dinner with the family?"
Sir Allen hands curled into fist at the mention of his family dinner. They must have fought. What do filthy rich families argue about anyway.
"I have something to talk to you about as I drive you home and once you are sober enough. A deal of sorts." Sir Allen circled the car and got into the driver's seat. Andrew followed suit on the passenger seat, perplexed at the situation. Sir Allen started the car and drove. They were quiet for a while. Andrew stole glances at Sir Allen's profile.
"Are you alright, Sir?"
Sir Allen's grip on the steering wheel tightened, and his face seemed tense, like a rubber band about to snap.
"No, I am not," he said, glancing at Andrew. Probably gauging his reaction. "I have just been told by my parents that I'll inherit the business on my upcoming birthday."
Andrew's body straightened up and he was slapped sober, as sober as one can be after consuming your body weight in alcohol, by the announcement.
"Congratulations, Sir Allen."
The strict boss was now going to be the next CEO. How 'bout that? A little, just a pinch, of pride swelled in Andrew's chest. They have been together for six years. Sir Allen was just an assistant manager who had something to prove back then. And Andrew just knew that behind Sir Allen's signature scowl, he's bouncing in glee in his own way.
"I don't want it." The car stopped on a red light and after a beat. "So, I need you to be my boyfriend."
"That's a real quick no." Andrew feigned a fake chuckle, trying to be professional. He turned on his seat to face Sir Allen. "I think I misheard. I'm sorry—"
"Wait, wait a minute." Sir Allen also faced Andrew with bafflement. "That was rather quick, don't you think? You could have at least thought about it. What if I was being real and sincere about that sudden confession?"
"This isn't meant to be offensive, Sir Allen. But I only think of you as my boss."
Sir Allen put a hand on his chest. "And I see you as one of my trusted colleagues and one of my closest friends."
"You do?" Andrew was taken aback. They weren't even in the same pay-grade bracket. Let alone friends. Andrew was getting kind of dizzy. "Wait, what's happening right now? Is this a nightmare?"
"And I know this is inappropriate." Sir Allen wiped his face with his hand, mustering up some courage. "But I need to you be my fake boyfriend in front of my family. And you're the only one I trust enough to take this seriously."
"I must be drunker than I thought...My boss is asking me to be his fake boyfriend. Did someone slip me a pill? When I offered that dead chicken in exchange for a boyfriend, I didn't mean it like this." Andrew had resorted to talking to himself, because apparently the one driving his car was a shadow clone.
"No, Secretary Andrew. This is real." Sir Allen grabbed Andrew by the shoulders with determined eyes. "I need someone to make me the black sheep of the family. Someone who would be so disappointing that they would have no choice, but to make my younger brother inherit the business instead of me. Please."
"So, Sir Allen," said Andrew, blowing out a puff of air from his nose. "The only way you think you can be a disappointment to your parents is by bringing me home as your boyfriend."
Sir Allen frowned. His eyes glanced down. "Not the set of words I would choose."
"But it's true." This was the first time Andrew had seen an unsure Sir Allen. The usual glowering, confident suited man was nowhere to be seen. Sir Allen's eyes locked on Andrew's once more. "Yes."
"Wow." Andrew leaned back on his seat. Sir Allen glanced at Andrew's cash-filled bag on his lap. "If we can convince my parents to give the business to my younger brother. I'll give you Four Million Pesos in cash and a studio apartment in Makati."
"Five Million," Andrew exclaimed.
"Alright. Five million. It's a deal."
The sheer amount of money in his future caused Andrew to black out for the entire night. The last thing he heard was:
"Secretary Andrew, do you agree? I don't know your unit number!"