Shut. Up. Brain.
He handed the phone back to Fitz. “I appreciate it, but I’m not really in the property-shopping position right now.” He cleared his throat and jabbed a thumb toward the coffee bar. “Living the actor’s life in every sense of the word. But I could make you a mean espresso.”
Fitz’s dark eyebrows shot up. “You’re the new coffee guy?”
Jasper smirked. “At your service. Feel free to judge my life choices.”
Fitz laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “No judgment, brother. If that’s what you have to do in order to do what you love, then screw anyone who judges you for it. I’m telling my clients that all the time. You want to live off ramen to save up and sail around the world? You want to go off the grid and live on a farm and raise goats or whatever? Go for it. Life’s short. Find a way not to starve and do your thing.”
Jasper walked back toward the coffee bar, break time over. “Yeah, well, I’m working on the not-starving part first.” He put a napkin on the counter. “What can I get ya?”
“Black coffee, two sugars,” Fitz said, a wrinkle between his brows.
Jasper turned his back to grab a cup.
“What about investors?” Fitz asked.
Jasper pulled a carafe from the warmer and poured the dark-black coffee, the scent both delicious and depressing. It was his personal smell of failure. “What do you mean?”
“If you don’t have the funds to get your own theater, what about getting some investors to go in with you? I mean, it’d be a tough sell to VCs.” When Jasper gave him a blank look, Fitz clarified. “Venture capitalists. Because the arts usually aren’t their cuppa. The growth is too slow and, in this case, too local. But you could find some angel investors. Locals who care about the arts and the entertainment scene of the city. They’d get some equity in the company and, in return, front you some money to get off the ground, do renovations, that kind of thing.”
Jasper shook his head as he dumped sugar into the coffee. “You’re nuts.” He turned and set the cup on the counter in front of his old schoolmate. “Who’s going to want to invest in some ragtag improv group they’ve never heard of?”
“Are y’all any good?” Fitz asked, pinning Jasper with a challenging look.
“We kick ass,” Jasper said without hesitation. The Hail Yes group was good. That part he never doubted. He’d missed their effortless chemistry the minute he’d moved to California with Kenzie and had tried to join in with other groups. “But we’re in a tiny bar and off the beaten path and just one little show in a big city packed full of entertainment options. People don’t come to New Orleans looking for improv. They come for booze, music, and food. Maybe a burlesque or drag brunch in between. This isn’t LA, Chicago, or New York.”
Fitz leaned onto his beefy forearms. “Fuck that noise. You’re seeing old New Orleans, the one we grew up in. Have you looked around lately? The invasion is happening. There’s a place on Decatur that literally only sells avocado toasts. Like twenty different kinds. Walk down the street and there are more people with green juice than hurricanes. There’s a vinyl record store two doors down. The hipsters and West Coasters have arrived, looking for cheap property and cool shit. Look around.” He swept his hand toward the main floor and all the people working at hot desks. “You think these people want to go see burlesque every night or get wasted in one of the tourist traps on Bourbon?”
“Howie, the guy with the bow tie over there, is definitely into burlesque,” Jasper said with a serious tone. “I bet he has a habit.”
Fitz snorted and sipped his coffee. “You know what I mean. You give them a chill, casual theater with great improv done by people their own age, throw in a few potent drink options, and you’ve got yourself a real business.”
Jasper blew out a breath. “You make it sound easy. But you’re forgetting the part where I have no money. And no connections.”
“So what?”
“Fitz—”
“Look, how about this? You work on building some buzz around your group—get the tastemakers and Instagrammers and bloggers there—then put together some videos, a good business proposal, and I bet I can help you get investors. You don’t have connections, but I do,” he said, dropping the statement like it was a nothing sentence when it was, in fact, a big, whopping something.
“What? Why would you do that?”
Fitz swigged his coffee again and shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I? You were cool to me when everyone else treated me like I had a disease. And foster kids have to look out for each other. We don’t get the benefit of family connections.” He set down his cup. “Plus, my clients are people our age who are looking to invest in start-ups. Some of them are locals who want to be part of the city’s new scene. It could help me, too. I can’t make any promises, obviously, but if you can build some buzz and put together a business plan with some numbers, I could pass it along to a few people.”
Numbers. Business plans. Those words sent shudders of dread though Jasper. He stared at his friend. “Fitz, you’re insane.”
“And?”
Jasper groaned, the look on his old friend’s face too Labrador-retriever-eager to shut down. “And I’ll think about it.”
Fitz lifted his arms over his head like he was calling a successful field goal. “Awesome. Jasper Anderson is in the house.”
Jasper choked on a laugh. “It’s Jasper Deares now. And you did not just say I’m ‘in the house.’ I no longer feel comfortable working with you. I’m sorry this partnership must end before it begins.”
Fitz flipped him off. “Go to hell, Jas. You’re going to love me by the end of this.”
“Aww, Fitz, don’t sell yourself short. You don’t have to buy my love with favors,” he teased. “Straight-up cash is so much easier.”
Fitz put his hand in his pocket and then dropped two quarters and a cough drop on the counter. “That should cover what that’s worth.”
“Ha.” Jasper nodded approvingly at the quick comeback. “Be careful. If I see that you’re any good, I’ll pull your ass up onstage with us.”
“Hell no. That improv shit is terrifying.” Fitz grabbed the sugar canister and dumped more into his coffee. “But I do want tickets to a show so I can see your group in action. I need to know what I’m helping pitch. If you suck, I’m out.”
“I’ll text you some dates and leave your name at the door with an open invitation.”
Jasper needed to shut up. This wasn’t happening. Fitz was selling him some oceanfront property in Arizona. Who would want to invest in him? Pay a few bucks to see him act like an idiot onstage and make people laugh? Sure. That, people would do. Convince businesspeople that the hyper dude who dropped out of college because he couldn’t pass a math class was capable of handling their money and running a business? No freaking way.