My fingers drum against the counter as I protest. "I can handle it."
He doesn't relent. "This is Boys' Night, baby. We go fucking hard." His eyes travel to my freshly-painted fingernails tapping against the quartz. A smirk curves his mouth. "Wouldn't want you to break a nail."
"Don't let the girly-girl appearance fool you—I can drink with the best of them."
"Yeah?" A challenge glitters in his hazel gaze. He raises a hand, flagging down our bartender. "Prove it."
In the blink of an eye, Orange Pixie's right in front of us, eager to serve the attractive brunette on my left. "What can I get you?"
"We'll take The Trio. Thanks."
Her eyes double in size at the order, vision bouncing between the two of us before she nods. "Coming right up."
The strange reaction has me scanning the handwritten chalk menu hanging above the bar.
"It's not up there," Weston says. "They're not allowed to advertise it."
I'm about to ask what the heck I'm getting myself into when a tray containing three shots is placed before us.
Weston slides the first tiny glass my way, a few drops of dark liquor slushing out. "Test #1. Down that—no chaser, no gagging, not even a sour lemon face. Go."
I raise a cocky brow that says That's all? as I grab the shot and toss it down my throat.
What I'm expecting is a nasty, barely-tolerable shot of rubbing alcohol.
What I get is worse.
The burning of my eyes and stinging of my nose is immediate as I get a taste of the foulest whiskey I've ever encountered.
Honestly, what the fuck is this stuff and how is it legal to bottle and sell for profit?!
With herculean strength, I manage to keep my negative reaction strictly internal. Once the putrid flavor subsides, I give Weston a thumbs up. And then just to mess with him, I take it a bit further and flash a toothy grin.
"Mhmmm. Tastes so good. What is that—Top-Shelf? Deeelishhh!"
He rolls his eyes, an amused look plastered on his face. "Such a smart-ass."
Shot #2 appears in front of me, and he gestures to the clear liquid. "Take this, stand up, and spin around twice without falling over. Ready?"
I brace myself for another concoction brewed by the devil himself, but I'm pleasantly surprised when the liquor is smooth, going down nice and easy.
I'm not a big vodka fan, but it tastes like fruit juice in comparison to the first one.
When I stand, I quickly realize why this particular spirit is worthy of a space on the tray—the effect is instantaneous.
Holding out my arms to maintain balance, I twirl around not twice, but three times. When I'm through, I blink rapidly, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Once it does, I give Weston a petty little curtsy.
He snorts at the display. "Okay, you're a smart-ass and a show-off. Shit. You're trouble."
I sit back down, brushing some imaginary dust from my shoulders. "You're just upset I'm passing all these tests with flying colors."
"Don't get cocky, Lex. You've still got one more."
Before I can tell him to bring it on, a different trio appears beside us, this one in the form of three gigantic soccer players: Vaughn, Cameron, and Diego.
"Dude." Vaughn claps Weston on the shoulder. "We've been looking for you for half an hour."
"Yeah, man. This place blows," Cameron says, plowing a hand through his dirty blonde hair. The sleeve of tattoos on his arm catches the light, the intricate ink glimmering in the neons. "We're bouncing. You coming?"
"In a sec." Weston nods towards me. "I'm bringing a plus one. You guys know Barbie—Rayne's roommate."
I give the boys a friendly wave.
Mr. Blue Eyes, being the absolute goof that he is, extends his hand in my direction. "I don't think we've met before. I'm Vaughn. Barbie, huh? That's an interesting name."
A stupid grin spreads on his face, and I laugh as I slap away his handshake attempt. "You're so dumb."
Cam gives me a once over, gray eyes lingering on mine as he smiles. "You think you can hang, Barbie?"
"We're about to find out," Weston interjects as he jabs a thumb at the third and final shot glass.
Diego lets out a low whistle. "Ooh shit, bro. She's doing The Trio?"
I throw my hands up in confusion. "How does everybody know what this is except me?"
"It initially started as a frat thing. Pledge ritual or some shit like that." Vaughn leans against the counter. "I tried to get Rayne to do it once. She gagged just smelling the first shot. Made me buy her lemon drops the rest of the night to make up for it."
"That sounds like her." I laugh and reach for the final glass. Just before I pick it up, a new bartender appears out of thin air and pulls the tray from my grasp.
"Sign this first, sweetheart." He pushes a piece of paper and pen in my direction.
"Uhhh..." I skim the legal jargon filling the page before frowning at Weston. "What the hell am I about to drink?"
"Flaming Dr. Pepper."
"Flaming?" I watch with unease as the bartender pulls out an honest-to-God blowtorch.
I'm as adventurous as the next person, but taking a shot that's on freaking fire?
Seems a bit on the extreme side if you ask me.
"It's not gonna burn me, right?"
Weston quickly shakes his head. "Nah, you'll be fine." He nods to the half-pint of beer that was just placed in front of me. "He's gonna light the shot, you pick it up and drop it in there, then chug it."
A crowd starts to form behind us, word spreading fast about the foolish girl who's about to singe her eyebrows off. Orange Pixie stands beside the new bartender. She's got a fire extinguisher at the ready, and I can't decide if this frightens or reassures me.
I take a deep breath, scrawl a barely legible signature on the waiver, and pull my hair behind my back. "I'm ready."
The guys cheer as the bartender flips on the blowtorch. The shot ignites slowly, the brilliant blue flames dancing in the dark.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab the tiny glass by the bottom and cautiously drop it into the beer. The fire dissipates and I chug the drink as fast as I can. The familiar taste of Dr. Pepper and sour beer glides down my throat with ease. When I finish, I slam it on the counter, wipe my hand across my mouth, and raise both arms in triumph.
Roaring applause rises from the drunk crowd. The exuberant noise sounds much more impressive than it actually is. Intoxicated people will take any excuse to let out an enthusiastic yell—I've seen them hoot and holler when a bartender swatted a fly once.
Still, I'm not gonna lie. I do feel sorta cool right now.
Cameron gives me a high-five as Diego cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "Barbie Doll's ready to friggin' party! ¡Vamanos!"
Vaughn starts to lead the group towards the exit. Right as I stand to follow them, Weston's fingers wrap around my wrist.
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
He plucks the umbrella from my second piña colada, his other hand tucking an errant wisp of hair behind my left ear.
As he puts the garnish into place, he grins. "There. Now you're symmetrical."
His hand travels down to my shoulder, my pupils following the movement. When the outside of his pinky just barely grazes the edge of my jaw, a flurry of goosebumps pricks at the back of my neck. I intake a sharp breath, fighting down the accompanying shiver.
"Hey." He cups my chin, pulling my eyes to his concerned gaze. "You good?"
I quickly nod. "Fine."
"Don't let it go to your head or anything, but that was kinda badass."
My brow hitches up jokingly. "Kinda?"
"Damn." He laughs. "Too late. Your ego's already as big as mine."
"Not possible."
His expression goes serious. "Real talk, though. The Trio has knocked out more than its fair share of victims. You're probably gonna feel it pretty soon. Make sure you stick by me tonight."
"Okay, Dad. I won't leave your sight," I tease at his pro
tective words. "I saw some police outside. Should we ask to borrow a pair of handcuffs so we're physically bound together? Would that ease your worried mind?"
When I see the lustful smile spreading across his face, I realize my mistake.
"I mean, if we're gonna bum some cuffs, let's not waste them downtown. I know a shitty sex dungeon we can take them to."
Yup.
Never bring up handcuffs with a self-proclaimed "sex god". They won't be able to pass up the golden opportunity.
Suddenly, Vaughn's deep voice pierces the air. "Paine! Let's go!"
Weston gives my shoulder a tiny squeeze. "Prepare yourself, babe." His eyes sparkle with the promise of the evening to come. "This is gonna be a night you won't forget."
15
A night I won't forget...
With the amount of alcohol involved, I don't think that statement is entirely accurate.
By Bar #2, I'm realllly feeling that buzz.
Bar #3? The Trio is in full effect.
I wasn't lying when I said I could drink with the best of them—I usually can.
Key word being usually.
But these guys aren't your average drinking buddies.
And to categorize these four as "the best of 'em" still doesn't do them justice.
They're bonafide party animals, seasoned drinkers with beer-guzzling skills that rival those of every fraternity on campus.
And there's also that one teeny tiny little detail...
Each one is a full-grown, college-soccer-playing man.
They've got more muscle in one leg than I've got in my entire body.
The only way I'd be able to keep up with them is if I was freaking bionic.
Hell, probably not even then.
They toss back shots like it's going out of style. I secretly pass half of mine off to surrounding clubbers, Weston even downing a few for me so I don't end up falling flat on my face. But the damage is already done, the night quickly transforming into a splotchy gag reel of moments. . .
——— ——— ———
12:36 a.m.
. . .
"...Living in a lonely world. Took a midnight train..."
Karaoke.
Of course.
I'm not the least bit surprised to find myself here.
It wouldn't be a true night out if I didn't end up on stage at Kazuki Karaoke Bar, performing like a crazy fool.
The place is packed, the throng of people enthusiastically singing along. Diego and Weston are flanking my sides, the three of us sharing the lone microphone as we belt out the words to Journey's timeless hit.
Individually, our voices are horrid.
Harmonizing together?
The sound is downright atrocious.
Nevertheless, the song comes to an end and the crowd bursts into rambunctious claps.
I told you they cheer for anything.
Requests for an encore emit from the chaos, but Diego ignores them and dives belly-flop style into the mob. Weston grabs his half-empty beer from the ground and starts to head off the stage, but I reach for his hand.
My fingers somehow intertwine with his, the touch stopping him in his tracks.
His eyes travel from our locked grip to my face, an expression I can't decipher clouding his gaze. I realize what I'm doing and quickly jerk my hand away.
"Sing one more with me?" I ask, nodding to the microphone and then to our audience. "We need to give the people what they want."
"Alright." He takes a drag from the glass bottle and smiles. "But I'm picking the song."
I watch as he thumbs through the touch-screen, skimming the choices before making his selection.
"What did you pick?" I ask when he turns back around.
"You'll see." He polishes off his beer and wraps a large hand around the microphone stand.
The TV in front of us lights up. The moment the familiar song title pops up, my head rolls back in laughter.
"I'm Too Sexy?" I read off the screen, shaking my head at the predictable, yet hilarious choice. "You know what you are? You're too much."
"Yeah." He winks before reaching out and tugging me closer to him. "But you like it."
Honestly?
I kinda do.
". . . I'm too sexy for my love. Too sexy for my love. Love's going to leave me . . ."
——— ——— ———
1:17 a.m.
. . .
"Ooomph!"
I look over my shoulder, following the grunt to an 30-something dude with a pool stick poking into his stomach. When he slices me with an angry glare, I realize the other end of the wooden apparatus is in my hands.
Oops.
Looks like I'm the one responsible for the gut-intruding hit.
"I'm really sorry!" I say as I pop a hand over my mouth.
He doesn't accept or even acknowledge my apology. Instead, he shifts his annoyed snarl in Weston's direction.
"Control your girl. She'll kill someone with that."
"She's fine, bro." Weston narrows his eyes, forearms resting on the edge of the pool table. "How about you don't walk behind someone when they're playing 8-ball?"
"How about you come over here and say that to my face?" The man puffs out his chest. His lame line and tough-guy act are so formulaic, I feel like instigating bar fights in a habit of his.
Weston straightens to his full height, his non-verbal response saying a whole hell of a lot. The angry man, obviously noticing the striking discrepancy in both height and build, suddenly decides he's no longer interested in any sort of physical confrontation.
He quickly shuffles away and I give Weston a guilty look.
"I did hit him really hard," I admit. "Like, might have dislodged his liver hard."
"He'll live," Weston says with a grin. "But you don't need to use that much force to hit the cue ball. A lighter hand'll still get the job done."
I let out a defeated sigh. "Whose idea was it to play pool, anyway? This pool stick is basically a nuclear weapon in my hands!"
I hold out the piece of equipment like it's a poisonous snake and he laughs.
"First of all, it was your idea. And it's called a cue."
I shrug. "I prefer pool stick."
"Of course you do." He rolls his eyes, a good-natured smile on his face. "Let me show you how to properly use a pool stick."
"Please do."
As he walks up behind me, I realize we're totally about to have a moment—one of those "I'm teaching you a new skill, but really I just wanna get up close and personal" moments.
But just before he places a hand on the small of my back, a loud shout jolts us apart.
"Body shots!!"
We both turn towards the source of the scream: Mr. Wild Child Mendoza.
Diego and company approach the green-felted table, each of them drunk as a skunk.
"Body shots?" Weston asks with a grin.
Diego nods, mouth stretching into a devious smile as his dark brows wiggle suggestively. "Body shots."
"Body shots?" I parrot.
"Body SHOTS!" the boys holler out.
This is such an intelligent conversation.
I put on an unsure frown. "I don't know about th—"
——— ——— ———
2:33 a.m.
. . .
The area above my navel is sticky.
So is a thin patch of skin on my chest.
I don't know what club I'm in.
Too drunk to care.
Up above are twinkling fairy lights—the same kind wrapped around my headboard.
Down below is an electric dance floor. The tiles alternate between blue and purple, synchronizing to the beat of the sensual music.
The air's thick with hookah smoke, my head swaying lazily to the R&B song.
And Weston's behind me.
Intoxicated or not, I would recognize his enticing scent anywhere.
Spicy, masculine cologne. Just a hint of spearmint in his body wash.
Yum.
I'm not sure if it came from him or me.
Fuck.
He's so hard.
Our motions are completely in tune. Our rhythm matched to a T, like we've been dance partners for years.
And they say the way you move together on the dance floor is a direct reflection of the way you'll move together in the bedr—
——— ——— ———
?!?! a.m.
. . .
I come to who-knows-how-many hours later with a mouthful of glazed doughnut.
Definitely not the worst way to sober up.
One quick glance around is all it takes to decipher my location. It's a generic, 24/7 doughnut shop called Dazed by Donuts—a place I've visited countless times in a drunken stupor.
This place is creepy, the harsh white interior reminiscent of an insane asylum. And the management leaves a lot to be desired. Employees are constantly in a daze, but it's not from the fried dough.
It's also borderline falling apart; they've never bothered to fix their neon sign out front. Dazed by flickers on and off constantly. The D and O from Donuts have been burnt out as long as I've been a student at Windhaven, leaving only the N U T and S in big, bright green letters.
Dazed by NUTS.
Immature college guys get a real kick out of that one.
Oh, who am I kidding?
I still cackle like a hyena whenever I see it, too.
Dazed by Nuts is super cheap, within walking distance of Dublin, and their mediocre doughnuts are the perfect antidote to a night out. Business is booming despite the C- Sanitary Inspection Grade hung proudly behind the register.
I glance forward, eyes traveling past the half-empty baker's dozen on the table and up to Weston's face. And I don't know if it's the alcohol or the sugar rush talking, but damn. He looks so freakin' good.
Have you ever met someone who becomes even more attractive after a wild night out?
I haven't.
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