by Mia Scott
As the cold autumn night air hit him in the face, it dawned on him that he'd just walked out on a blowjob from a hot co-ed to go have a beer with Alisha Larrington.
"Fuck my life," he muttered.
He walked into Wicked Willy's and scanned the growing crowd for Alisha, spotting her alone in a large, round booth. She was staring down at the table and absently fingering a cardboard coaster. It was karaoke night and it seemed that all of New York's most untalented were in attendance. Approaching, he peeled off his jacket and tossed it down into the booth before sliding in beside her. "Hiya, Larrington," he greeted with a crooked smile, leaning back casually.
Alisha startled, and her eyes snapped to his chiseled face, found him grinning at her. God, why did I call him of all people? "Hey," she said tentatively, picking up the glass in front of her and gulped.
"Something troubling you, Shorty?" he asked, lifting a hand to signal the waitress. She snorted into her glass and downed the rest of her drink in one greedy gulp. He was pretty impressed. "I'll take that as a yes." What he didn't know is why she would've called him rather than Maggie or Russell.
She sat her glass down heavily on the table and scrubbed her hands over her face before turning to look at him. With a steadying deep breath, she opened her mouth. "Ugh. Okay. I was having a really great day off, and then I got some news I would have been more than happy going the rest of my life without knowing. I didn't want to be at home because if I was at home I would have felt sorry for myself and that's the last thing I want or need. And I didn't want to call Maggie or Russell because as much as I love them, I would have had to talk about it endlessly and I really just can't handle the Spanish Inquisition tonight. I'm not sure why I called you. In fact, that was probably a mistake. I just figured that you wouldn't ask a ton of questions and I didn't want to drink alone. Don't get the wrong idea about this or anything…this is not me coming on to you or giving into the bevy of sexual overtures you toss in my direction every time I see you…I just figured that since we were sorta friends now…you know what, no, this was a mistake. I'll just go—"
"Larrington, Larrington, Larrington," he interrupted. Sweet Moses she could ramble on and at alarming speeds. "Take a breath." He was beginning to regret walking out on whatsherfuck—but not nearly as much as he probably should have. Where was the damn waitress? He needed a goddamned beer.
Alisha did just as he'd instructed and took a big breath, then pressed her lips into a thin, tight line as her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. He was looking down at her with a sly grin on his face, his eyes dancing mirthfully. She wanted to die. This was such a poor decision, Alisha. It was yet one more thing she could blame Gregory for. "Sorry," she murmured, reaching for her glass, forgetting it was empty.
"You're good, motor mouth. But just so we're clear, we're not talking about whatever's bothering you?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Alright. And you're not hitting on me?"
Her lips twitched into a smile seeing the roguish look on his face. "No."
"Pity," he said impishly. "Okay then…so you want to get drunk and maybe make some bad decisions?"
Alisha laughed then. She could only imagine what constituted as bad decisions in Big's universe. "Nice try, but I think I'll just stick with the drunk part."
"Larrington!" he scolded playfully. "You're no fun."
She shrugged and toyed with the scarf around her neck. Her phone buzzed on the table and she eyed it warily, but reached for it, discovering she had several new messages.
Maggie: Call me.
Russell: Q just filled me in. R u ok?
Maggie: Want 2 talk?
Russell: Where r u?
Maggie: UR not home & UR not answering. I'm worried.
Russell: Answer ur phone!
"Ugh, just leave me alone!" she yelled at her phone, feeling like a crazy person. She fired off a quick I'm fine to both of her concerned friends and dropped her phone back on the table.
"Alright, Larrington—we're gonna break rule one of our little fight club tonight."
Her brows furrowed in confusion as she stared at him, blinking owlishly. "Excuse me? Fight club?"
"It—" he shook his head. "Never mind. What's wrong? Clue me in really quick and then I'll get you plenty drunk and then we can show these tone-deaf assholes a thing or two about karaoke." Someone was currently butchering Johnny Cash and offending his ears. When she hesitated, he nudged her shoulder. "Come on," he prodded, "it might make you feel better to talk about it with someone who doesn't know all the details." Jesus H. Christ—he was prodding her to talk about feelings. This was some bizarre-o shit right here.
Alisha eyed him cagily while she pondered his words. Blowing out a big, slow breath, she reached into her bag and pulled out the newspaper, tossing it onto the table Gregory side up. "My ex and the strumpet I found him fucking in our bed," she snapped, stabbing her index finger onto the announcement for emphasis. "I'd send them a gift, but I don't know that there's a Pricks & Whores R Us around and there's nothing suitable at Sheets-n-Things."
His first instinct was to laugh, because it seemed that only Alisha Larrington would use the term strumpet and then follow it up with pricks and whores. Quickly realizing that laughing would be a really dumbass idea, he picked up the paper and read.
Tallulah Marietta von Libereitz…
"Tallulah Marietta von Libereitz?" he asked with an arched brow. "What the fuck kind of name is that?"
"Ridiculous, isn't it?" Alisha laughed dryly.
"Completely," he agreed, turning his eyes back to the paper.
Tallulah Marietta von Libereitz and Gregory James Fleming were married Saturday at St. Bartholomew's Church on Park Avenue in New York. The Reverend Bruce Forbes officiated.
"You were involved with a goy, Larrington? What did your bubbie think?" he asked with a smirk, full on grinning when she rolled her eyes and chuckled softly.
"Shut up, Big," she said easily, picking up the fresh cocktail in front of her.
Blah, blah, ages, blah blah jobs, blah blah, parents. Both of these people sounded like pretentious assholes. "You still hung up on this guy?" he asked indifferently.
"No," she said definitively.
"Sure about that?" he asked her pointedly, holding her chocolate brown gaze.
She nodded insistently. "Yes."
"Then why the fuck are you letting him ruin your night?"
It was a good question. A very valid question, albeit with a little more profanity than she'd have used. "I…" she began, quickly closing her mouth when nothing followed. For so long she'd been hurting over this and it was almost as if she was conditioned to have a response any time Gregory was mentioned. Still, it had hurt to see his wedding announcement to the woman who'd had a hand in destroying her happiness. He'd done a number on her for sure, but as she stared up into Big's questioning eyes (they looked green today), she really didn't feel all that bad anymore. "I have no idea," she finally blurted, a small smile on her lips as a huge wave of relief washed over her.
"Me neither. That douche looks like he wouldn't know the first thing about how to handle a woman in bed…especially one as fiery as yourself." Her jaw dropped. He grinned.
"Big—"
"Hey, you called me—this is me helping. Take it or leave it." He picked up his beer and took a big drink.
In disbelief, she sputtered out a breathy laugh and fell back against the backrest in the booth. "Fine," she heard herself say, eyes cast on the ceiling. "I'll take it." She sat up and grew a little leery the moment that lightning quick, wicked grin flashed across his face.
"Let's play a little game," he suggested.
Alisha started to protest, but his arched eyebrow stopped her. She'd already agreed to his brand of help. (God help her) "What kind of game?" she asked nervously.
"I'm going to ask you some questions and you have to answer without thinking. Just say the first thing that comes to your mind."
"Okay," she said skeptically.
>
He smirked into his glass and took another drink of his beer. "Okay. Better friend, Maggie or Russell?"
"Maggie," she said without thinking, feeling slightly guilty towards her other fabulous friend.
"Favorite singer?"
"Beyoncé."
Big rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Of course it fucking is." Alisha kicked him under the table. "Favorite thing to do?"
"Sing."
"Best sex you ever had?"
"Joe Fletcher," she said enthusiastically, promptly slapping her hands over her mouth and flaming every shade of red under the sun.
He laughed and gestured to the newspaper. "See, what'd I say? I'm guessing lover boy there didn't meet your needs very well."
"This conversation is inappropriate," she protested weakly. That statement had sounded so much better in her head.
"Well, Shorty, as you like to point out every time I see you, I am inappropriate, so I don't know why you're surprised. Shouldn't almost friends be accepting of each other’s flaws—or in my case strengths and badassness?"
A giggle bubbled up in her throat. "Sure, Big. Whatever you say."
"Great," he smirked. "Okay, back to why this ex of yours couldn't satisfy you."
"I never said that," she stammered.
"Yeah, you did. If he'd been good, you'd have answered his name when I asked you about the best sex ever. So, what was it about Gerald?"
"Gregory," she corrected.
"Whatever. Tiny dick? Kinda looks like he would."
"How do you know what tiny dicked men look like?" she asked, cocking her head to the side and smirking at him.
Big paused, momentarily rendered speechless from her verbal kick in the balls. "Oh, fuck off, Larrington, you know what I meant. So, was that it?"
If you'd have told her two months ago that she would be sitting in a karaoke bar discussing the size of her ex's penis with a crude, foul-mouthed, yet very hot fireman, she'd have suggested a mental institution. Well, technically it wasn't a discussion because there was only one person talking about it so far, until she opened her mouth and said, "His size wasn't the problem."
"Now you're admitting there was a problem." He no longer regretted walking out on Haylie (?), because this night was getting hella interesting.
Alisha averted her eyes and picked up her drink, annoyed to find it empty again, but settled for the ice cubes. She looked over at him and found him watching her with a look that clearly told her he was waiting on some elaboration. This night was just weird, and she knew that this conversation was probably a horrible idea, but at least she was feeling better. After holding up her glass and signaling for another from their waitress, she glanced down at the picture of the newlyweds and figured what the hell? "He was selfish, and he wasn't very good at…" she trailed off.
Now we're talking. "Wasn't very good at what, Larrington?" Seeing her hesitation, he decided a diversionary tactic was in order. "Do you have a pen?"
Her mind couldn't keep up. "A pen?"
Big mimed writing something. "Yes, Shorty, a pen. We're going to improve this article here." He grabbed the newspaper and held his hand out for the pen she found in her bag. "Continue…" he gestured with his hand.
"Um…" she saw him draw a Hitler mustache on Gregory and she giggled, her head starting to feel light from the alcohol. "He was…um, he was…really…terribleatgoingdownonme," she mumbled as fast as she possibly could, half hoping the dreadful girl murdering Girls Just Wanna Have Fun on stage drowned her out. From the wicked look of smug satisfaction on his face, she knew that wasn't the case. "Oh, God," she groaned, thoroughly embarrassed.
"I'm so glad you called me, Larrington," he grinned. "This is very telling. Can't you just feel our friendship losing it's almost status?" He smirked at the look on her face and wrote Shit at licking pussy above douchebag's head with an arrow pointing down.
"I'm going to the bar. I need more alcohol if I'm going to survive this," she said, grabbing her bag and scooting out of the booth. "You want something?" she asked over her shoulder.
He took in the way her dark hair curled gently over her shoulder and her big brown eyes looked down into his. She was so fucking hot, even more so now that he was learning all of this info about her. "That's a loaded question," he grinned.
She leaned over and smacked him upside the head. "From the bar, you idiot!"
He winced slightly, but laughed. "What are you having?"
"Tequila."
And the surprises just kept coming. "Tequila makes me mean, but one won't hurt. And a beer." He entertained very dirty thoughts about her and oral sex while he continued defacing the toolbox's face, along with his bride's, whose eyes were way too close together to even walk through the neighborhood of attractive. (He Adam a dick in her mouth)
Alisha returned with the drinks and slid back into the booth, nearly falling over when she saw the improvements Big had made to the wedding announcement. "Jesus—that's hilarious," she laughed.
He smirked proudly. "Thanks." He watched intently as she reached for the salt shaker on the tray and her pink tongue darted out of that sexy mouth of hers to lick the inside of her wrist. (Lucky wrist) She salted the area and just as she was lifting it to her lips, he thought fuck it and grabbed her wrist, halting her, her eyes shooting over to meet his. Big slowly brought it to his own lips. With a wicked grin, he licked the salt free from her skin. Her eyes went wide, and he winked before knocking back the shot of tequila, feeling it burn a warm trail down his throat.
Heat pooled between her legs and she shivered from head to foot, her radial pulse pounding a mad tattoo where he'd licked her. Oh. My. God. His smirk turned into an all-out leer and part of her wanted to slink under the table and die while the other part wanted to mount him in the booth and never let go. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Danger. Danger, Will Robinson! Maybe she could pretend that didn't just happen. Sure, what a prize idea, you moron. She gave it a go anyway, reaching for the salt shaker between them.
Big held out his wrist for her. "Here, you can do me," he rasped, biting back a chuckle at the appalled look in her eyes.
"Go do yourself, you Neanderthal," she spat, purposely salting her hand instead of her wrist, quickly doing the shot.
"It's fun to ruffle your feathers, Larrington," he told her mischievously.
His eyes sparkled humorously when she looked over at him. "Oh, fuck off, Big," she said lightly, tossing his earlier words back in his face. She slid down the seat and he stopped her, grabbing her arm.
"Where are you going?"
"To sing. I can't listen to this garbage anymore," she said pointing a finger to other patrons in the bar. "My ears are going to bleed."
"Don't pick out anything lame like Celine Dion or, sweet Lord, Beyoncé Beyoncé. There's a time and place for that shit I suppose, but it ain't here and now."
Her lips twitched into a slow, bright smile as her head swam with the effects of even more booze in her system. Why was it you could never feel the booze until you stood up? She couldn't even bring herself to defend her idols' honor. "I wasn't going to."
"Sing something fun! If it's not fun, I'm leaving, Shorty."
"Chill out, mother Bigger!" She found her statement and the look on his face utterly hilarious and she doubled over laughing.
"Christ almighty, Larrington—you're half tanked," he said, laughter rumbling in his chest.
She bobbled her head in full agreement and waved as she hurried towards the karaoke stage.
Big nursed the beer in front of him and turned when he heard Alisha's name being called up next. At least he was going to finally hear something that didn't make his ears hurt even if she did pick a shitty song.
"Wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy. Grab my glasses, I'm out the door, I'm gonna hit this city…"
He watched, highly entertained, as she enthralled the audience with the popular song, amazing voice and stage presence. Even though she was half bombed, she sounded a million times better than anyone else so far that
night. She looked bright eyed and carefree while she shimmied and bounced along the stage while she sang. He nearly spat out his beer when she got the part about "er'body getting crunk, crunk and boys try to touch my junk, junk" when she gestured to her own goodies. Goddamn, she was fun.
She was laughing as she spilled back into the booth beside him and tumbled against him. "Whoops," she laughed even harder trying to sit up.
Big shook his head. "Easy, killer," he told her, helping her upright. "Nice song, by the way. Personally enjoyed you pointing at your junk."
"Thanks," she grinned. "Your turn. Oooh, wait! You know what would be so much fun?"
His lips twitched. Drunk!Alisha was fucking hilarious. "What's that, Larrington?"
"If you let me sing with Fire Extinguishers sometime!" She nodded her head like it was the best idea she'd ever had. "You could play guitar, and James could play drums, and the other two—whatever. I could sing some songs, we could sing some songs. Oh, oh, oh! And I could play tambourine!"
Big laughed, but didn't think her idea was all that ridiculous. "Could be fun, Shorty."
She clapped her hands excitedly. "Yay! Can I have a tambourine, too?"
"I 'spose," he shrugged.
"Excellent. We should probably write this stuff down, don't you think? So we don't forget?" Her face had tried to look serious, but she giggled and negated any and all seriousness.
"Damn, Larrington, you sing one pop song and now ya wanna bust my balls and write a contract to sing with my band?" he asked, teasing.
"I'm not—busting your balls, Big. But a contract is a good, good idea, even if we are friends now…you should always put stuff in writing!" She waved a bar napkin in his face. "We'll use this."
"So, we're full on friends now?" he grinned cheekily.
"Uh huh," she agreed, her dimples flashing in her cheeks. She took the pen off the table and began crafting the "contract" for her to sing with Fire Extinguishers for a night, finding even penning her name a difficult challenge. So she drew a stick figure with long hair and a little arrow pointing to it that said Me with a star next to it. She could feel Big's breath on her cheek as he looked over her shoulder while she worked and the rumble of laughter in his chest. She may have imagined that she leaned back against him. (She totally didn't imagine it) Next, she Adam a picture of him and he then started complaining about his lack of guns in the picture, so he snatched the pen from her hand. "Hey!" she cried.