“What, get a free drink?” Her mouth twisted into a knowing smirk. “It’s not that hard. The trick is to look like you’re having a good time and you want to have an even better time. Who got you the wine?” she asked, pointing a bold red fingertip at my glass.
“Well, Daniel did, but-”
“See?” She tossed her head back and her curls, freshly fluffed, fell perfectly around her shoulders. “You’re loosening up already.”
I really hoped so. I certainly felt more relaxed, although I had a sneaking suspicion the wine I’d consumed had more than a little something to do with it. Toying with the stem of my wineglass I took another sip. At this point I would have usually stopped drinking and called it a night, but what was the harm in staying out late? It was a Saturday. I had nothing to do tomorrow. No obligations to meet. No one I had to answer to except for myself. I was an adult. An adult who had just received her first free drink courtesy of the hottest guy in the whole bar. Without giving myself time to think, I tipped the wineglass back and drained the rest of the contents in two quick swallows.
“That a girl!” Whitney said approvingly. “Just maybe not so quick next time,” she added as I sputtered and made a face. “Chugging beer, yes. Chugging wine, no. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it.”
With a shudder of regret, I set the wineglass back down on the bar and pushed it away from me. Before I had time to blink, my empty drink was replaced with a new one. I looked quickly around for Daniel, but he must have stepped out back because he was nowhere in sight.
“Oh he’s good,” Whitney said, following my gaze.
“What do you mean?”
“He asked one of the other bartenders to take care of you in case he wasn’t around when you finished your wine. That’s, like, the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”
It was sweet. And kind. And thoughtful. And I was fairly certain if I finished the glass of wine I’d just been given I would find myself sprawled facedown on the floor in a matter of minutes. “Do you want some?” I asked, holding the glass out to Whitney. “I already feel a little lightheaded. I really don’t think I should have another.”
“Are you kidding me?” Looking at me though I’d just committed a deadly sin, Whitney pushed my hand away. “I have a martini on the way. Now shut up and drink your wine.”
The corners of my mouth tightened into a frown, but I was feeling just enough of a buzz to do exactly what she said. After all, four glasses of wine wasn’t that much. And didn’t I have cause for a little celebration? Daniel had said he liked me. Out loud. To my face. If that wasn’t a reason to drink a little wine, I didn’t know what was. Besides, it wasn’t as if I was drinking them quickly. Well, I corrected myself silently, except for the one you chugged.
When Whitney received her martini - a frothy pink confection with two cherries stuck to a green plastic toothpick - she popped up off her barstool and nudged me with her hip. “Come on, only losers sit down when music is playing. Let’s mingle.”
“Mingle?” I said with an apprehensive glance around the crowded bar. There had to be close to a hundred people. Some were dancing, but most had separated off into tiny groups and were screaming at each other over the music still blaring out of the speakers.
“It’s not a dirty word, Mo.” Whitney rolled her eyes. “Mingle. Dance. Chat. Socialize. You know, do what we came here to do.”
“I know what mingle means. And I think I would like to stay at the bar, thank you.”
“Get up.” Taking my arm, she gave it a firm tug that pulled me off balance and nearly caused me to tip over my new glass of wine.
“Hey!” I cried, clutching the wineglass protectively against my chest. “Be careful.”
“Is that what you’re worried about?” With a cluck of her tongue Whitney yanked my drink right out of my hand. “I’ll hold it for you. Now get up, smile, and pretend you wanted your hair to look like that.”
* * * * *
We mingled. Or rather, Whitney mingled and dragged me behind her like I was an oversized purse. I stayed in the background, speaking only when spoken to, and then only in short, clipped, awkward sentences. It was hard to have a conversation in such a loud, crowded place. The music was so deafening I had to shout to be heard, and then shout louder when the person I was trying to talk to inevitably tilted their head, squinted their eyes in confusion, and yelled, “What did you say?”
Somehow we managed to work our way in a full circle and when we found ourselves back at the bar it was in the company of two men, one of whom had his arm draped loosely around Whitney’s shoulders. She leaned into him, acting, I thought, far drunker than she actually was. The man - Greg? George? Something with a G - whispered in her ear and she giggled, then shook her head.
“No,” she said, flattening a hand against his chest. “We’re not those type of girls. You have to at least…”
I drifted out of the conversation, absently sipping my wine as I glanced down the bar. Daniel was at the opposite end, talking to a trio of blondes. Courtesy of the alcohol I’d imbibed, senseless jealousy pounced swiftly and sank its sharp claws into my skin.
So Daniel had time to talk to other girls, but not to me? What happened to getting back to work? Unless work involved flirting, in which case he was pulling a double shift. Was he buying them drinks too? My eyes narrowed. If his grin was any indication, he definitely looked like he was enjoying himself.
“Hey, you want another drink?”
I blinked, tearing my gaze away from Daniel to focus on the guy standing beside me. He was my height, with auburn hair and green eyes that hinted at an Irish ancestor. He was a friend of Whitney’s new friend and had introduced himself to us before we walked back to the bar, but I couldn’t recall his name which was odd because I never forgot names. It must be the wine, I decided as I glanced down at my empty glass. Except what type of wine came with a bright green toothpick?
“This isn’t mine,” I said, thrusting my drink at Irish.
“Sure it is.” Taking the glass, he set it down behind him before taking a step closer to me, crowding me up against one of the steel stools. Wobbling a bit on my heels, I sat automatically, which apparently was code in drunk world for come even closer, which Irish did. Resting one hand on the bar and the other on the back of my stool, he pushed my knees apart as he pressed between my thighs. “I got it for you, remember? Cherry martini. Just like your friend.”
No I certainly did not remember, although given the fact that I’d apparently downed an entire martini without noticing it wasn’t wine I couldn’t say I was all that surprised.
I was drunk. Unfortunately, I was too drunk to care how drunk I actually was.
“Wine,” I said with a decisive nod of my head. “I’ll have another glass of wine. Please.”
“Not a martini?” Irish asked.
“No.” My nose wrinkled. “I don’t like martinis.”
He laughed as the hand he’d had resting on the bar moved to my shoulder. “Could have fooled me. Do you always drink things you don’t like to drink?”
Heavy, I thought dimly as I frowned down at his hand. His touch was too heavy. Too intrusive. I jerked my shoulder, trying to brush him off, but like a fly who had just discovered a particularly juicy piece of food he clung to me, refusing to let go. I glanced past him, seeking out Whitney for help, but my best friend was facing the opposite direction and, unlike me, didn’t seem to be minding the attention of her male suitor. I looked back at Irish. “No, I don’t…” My brow furrowed. “What was the question?”
The hand on my shoulder squeezed before it began to creep slowly up my neck. “You’re funny. I like funny girls. I think you want another martini.”
“No.” Was it just me, or had I said ‘no’ approximately twenty-seven times since I sat down? “I don’t want a martini.” Since Irish wasn’t getting my subtle hint to stop touching, I tried a more obvious one and slapped his hand away. For a split second he looked taken aback before his green eyes lit up.
“So you like it a little rough, huh?” He leaned towards me and I caught an unpleasant whiff of his breath. It reeked of whiskey and cigarette smoke. “I thought so. The quiet ones usually do.” His hands went to my thighs, fingers pushing almost painfully into my flesh. “My place or yours?”
“Whitney.” I grabbed his wrists, grappling to keep his hands from moving any further up my legs while I desperately tried to get my best friend’s attention. “Whitney! I think we need to go.”
By some small miracle, she managed to hear me over the din. I caught a glimpse of her face, lips slightly puffy, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, as she broke apart from her boy-toy long enough to glance in my direction.
“In a sec, Mo, can’t you see I’m a little - hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Get off her!” Like a mama bear defending her cub, Whitney shoved Irish’s friend out of the way and charged towards me. She elbowed Irish hard in the ribs, then followed up her assault with a cuff to the head when he turned clumsily around to see who had attacked him.
“What the hell?” he slurred, looking confused.
Whitney jammed a finger into his face. “You don’t touch her, you hear me?”
I tried to jump to my feet, but my heels, coupled with the alcohol swirling around in my system, promptly sat me back down on the stool. As the room spun, I gripped the edge of the bar to anchor myself. Never again, I vowed silently as I watched Whitney and Irish square off toe to toe. I am never, ever drinking again.
“Let’s just leave,” I pleaded in an attempt to diffuse the situation before it could escalate any further. “It’s fine, Whit. He didn’t hurt me. He was just a little pushy. That’s all.”
She didn’t even look at me. “I’ve got this, Mo.”
Which was exactly what I was afraid of. Sober Whitney never backed down from a fight. Drunk Whitney was usually the one who started them.
“Come on.” I tried to stand again and this time managed to stay upright. Wobbling forward, I laid a restraining hand on Whitney’s arm. “I want to go home.”
“Not until this dickbag apologizes to you.”
“Hey.” Irish scowled. “Watch who you’re calling a dickbag, bitch. I didn’t do shit.”
“Watch who you’re calling a bitch, dickbag!”
“Okay.” I tossed up both of my hands and wedged myself between them. Admittedly not a very good idea, but I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. “That’s enough. Whitney, let’s leave. Now.”
“Is there a problem here?” Choosing that precise moment to realize the girl he’d been making out with for the past five minutes was no longer sucking on his neck, Whitney’s boy-toy sidled up next to us, his dark brow creased in drunken bewilderment as he looked at Whitney, then me, then Irish. “Yo bro, I already called dibs on the brunette. I said you could have the other one, remember?” His gaze bounced between us again before it settled in the middle on me. One side of his mouth lifted in a dopey grin that left no question as to his level of sobriety. “You!” he said, tapping me on the shoulder. “I said he could have you. That’s okay, right?”
I stiffened. Sober Imogen would have most likely turned a cold shoulder and simply walked away, but Drunk Imogen was surprisingly more volatile and considerably more outspoken. “You can’t give me to someone. I am not property. The thirteenth amendment clearly states that neither slavery nor involuntary servitude shall exist within the United States. As such, you are prohibited by law, not to mention basic human decency, to give me to Irish, just as he is likewise prohibited from taking me. Or touching me without permission,” I added strictly for Irish’s benefit.
“Yeah,” Whitney slurred as she raised her hand for a fistbump, which I proudly returned. “What she said.”
Boy-toy tilted his head to the right, then to the left, as though trying to physically absorb my words. The line between his eyebrows deepened. “Who’s Irish?” he asked finally.
“I think she means me,” Irish said.
“But your name is Calvin.”
Calvin/Irish shrugged. “I don’t know, man. These chicks are crazy. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Call me?” Boy-toy asked Whitney hopefully.
“Get better friends first.” She waited until they’d stumbled away before she rested her head on my shoulder and sighed. “He was a really good kisser, too. He could do this thing with his tongue where-”
“Ew, stop.” I pinched her arm. “I don’t want to hear about that.”
Whitney’s head lolled back. “I think I might have drank too much. The martinis here are so good.”
“Tell me about it,” I said ruefully. My head was spinning, and not in a good way. I’d never been a careless drinker, or even a casual one. As someone who carefully guarded their every thought and action, I didn’t like how alcohol made me want to say things I would never ordinarily say and do things I would never dream of doing. I could see how, for some people, that might be a reason to drink. But not for me. “I think we should go home now.”
Whitney groaned and made no effort to stand upright. “But it’s so far,” she complained.
“We could call a taxi.”
“Are you kidding? That shit’s expensive.” She lifted her head to glare at me. “Not everyone’s made of money, Mo.” Bringing up our differing financial backgrounds was a sure sign of just how drunk Whitney was. Any other time I would have contradicted her, but right now I was too tired to fight and too drunk to reason.
“Fine. Then we’ll just sit here.” I dropped back down onto a stool with a hard thud. Whitney sat beside me.
“Calvin was right,” she said glumly as she leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. “I am a bitch.”
“No you’re not.” Resting my elbow on the bar, I used the palm of my hand to prop my chin up. My head felt so heavy. Why did my head feel so heavy? And I had to pee. Badly. Except hadn’t I just gone to the bathroom ten minutes ago? I couldn’t remember.
“Then why don’t guys like me?” With loud groan of self-pity only the very drunk could successfully pull off, Whitney slumped forward and mimicked my position, albeit a bit more sloppily.
“Guys like you,” I protested. “You go on dates all the time.”
“Yeah.” Whitney’s eyes drifted closed. “But they don’t like like me.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Me either.”
We were quiet for a moment, two drunk girls filled with regret.
And pee.
“You two look like you could use some water.”
I started and sat up when I felt something cold brush my arm. Looking down, I saw a glass filled with ice water and a slice of lemon. Looking up, I saw Daniel.
“Rough night?” he asked, his grey eyes filled with sympathy and the slight, unmistakable gleam of amusement. “Go on. Drink up. You’ll thank me later.”
“I don’t feel so good,” I muttered, sounding as pitiful as Whitney looked.
“I know you don’t, little fox. But I think your friend feels a little worse. Whitney, right?” At my nod, Daniel pushed a glass of water towards Whitney and said her name again as he gently shook her arm. She lifted her head, gaze blurry and unfocused.
“Huh? Wha? Oh. You.” She grinned up at Daniel while I calmly sipped my water, drunkenly unaware that I was about to be embarrassed in three… two… one... “I know you. You’re the hot guy. Guys don’t like me. But they like you. No.” Her grin wavered uncertainly as she attempted to put the right words together. “That’s not right. Mo likes you. Yeah. That’s it. You like him, right Mo?”
“Yeah, but I can’t tell him that.”
“See?” she said triumphantly. “Told you.”
Oblivious to the fact that Daniel was perfectly capable of hearing every single word I was saying, I drained the rest of my glass until only ice remained and peered up at him hopefully. “Can I have some more, please?”
“Coming right up, Oliver Twist.” Taking my glass, he walked away towards the oth
er end of the bar.
“He called you Oliver,” Whitney snickered. “Doesn’t he know your name is Mo?”
“It was a literary reference.” I closed my eyes and watched bright dots dance across the inside of my eyelids. “I think. Whit, I don’t feel so good.”
“Me either.”
“No, I really don’t feel good.” As my stomach rolled and saliva pooled in the back of my throat, I jumped up and grabbed the back of Whitney’s stool. “I need to go outside.”
“Okay, but let’s wait until your boyfriend gets-”
“Now. I need to go now.”
Genuine alarm flickered across Whitney’s face. “If you puke on me, I’ll kill you. Come on.” Wrapping an arm around my waist, she helped me outside. The instant the cold night air filled my lungs the wave of nausea I’d felt inside the crowded bar began to subside and I sighed with relief.
“There’s a bench,” Whitney said, pointing to the corner of the street. “Let’s sit down.”
The only people lingering outside of Swordfish were smokers. Everyone else was either inside ordering last call, or had gone home for the night. They watched us as we walked past, their faces obscured by grey walls of smoke.
Using Whitney for balance, I slowly eased down onto the bench and leaned forward until my head was between my knees and my hair rained down on either side of my face like a dark, tousled curtain. “This is better,” I murmured.
“Mo…”
“What?” I said when Whitney fell silent.
“Do you think I’m wasting my life?”
“What are you talking about?” Pushing myself up, I tucked my hair behind my ears and frowned at her. “Your life is just starting. You have a career you love-”
“Coaching soccer is a job, not a career.”
“-and a degree from Harvard. You’re beautiful and funny and I wish I was more like you.”
“You wish you were more like me?” Whitney asked, her eyes widening.
My head rolled up and down in something that vaguely resembled a nod. “Of course I do.”
“But you’re, like, a genius. And pretty soon you’ll have your doctorate. And you have an amazing career. And you’re so freakin’ smart. Like, super smart. About everything. And you’re rich.”
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