Page 1 of Chilled and Thrilled

1

SOPHIE

Imight be drunk.

To test the theory, I lean back on my stool, squinting at the neon-framed Specials sign behind the bar. It spins. I’m ninety percent sure they don’t usually do that.

Okay, might be drunk upgraded to probably drunk. There’s still a possibility that I’ve contracted some kind of brain-eating virus, or an extreme case of vertigo, or forgot that I didn’t eat or sleep all week. That being said, the binge drinking does seem like the most likely explanation.

What’s that thing people say? When you hear hooves, think horses, not zebras? In this case, the horses are the half dozen cocktails I ordered, purchased, received, and drank (rapidly) in the past hour.

I’m not proud. Being of sound mind and delightfully curvy but lactose intolerant body, I take pride in comporting myself with the dignity my aggressively mediocre station in life demands. People expect things of me. I pay my rent on time. I work at a place. Sometimes, I feed the neighbor’s cat when she goes on vacation. I’m practically a pillar of thecommunity, and I cannot do any of that while sloshed. Ergo, I do not make a habit of this kind of self-destructive behavior.

Tonight is an exception—a really good exception—and I intend to make the most of it. Life is short, and if you don’t walk away from it with a single embarrassing drunk story, you’ve probably been playing it too safe. I have not been playing it safe. I have been a very, very dumb dummy who does very poorly advised things like falling in totally unreciprocated love with a man who is basically the definition of off-limits. If there’s ever been a situation to justify my current lapse in responsible adulting, it’s this one.

Let the city crumble into the sea.

Let the angry birds descend.

Let the lobsters in the grocery store escape their tank, collect weapons, and rise in rebellion against us.

I, Sophie June Nelson, am off duty from community pillaring, for I am too wasted to care about any of it.

“She hasn’t stopped staring at that sign for, like, five minutes.” I look around, surprised to find a blonde sitting on the stool beside mine, staring back at me with a kind of fond exasperation.

I squint at her. “I think we’ve met, madame.”

“Yes, we certainly have.” She sighs, craning her neck to look at something on my other side.

Oh damn, is it cake? I would eat the ever-loving shit out of some cake.

Turning, I frown. Another familiar-looking madame, but zero baked goods. “You’re not cake.”

“Okay, honey. I think it’s time to call it a night,” says Not Cake.

My jaw drops. That feels funny, so I do it a few more times. “Wait,” I tell her when I’m done, “you’re not the boss of me.”

The word “boss” triggers something in my muddled brain,and I brighten, diving for the bag hanging off the side of my stool. The moment I straighten up, clutching my phone, Mada me Not Cake snatches it right out of my hand. “Oh no you don’t.”

I peer at her for a moment, weighing my odds of being able to get it back. She’s taller than me, not by much, but my current blood alcohol level puts me at a distinct disadvantage. “Should we fight?”

Blondie sighs heavily. “We should probably get her home. Before she sees the karaoke machine.”

Both stand and I blink, looking back and forth between them. “But I want to drink more.”

“Jake cut you off two drinks ago,” reports Not Cake, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder. “You’ve been drinking soda with whisky on the rim.”

I whip back around to glare at the bartender, who is pouring a beer from the stick thingy, and doesn’t even look ashamed of himself. “I thought we were friends, man. That’s super rude. Can’t you see I’m trying to work through some stuff here? Isn’t that bartender 101?”

“‘Super rude’ would be letting you get so drunk that you choke to death on your own vomit.”

“The correct term is aspirate, penis face. It’s what happens when you get a bunch of wet chunky stuff where there’s only supposed to be no wet chunky stuff.”

Bartender gives Blondie and Not Cake an exasperated look. “Get her home.”

They each take one of my arms, marching me toward the door. “Guyssss,” I whine, “do you think he was intimidated by my spry wit and quiet, dignified intellect?”

“That’s definitely it.” Not Cake sticks out her arm to stop me from mowing down a pedestrian.

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