Page 6 of Quarantine Crush
Knox looks at the offered chip with equal parts amusement and distrust, but he pops it into his mouth without hesitation.
“Holy hell,” he coughs, reaching for his beer.
I laugh as he downs half the bottle in one pull.
“Why is it both disgusting and hotter than the devil’s balls?”
I pull my chip can from the bag and place it next to his. “Probably because it’s spicy beef flavored.”
“That’s just wrong,” Knox says with an exaggerated shudder.
I laugh as he pulls a small sushi looking candy from his stash and holds it out to me with an evil grin.
We spend the next hour torturing each other with all manner of disgusting snacks before I finally call mercy. Knox grins triumphantly before handing me the bag of candy I actually want. This is how we always play. First, the worst snacks we can find. Then, our rewards for making it through.
“Yours are in the kitchen,” I tell him, rising from my place on the floor.
“Perfect. We can get some refills while we’re in there,” Knox says, following me.
I reach into the cabinet and pull down the bags of candy while Knox refills my wine and gets himself another beer.
My phone buzzes in my bra, and I pull it out, grimacing when I see it’s a text from Hadley.
Hadley: Are you pregnant yet? Please tell me you jumped him as soon as you opened the door.
Her words send heat into my cheeks, and I quickly tuck my phone away and change course.
Time for a little more liquid courage, I think and go to work, pouring myself a shot.
“So, how was your flight?” I ask.
“Long and tiring,” Knox says. When I look over, he smiles. “But worth it. How long has it been, anyway? Two years? Two and a half?”
“Twenty-seven months.” I bite my lip. “But who’s counting,” I mumble under my breath then lift the full shot glass to my lips.
Knox whistles as he takes in my drink choice. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, huh?”
I answer by knocking back the drink and then pouring another.
“Whoa there, Jack Sparrow, did your liver do something to piss you off?”
I knock back the second shot and breathe through the burn.
“Nope. Merely trying to celebrate right.” I flash a smile as the burn in my belly begins to spread to the rest of my body.
“Uh-huh. Well, the way I remember it, you seem to have a knack for overshooting the celebrations.” He plucks the empty shot glass out of my hand before I can pour another.
I scowl. “Are you calling me a lightweight?”
He shrugs. “If the shot glass fits…”
“Right. And who was the one praying to the porcelain gods for almost four hours the night of his high school graduation?”
He groans. “Don’t remind me. And don’t ever mix Cognac with Gatorade. The smell of either of them gives me PTSD to this day.”
I shudder, remembering how terrible he’d looked the night I picked him up from that party and snuck him into my room so his parents wouldn’t kill him. He’d puked all over my favorite rug, and I’d had to throw it away. Nothing could get the smell out of it. No matter how many times I washed it.
“Don’t worry, that’s one night I definitely don’t want to repeat,” I joke. “Speaking of which, are we going to get Christian wasted on cheap liquor as a rite of passage or what?”
