Page 75 of Challenge
She begins to argue with me as the bartender sets down our tequila. We grip the glasses in our hands, do a quick cheers, and gulp down the spicy liquid.
“Tequila Sunrise!” Belle shouts, giggling happily. “Well, just straight tequila I guess, but the sentiment is there.”
“Tequila Sunrise,” I murmur, propping my head on my hands.
Belle whacks me on the arm. “All right, we’re good and buzzed now. It’s time to get serious about Penis Number Two before we get so pissed we can’t pick a good pecker.”
Turning away from the bar, we lean our backs against the dark lacquered wood and admire the scene for a moment. Old George’s beer garden is a gorgeous outdoor sight at night. It’s located in the alley behind the pub and is completely ensconced in high lattice fencing covered in crawling ivy. Rustic picnic tables fill the left side, but they’ve removed several for a small dance floor and the band on the right. The ground is all original cobblestone—there’s probably horse manure stamped into the divots from the Medieval era. Because of this, you can always spot the regulars from the tourists. The regulars are in sensible flats while the tourists wobble around awkwardly in heels. It’s not a proper night at Old George if you don’t see at least three girls take a tumble. Top the entire scene off with string after string of Edison bulbs and you have the most gorgeous, glowing, backyard party you’ve ever seen.
“I love Old George,” I coo.
“I know, love. You look fab tonight, too. Have I told you that?”
“You look better,” I murmur.
Belle is kitted out in black leather leggings and a studded, black tank top that makes her look as badass as the combat boots she’s rocking. I’m a bit more colourful in floral print leggings and a fitted white T-shirt that Belle says makes my tits look great. Wearing my hair down is usually the only accessory I need to spruce up an outfit. That and my black vintage eyewear.
“Okay, so let’s do this.” Her gaze narrows on the crowd. “Are you sure you don’t want to give Stanley a shot.”
“I’m sure.”
“So what’s the type you’re looking for?”
My face turns serious. “Penis Number Two type. Sweet, sensitive, and a nurturing lover. Must cry when he comes.” I giggle as I remember that little tidbit from our list.
“I meant physically,” Belle says around the straw of her drink.
My brows rise. “I don’t know…I guess I like light hair.”
“What else?”
“Maybe tall and broad.”
“Yes…”
“With eyes that smoulder.”
“Got it.”
“And I wouldn’t say no to some abs.”
“What about another crack at Penis Number One?” she asks, her eyes locked on something behind me.
“That’s not what—”
She grabs my chin and turns my head toward the far back corner of the beer garden. Despite the darkness, I can make out the outlines of two huge, strapping men sitting on top of a picnic table. It looks like a hairy and non-hairy set of twins.
“Oh no,” I say.
“Surprise!” she giggles and clutches my arm, yanking me in that direction.
IAM A MAN WHOgets what I want.
I am not a man who’s used to losing.
I’ve lost a handful of football matches, tickets to Coldplay once, and a bet with Vi over how much food her dog, Bruce, could consume in thirty seconds.
This isn’t a proud list.
