Page 70 of What are the Risks
“Is there room for my friend, Lindsay?” Gretchen asked, reaching for an equally gorgeous blonde in an equally short dress.
Pat practically salivated. “There’s always room for Lindsay.”
*
Pat sat in the back with Lindsay, of course. And when we pulled up to the liquor store, he went straight to the refrigerated section with her.
“Do you need a hand with the beer?” Gretchen offered.
“You don’t want to pick out some drinks?”
“Nah. Lindsay will find me something.”
“Ah, sure then. Thanks.”
After I grabbed a cart, Gretchen followed me down each aisle. She wasn’t much help, but she did hold the cart steady as I loaded it up.
It wasn’t until we were at the register that Pat and Lindsay returned, adding several six-packs of White Claws to the mix.
“I can keep these in my room so nobody else drinks them,” Pat offered. “Each time you ladies want a drink, find me and I’ll take you up.”
I snickered under my breath. The move was almost smooth.
After carding me, the attendant scanned everything before reading out the total. “And because you’ve spent that much, you’re entitled to four shots from our shot bucket.”
I was the ultimate party pooper, because while Pat, Gretchen and Lindsay cheered, I groaned.
Gretchen eagerly sifted through the shot bucket like it was the best lucky dip ever, emerging with two cowboy shots, a sambuca and tequila.
“I’ll take a cowboy,” Pat said.
Gretchen took the other and Lindsay chose the sambuca, which left me with the tequila.
As I wearily studied the plastic shot cup, Pat rolled his eyes. “Come on, Ryker. It’s not laced. It’s just one shot. Live a little.”
I’d already made one questionable decision tonight – adding alcohol to the equation seemed risky. Then again, maybe liquid courage would help with the conversation waiting for me when I got back.
“What are we toasting to?” Lindsay asked.
“Football,” Pat answered easily. “America’s game.”
Gretchen winked at me. “To football.”
Though I willingly stepped onto a field each week, risking getting sacked by two-hundred-pound linebackers, I was fucking pathetic when it came to shots. After forcing it down, I coughed for a solid minute. Tequila was the worst.
“Oh no!” Linsday gasped.
“Shit, babe,” Gretchen fussed, dabbing at her friend’s chest.
Some of Lindsay’s dark shot had dripped down her chin and neck, leaving a purplish trail across the top of her dress.
“It’s going to stain,” she whined.
Gretchen’s attention shifted to me desperately, like her friend’s dress needed resuscitation and I was the only person around who knew CPR. “Can you drive past our house so Lindsay can get a change of clothes?”
“I kind of need to–”
“Please, it’s on the way.”
