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“I think it’s fantastic,” he told me, toasting the air.
“You don’t have to drink scotch for me, Demi,” I told her.
She shrugged and toasted at me. “It’s for your gram,” she said and took a long, painful-looking swallow.
We got good stinking drunk and watched reruns of our favorite reality show, Kink and Ink.
I nodded at the screen at some point after drink number three. “I’d go lesbian for a day for her,” I told an extremely drunk Demi and a fascinated Anton.
“I’d suffer through some pretty terrible things to see that happen,” Anton said.
Demi shook her head. “She’s pretty and I like her, but uh uh. Only boys for me.”
“What about this? There are only three people left in the world. You,” I nodded at Demi, “Frankie,” I nodded at the hot lesbian tattoo artist on TV, “and Justin Bieber. You have five seconds to pick.”
She didn’t hesitate, blurting out “Frankie!” before I’d even finished talking.
We couldn’t stop laughing after that, giggling our asses off.
“I vote that when we sober up we drive to Vegas to get tattoos at her shop,” Demi said at some point.
“It’s only a five-hour drive,” Anton pointed out. “Four if I’m driving. What kind of a tattoo do you want, Demi?”
She flushed when he said her name, and it was only in my drunken state that I realized for the first time that sweet Demi had a huge crush on jaded Anton.
Oh no.
I wanted to tell her to run in the other direction. He was too much like me. He’d had his heart ravaged by some sadist years ago and what was left of him ate little girls like Demi for breakfast.
I made a note to tell her such when I’d sobered up enough to be taken seriously.
“I don’t know,” she finally answered. “I’d have to brainstorm about it on the drive. Something pretty. With color.”
“What about you, Scar?” he asked me.
I nodded at the TV where someone was currently getting a heart with initials in the middle of their back. “I’d get the opposite of that. There are too many love tattoos. I’d get an anti-love one.”
Anton’s rueful grin came out to play. When I was in this state, it was really hard to remember why I’d never slept with him. He was way too good-looking for his own good, beardo, man-bun, and all. “Yes, yes, we know, Scarlett. You don’t believe in love. You’ve said it many times.”
For some reason, that set me off. I blame the scotch.
“I never said I don’t believe in love,” I said heatedly. “Trust me, I believe in it. I know love. It lives in me still. Like a cancer, it thrives under my skin, metabolizes in spite of all of my attempts to eradicate it.” I had to take a few breaths I was talking so quickly and passionately. “What I said was that if you feel yourself falling, you should run like hell. Avoid it. If it tries to set its hooks in you, rip them out. If it tries to shackle you, break the chain.” I was waving my hands around to illustrate my point. “Love is never satisfied with half-measures. It won’t take parts of you. It will own all of you, every single, longing piece.
“Love will make you its slave,” I stated venomously. “It will ruin you. Grind you under its heel until you don’t recognize what’s left.
“Love will take your soul.” I looked pointedly at Demi. “If you’re very unlucky, it might even turn you into someone like me.
“I do believe in love,” I reiterated. “I believe it’s the most destructive force on earth.”
When I finished my impassioned rant, they were both just staring at me.
Demi looked like she might cry. She was hugging Amos, her eyes huge with pity and sorrow. “Oh, Scarlett,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. Dante is such a bastard.”
Even Anton didn’t look right. His mouth was twisted bitterly, eyes boring into me, something powerful moving behind them. “That fucker,” he said succinctly. “Excuse me.” He got up and left the room.
Getting his rage in hand, I knew. He was another one with a wicked temper. So my type.
Why hadn’t I slept with him again?
