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“I’ll take your word for it. Damn. Now I’m going to smell like a fruit bowl for the rest of the night.”
“I hate to ask, but what did you do to earn a cocktail to the face in the first place?”
* * *
A better question would have been what didn’t he do? Lewis tossed the napkin on the bar. He’d been drowning in the karma from a decade of bad decisions for the past nine months. “Nothing,” he lied. “One minute we were talking, the next I had a maraschino cherry in my hair.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
She knew he was lying. It was evident from the look she shot him over the rim of her glass.
“You’re leaving something out,” she said. “I can tell by the way you’re not saying anything.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” She was swaying on her bar stool, the way someone did when the room was starting to spin. Hopefully the bartender was paying attention. “People don’t toss perfectly good drinks for no reason,” she said. “Especially good drinks. So what did you do?”
It was none of her business, Lewis wanted to say, except the glint in her eye made him bite his tongue. Even drunk, she had an astuteness about her.
What the heck. She’d hear anyway. “I might have asked them for their names.”
“You forgot who they were? Both of them? After you slept with them?”
He didn’t say he was proud of it. In fact, he was horrified. “They were from my playing days,” he replied.
“Oh, why didn’t you say so? They were from his playing days,” she announced to the bartender. “That totally makes it all right.”
“I didn’t say it was right. Just that’s why I forgot them.” He was lucky he remembered his playing days at all.
“I completely understand. It must have been hard keeping all those groupies straight.”
Yes, it was, because there had been a lot of groupies and a lot of alcohol and they were all a giant blur of bad behavior. Lewis kept his mouth shut, however, because it was no excuse. Besides, the woman was drunk and he knew from experience that alcohol and arguing didn’t mix. “Are you always this sarcastic to people you just met?” he asked.
“Meh. Depends on how easy a target.”
“You’re saying I’m easy.”
She eyed him through her lashes. “You tell me, Champagne.”
How he hated that name. If he never heard the nickname again, it wouldn’t be soon enough. The irony of the situation—if that was the right word—was that he didn’t remember the picture being taken.
“I’m beginning to see why you don’t have friends.”
His companion’s lower lip started to tremble.
Terrific. On top of everything, he’d gone and hurt her feelings. Why not stomp on a puppy for an encore? “You’re not going to cry, are you?”
She responded with a sniff. “Don’t be silly. I don’t cry.”
She was doing a darn good impression of tearing up. Lewis handed her one of the cocktail napkins from his pile. “Here, dry your eyes.”
“I told you. I’m not going to cry.”
“Then wipe your nontears with it before they make your mascara run,” he said. “And, I’m sorry. The comment was uncalled for.”
“Yes, it was. It’s also true.”
