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It’s close enough a gesture for the bartender to put the drink on Annabeth’s tab, and after one shot of what I’m fairly certain is kerosene and a quick trip to the ladies’ room to vomit later, I’m in a cab, trying to figure out where my life went so wrong.
Chapter Eight
A Breath of Rancid Air
Dane
I’m half-asleep when I hear the apartment door slam shut.
I get up and put some clothes on. If someone’s breaking in, I’m not going to be one of those people found dead with their dick out.
Slowly opening the door, I wonder if I shouldn’t go for some kind of weapon, just in case. Leila’s not supposed to be back here for a few more hours, and as far as I know, nobody else has the key to the place.
There she is, though, stumbling around drunk, trying to scoop some peanut butter into her mouth with her bare hands.
I think she’s a bit of a lightweight.
“How you doin’ out here?” I ask, trying to sound concerned and not like I’m thinking of her as that good girl who just got talked into breaking into her parents’ liquor cabinet for the first time.
Not that she’d really know the difference right now.
“Men are stupid,” she slurs.
“No argument here. What are you doing home so early, and, you know, drunk?”
“My boss told me to take the day,” she says, holding her peanut butter hand out and making a snatching motion, “so I took it.”
It would actually be somewhat endearing if I didn’t know that I’m going to be the one who has to clean the whole place up.
“I can see that,” I tell her. “Well, I’m going to go back to—”
“Dane,” she whines. “What is it about me that’s so awful?”
“Awful?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know,” she says.
I’m getting the strong impression that she’s a lot drunker than she thinks she is. Hilarious.
“I don’t think you’re awful,” I tell her. I walk over to her and lightly grab her wrists. “I do, however, think you should wash your hands before you get peanut butter all over the entire apartment.”
“You know, you’re not such a bad guy, Dane,” she says. “I mean, you swear like a jackass and your tattoos look like they were done by a sociophatth—a scossiopthahh—”
“A sociopath?”
“Right!” she says, flicking her wrist in a motion that sends little bits of the chunky peanut butter flying in places I’m positive I’m never going to find.
“What was I saying?” she asks.
“Let’s get you washed up,” I tell her, turning on the kitchen sink. “You were saying that I’m not such a bad guy even though I swear and have tattoos.”
“Yeah,” she says, leaning her head back.
“How much did you have to drink?” I ask.
“Let’s see,” she says, “there was tequila and bourbon…” she’s using her fingers to count. Trying to get her hands under the water is a nightmare. “Oh!” she ejaculates, both of her hands going up in the air, peanut butter landing in one of my favorite eyes. “Then there was the big shot, but I puked, so that makes four!”
“You’re not supposed to mix large quantities of different kinds of alcohol,” I say. “It’ll make you sick.”
