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“You’re cut off.”
“I accept that bet,” I say without any thought. Even if I do lose this bet, which is highly doubtful, swapping a little spit with Chandra doesn’t give me the heebie-jeebies. I peek up at Chandra, and she shrugs, agreeing with the terms as well. “And if Foster loses…” I glare at James. “You have to make out with him, and we all get to watch.”
“No fucking way!” Foster contests. “James has chronic garlic breath. Sorry, man, but you do.”
“Scared?” I taunt.
“No. I just hate garlic.”
“La-ame.”
“I say, take the bet,” Graham encourages. “I don’t see how you could lose, and I could use a little girl-on-girl visual.”
“Whose side are you on?” Foster scowls at Graham.
“Yours…and my dick’s.”
“Typical men,” Chandra comments, amused.
They’re all so drunk.
“Do we have a bet?” I ask with my hand outstretched.
Foster reluctantly clasps my hand. “Fine. You’re on, and I want tongue, lots of tongue.”
“Ditto.” I slide his two shots out in front for everyone to see along with my beer, which is almost empty, and the completely full glass that was intended for Chandra. “Do you remember the rules?”
“Of course.”
“No drinking any of your shot until I’ve finished my first beer and the glass is resting on the table.”
“Right.” Foster removes his dark-rimmed frames, setting them on the table. “And no touching each other’s glasses, and we can only have one drink in our hands at a time. I got it.”
“Awesome.” I pick up my drink. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Remember, you have to wait until I’m finished with this before you can start.”
“I got it.”
I tauntingly raise my brows and then touch the glass to my lips, slowly consuming the hoppy ale. Savoring the anticipation building among the men as they intently watch me, I relish in my soon-to-be victory.
“You know,” Foster begins as I continue to consume the first part of our bet, “according to kinematic viscosity, the flow rate of liquid greatly depends on the temperature of said liquid—the warmer the liquid, the faster the flow. Essentially, even if we were drinking the same volume of liquid, which we aren’t, your beer would take longer to consume since it’s been kept at a near freezing temperature while my shots have been stored at room temperature. So, even with the odds of volume being in my favor, from a scientific standpoint, you would lose, no matter what.”
Closing my blue eyes, I drop my head backward and finish off the last drops of beer.
I wink at Foster.He’s in for a world of hurt.
The moment my empty glass makes contact with the wooden surface, Foster reaches for one of his shot glasses, remembering the rules. As he’s lifting the vodka to his mouth, I casually flip over my pint glass and cover his remaining full shot still resting at the center of the table.
At my side, Foster slams the empty glass on the hard surface and then instinctually reaches for his other shot, now covered by my empty pint.
“Remember,” I remind him. “The rules state that we aren’t allowed to touch the other person’s glass.”
His hand hesitates over the tempting shot surrounded by my glass.
Picking up my second beer, I add, “This is an example of Newton’s first law of motion. An object is either in constant motion or remains at rest until acted upon by an external force. According to the rules, it looks like your shot will have to remain at rest while my hand will gladly act upon my beer, allowing me to consume it at a much higher rate than you anticipated.”
Foster runs his fingers through his caramel-brown hair, leaving it completely disheveled. “Holy…damn.”
I lower my glass and turn to James. “Don’t forget. We want to see lots of tongue.”
