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The few who have hung on until one thirty are spread out among the tables.
Langford and Corbin are still seated at the far end of the bar, but Weston finally made a move and is now cuddled up to a half-dressed redhead in a corner booth.
“You guys need anything else before I close it down for the night?” I ask them.
“I think I’m done,” Langford answers. He stands and places his credit card on the bar. “You can pay our tab with this once the guys are finished. I’m going to go see if Morris is in the parking lot. I’ll be back.”
I slide my eyes to Corbin. “What about you, handsome? Want another round of shots?”
“If you’ll have one,” he says.
I grab a bottle of Jameson and fill two shot glasses.
“Irish whiskey, not Woodford?” he asks as he turns the glass between his fingers.
I take mine, shoot it, and slam the glass on the bar.
“You sip fine whiskey, so you can appreciate the complexity and balance. You don’t shoot it. Jameson is a clean spirit, not muddled by too many flavors. It goes down easy,” I explain.
“You know your stuff,” he says.
He throws his shot back and signals for me to pour us another and then another.
Before I realize it, we are half a bottle in.
“Now that you’re wasted, don’t go home and drunk-dial that girl,” I command.
He snickers. “No, ma’am. I haven’t had that much to drink.”
“Can I ask you a serious question?” I ask.
“Why not? I feel like we’ve gotten freakishly close this evening,” he says.
“You’re a good-looking man. Women have been eyeing you all night, not that you’ve noticed. Why have you stayed with her this long?” I ask.
He contemplates the question for a moment.
“I have no idea,” he says into his empty glass.
“No, honestly, you can tell me. Is she a freak in bed? She is, isn’t she?”
He laughs.
“Oh my God. She took your virginity,” I deadpan.
“No,” he sputters.
“Is she keeping some deep, dark secret that you’re afraid she’ll expose if you dump her? Is there a dead body buried under your house?”
He shakes his head. “I’d never bury a body on my own property. Only a dumbass would do that. I’d bury it in Weston’s yard.”
I laugh. “Then, what is it?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t always like this. We used to be happy. She was shy and sweet and not hard on the eyes. We had fun. Then, she moved in, and we settled into real life. When she turned twenty-five, she got access to a trust fund her grandparents set up for her. She gets a substantial allowance the first of every month and has decided that life should be one big party. All the time. I kept thinking she’d grow out of it and want to settle down and start a family, but every time things seem to be on the upswing, she gets restless or something,” he explains.
“She’s how old now?” I ask.
“Thirty-one.”
