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“More.”
“More,” I whisper, refilling both glasses.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I could use more, too. It’s been a long time since I did more of anything. Maybe being here with her, with the atmosphere we’re in, is loosening me up. Drink sounds good. A lot of it. I never do to excess. Too closed up for drinking and attempting to enjoy myself, and normally too busy working to have time for it, but I’m doing something out of the norm for her.
We both suck back another couple of shots, our hands slamming down in unison. Might as well use the time to full effect. Drown in this liquor maybe, distract myself as much as her. Might see another path then, find a new genome sequence in my drunken haze.
“More,” she says again.
More.
Fuck knows how long that keeps going on. Could be a couple of hours or so, but by the time I’m throwing cash at the bar-keep there’s two empty bottles of tequila sitting on the bar, and a lot of spilt liquor around them. I chuckle and watch her swaying in my eye line, unsure if she’s the one who’s swaying or I am. It isn’t until she decides to get off the stool, and I watch her fall to the floor, that I realise how drunk we both are.
A laugh rumbles out of me, my own weight buckling as I try helping her up. I end up on the floor next to her, both of us laughing about whatever the hell it is that we’re doing down here.
“Alright you two,” the old bar-keep says. “Up. Time to go.” She giggles beside me and rolls onto her front, using my stomach to pull herself up in front of my face.
“You, Gray Rothburg, are a very attractive men. No, I meant man. Mind you, there are at least two of you here. Might be three. Haven’t had a threesome before. What’s the word for four people fucking?”
“A party,” rolls out of me, as my own hands try clawing me up.
“And are men fucking men considered the same thing?” She groans and falls on her back again, glazed eyes looking up at me. “Now that would be hot,” she says finger pointing at me. “Watching men fuck.”
“It would, would it?” I mutter.
“It would.” She rolls onto her hands and knees and climbs up the barstool, heels kicked off her feet. “Floor’s sticky. But – men fucking. Take me somewhere where I can watch that.”
“I’m doubting your prissy ass could deal with the sort of places that goes on.”
“Asshole,” she slurs, grabbing her shoes and tucking them under her arm. “I’ll go find it myself. Real, Gray. I want all the real there is, and if you won’t take me, this guy can.” She sways over to Jackson, her hands pulling her to his body until she’s in his face and gripping his lapels. “Won’t you? Who are you?”
“Sir?” he says, to me.
I shrug my jacket back on and walk to them both, grabbing at her arm to get us out of here. I need to leave. As does she. Home. Sense.
Work.
Chapter 9
Hannah
My feet hurt. Why do they hurt?
I look down at them, wondering where my shoes are. I had them a minute ago. The knotted thoughts make me glance around, taking in the dirty streets I’m on. Where the hell am I? Cold wind on my skin. A smell, acrid. Soiled. I turn and look at the bar we were in. It’s not there. Yankees. I’m sure it was called that. And there was another man. He didn’t speak much. Tall. Blonde. He was hard in my hands, a breath away from my lips. Nice.
Where’s my friend gone?
A hand goes around my waist, pulling me closer. It’s helpful, and I lean into the body and breathe in the clean smell.Gray.Warm. He's funny as well. He made me laugh. And then he told me I was prissy. I’m not prissy. I’m …. I don’t know what I am anymore.
I yawn and look around for my shoes again, hoping they’ll appear. They don’t. “My shoes have gone,” I snicker.
“They’re in my hands, you threw them in the trash on your walk,” his voice says, smoothly.
“My walk?” We’ve been walking?
“Yes, we’ve been traipsing for about an hour.” Oh.
“Where to?”
