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“Are you going to play, Jones, or smooch your girlfriend all night?”
Scar’s raspy voice almost makes me wince, and if the laughter around us hadn’t directed my attention elsewhere, I almost thought I detected jealousy.
But Scarlett isn’t jealous.
No, she’s just trying to piss me off.
And her fucking jumpsuit too.
“Trust me, you’d rather I’d stayed out of the game, kid.”
Scarlett winces and Harriet tenses in my arms. She growls in my ear, “Is something wrong with her?”
I shake my head and sift her slightly to encourage her to leave. She’s the type to overreact when she doesn’t like something and finding me in a fight between my girl and Scar is by far the worst situation I could hope for.
Because I know deep down that the choice would be quickly made.
Scarlett will always come before everyone else.
Then, as if to prove something, Harriet grabs the back of my neck to kiss me passionately, and when I leave her full lips to focus on the table waiting for me, I meet two angry eyes.
I smile, proud of myself.
You asked for it, Scar.
I sit in the chair directly across from her, letting Ed, Leo, Milo, and Paige to take the remaining seats. The alcoholic version of the Game of Goose sets proudly in the middle of the table, and I turn all my attention to the dice Leo is holding in his hands.
“Tequila for everyone?” asks Edgar. “Scar, you don’t have to drink it all.”
“She’s going to drink it all,” I answer for her. “Otherwise, it’s not fair.”
“It’s my sister.”
“It’s okay, I’m not ababy. Anyway, I’m going to kick your ass!”
She laughs with her buddy, and I give her a quick glance, stretching the corner of my lips while forcing myself not to squint any lower.
No, she’s not a kid anymore and I can’t tell sincewhen.
“So, let’s go!” exclaims Milo. “May the best win!”
***
The goal of this game is to reach the end having drunk the fewest shots. When I watch the glasses pile up in small groups in front of each person around this table, I come to think that we’ve had quite a few each. Tomorrow’s wake up is going to be brutal, and seeing the pink on Scar’s cheeks, my intuition tells me she’s not in her usual state.
“You better stop drinking, Martin Junior.”
“You better mind your own business, number twelve.”
The whole table is laughing, and I smile at her comment. When she calls me by my number flocked on my hockey jersey, it’s because she’s either very annoyed or very drunk.
“Put away the fangs, Scar,” her brother sneers. “Are you still able to drink?”
“Are you questioning me?”
Her gaze scans Edgar and I can’t help but notice the few strands of her hair that have stuck to her neck. It’s hot as hell in the kitchen and the people who opened the windows to smoke are spraying clouds of nicotine all over the room. It stinks of tobacco, alcohol, and sweat. Perfect combo for a successful evening. And no one seems to be complaining about the vibe yet.
“Come on, grumpy, roll the dice, let’s get it over with!”
