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“I’m wearing jeans tonight.”
“Not in my head.”
“Funny.” She grinned up at me and I couldn’t stop myself from mirroring her actions. ““So, what are we smoking tonight?”
Her disapproval was blatant. “How’s your halo, Molloy?”
“In better shape than yours by the smell of it.” Standing in the doorway beside me, I watched as she leaned in close and took a whiff of my smoke. “Mm-mm-mm,” she said in a tone laced with sarcasm. “Smells like debauchery.”
I arched a brow. “You’re killing my buzz, Molloy.”
“Am I?” She beamed up at me. “That’s the best news I’ve had this whole entire shit-fest of a night.”
“Not in the festive spirit?”
“I would prefer to be anywhere than here tonight, Joe, and that’s not an exaggeration,” she told me with a sigh. “Including that freezer that you guys call a garage. Evenwithmy father’s hairy ass crack staring me in the face.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “I mean, he owns like ten belts. You’d think he’d wear one.”
A reluctant smile spread across my face. “Maybe you should have a drink; being as it’s New Year’s Eve and all.” Reaching for the bottle of vodka I’d hidden behind the microwave; I waved it in front of her. “Besides, I’ve heard it’s good for the nerves.”
“I’ve already had three beers,” she replied, by way of explanation, as she batted the bottle.
“And?”
“And Paul always gets shitty with me if I have too much to drink?”
“And?”
“And…” She cast a glance to the kitchen door behind her and then shook her head. “And fuck him.”
That’s my girl.“That’s the spirit.”
Turning to grin at me, she asked, “You got any coke to go with that?”
I cocked a brow.
Her eyes widened. “I meant the drink, asshole.”
I winked back at her. “Grab a glass.”
* * *
“No, no, no,”Molloy laughed a couple of hours later, as she sloshed her drink around in her hand, and staggered towards me. “There’s no way you can keep this going.”
“I can go all night, Molloy,” I shot back, feeling a lot more relaxed now that I had half a bottle of vodka in my system.
We were outside the back of Danielle’s house, had been for over an hour, playing this fucked game that Molloy referred to asthe one-word game.
What had started with us joking around, taking turns to add one word to make a sentence, had turned into a fucked-up story.
I’d never played before, but as the vodka kept coming, the story kept getting more inventive.
Knotting her fingers in the front of my hoodie, she pulled me close and grinned up at my face. “Gimme that bottle.”
“I don’t know, Molloy,” I taunted, unscrewing the cap, and drinking straight from the bottle. “Any moredebaucheryand your wings won’t take you up to heaven.”
“Then I’ll just have to stay in hell with you, won’t I?” she teased back, swiping the bottle out of my hand and taking a huge gulp.
She wasn’t an aggressive drunk.
