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Patrick: We're going to need details.
Dare: It was practice. It didn't count.
Luna Locke: Last night?
Dare: Yeah. And again today.
Luna Locke: Again?
Patrick: Yeah, again doesn't sound like "practice."
Dare: When you learned to draw, you sketched every day.
Patrick: Not with my tongue in someone else's mouth.
Luna Locke: Did it feel like practice?
No.
Patrick: Who suggested it? You or her?
Dare: She's always been the one asking for help.
Patrick: And round two? That was her?
Dare: Because she needs to prep for her date.
Luna Locke: And how much "prep" did she request?
Dare: Enough.
Luna Locke: Enough to get off?
Dare: Don't talk about her that way.
Patrick: He's defensive about her.
Luna Locke: It's really sweet.
Dare: You're idiots.
Patrick: Idiots in functional relationships.
Luna Locke: You're in love with her.
Dare: I gotta go.
Luna Locke: Wait! One thing before you go.
Patrick: Yeah, this is not a sign-off.
Luna Locke: If she asks for practice again, she doesn't want "practice," she wants you.
Dare: How do you figure?
Luna Locke: I'm a woman. I know things.
Dare: You don't know Val.
Luna Locke: I know enough.
Right on cue, Val arrives with our drinks. She sets the balloon glasses on the table and slides into the seat across from mine. "Patrick?"
"And Luna."
"Oh, wow, a three-way. That's old-school."
"We call it a group text now."
"Do people still text?"
"We can't all be on top of international trends?"
She smiles, charmed by the compliment. "Do they want anything in particular?"
"Pictures." Sorta. "They wish they were here with us."
"That's sweet."
In their way, their snooping is sweet.
But Luna is wrong. Val asks for practice because she wants to learn, not because she wants to kiss me.
"Are you good?" She brings the glass to her lips and takes a long sip. "Mmm. That's good."
"Gin tonic?"
"They do infusions here."
"What's yours?"
She offers me the glass.
I take a slow sip. Let out my own soft sigh. The cocktail is good—the subtle herbs of gin, the unique taste of quinine, the mix of bitter and sweet, the faint hint of lime—and it tastes like her lips.
No, this is the taste on her lips. I know the taste of her lips now. I want to taste them again. Right now. Forever.
"Lime?" The garnish gives it away, but I can't say I mind.
She nods. "Yours is more exotic."
"Can I handle that?"
"I think so."
I taste my drink, trying to place the flavor of the infusion. It's similar to hers but with a hint of a tart flower. Between that and the garnish of petals and peppercorns, I guess, "hibiscus."
"Perfect." She takes another sip. "Are you okay?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" If this is what she needs, I can find a way to be okay with it. "Are you?"
"Of course. Yeah. Absolutely." She takes another sip. "I just don't want you to feel weird if it's too much."
"No."
"Good. Good." She swallows another sip. "Great."
"Did it help?"
"Huh?"
"The practice?"
"Help what?" she asks.
"You feel prepared for tonight?"
"For flirting?"
"If you go home with him." I follow the words with a long sip. So I don't say something stupid. Or throw up.
"More prepared than I was."
"Did you want to talk about anything?"
"About us?"
I bite my tongue. "Technique."
"Do I need tips?"
"No. You're perfect." Too perfect. The heat of her body against mine replays in my brain. The feel of her breasts in my hands. Her groan on my neck. Her thighs around my hips.
I need her.
Now.
And my body doesn't give a fuck about the practicalities. It's ready to slip under the table and dive between her legs. Or take her against the wall. Or screw her in the single-stall bathroom.
Anywhere. Everywhere. All the time.
I swallow another sip, but despite the plentiful ice—this is the first time I've seen a drink full of ice—and the cooling nature of gin, my temperature rises. I want to taste this on her lips.
"No notes?" she asks.
"I told you. Guys aren't like that."
"You told me in high school."
"Nothing changed."
"So none of the girls you've slept with were dead fish?" she asks.
"Dead fish, really? Who says that?"
"Okay, no one says dead fish. But there's that one song…" She taps her glass. "The one on that album Forest is always playing, where the guy starts some weird stream of bad poetry at the end?"
"What song?"
"The two vocalists are trading off. And the one with the whiney voice says something… oh what is it?" She takes a long sip. "Something about how it's hot to lie on top of someone."
"Why do you remember that?"
"Because the first time I heard it, I was titillated. The very mention of sex was so exciting. And then, after I had some experience, I couldn't believe the lyricist chose to portray his skills that way."
"And you thought maybe Forest is a bad lay?" I ask.
She laughs. "It occurred to me."
"Should we call Skye and ask?"
She shakes her head. "I haven't seen her in forever."
"She likes you."
"Since when?"
Okay, sure, I don't really talk to Forest and Skye much. Forest is older. He hangs with the other older guys, mostly the crowd at Inked Hearts, our parent shop. But his girlfriend, Skye, does like Val. In fact, she's asked me, a few times, if Val would pose for her social media. She's a plus-size fashion influencer. Though I'm not sure why companies pay her to model clothes when most of her pictures are mostly naked. Does anyone notice the clothes she's removing? "Can I confess something?"
