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It’s a true statement. I’m drunk and happy. Well, not currently. Right now, I’m burning with anger because this prick is ruining my buzz. Pretty little cockblocker.
“Everyone here is drunk; that’s kind of the point. Don’t worry about me.” I wave him off, but he doesn’t move. He’s a statue with an expression full of rage.
I blink twice because he suddenly does move. It’s just not in the direction I want him to go. He’s very much in my personal space, his sharp eyes lasering mine.
Damn, he smells good. I want to lean in and lick him.
Shit, how drunk am I?
“You need to sit down for a minute.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to sober up. We’ve only been here for three hours, for fuck’s sake.”
He hates lightweights.
Ha. I hate him.
“Oh, it’s my round again!” I shout, slapping him on the shoulder.
He looks at the spot I hit and slowly back at me. I’m not even sorry. “No, it’s not your round.”
“Yeah, it is. I got the second one and, as you pointed out, we’ve been here for three hours. It must be my turn again.”
“Have you taken anything?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Come with me.”
I roll my eyes and pull my arm away as he reaches for me. “You are no fun.”
“Uh-huh. Come with me.”
“No.”
He steps forward quickly and takes my hand, which is rather odd for him. Mostly because he’s holding it the way you’d hold the hand of a runaway toddler. Tight grip, slightly over my wrist, too. No escape.
“Casper!” I’m pulled behind him, stumbling like the sad little drunk I now am.
He spins me around when we reach our table. It’s deserted, besides a few half-empty drinks and Imani’s hot pink blazer.
“Sit and stay.”
“I’m not a dog,” I snap, but he’s already walking away from me.
Arsehole.
I want to get up, but my legs are now spaghetti. If I try to stand, I’ll flop to the floor.
I watch him as he heads to the bar and stops by a blonde beauty. There’s currently plenty of room but he invades her personal space. Why am I sitting here if he’s going back to drinking and chatting up women? If I could be bothered, I would stomp over there and tell her to fuck off. See how he likes it.
There’s something that stops me from running away from him, though, and it’s not just my body’s lack of cooperation.
Curiosity.
It killed the cat.
