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Jace is amused at every little detail—the taste of pickled green tomatoes, the cod liver pate, then nods approvingly at the Olivier salad. “Better than Herring Under Fur.”
Tito bursts out in laughter. “She got you with that one, huh?”
Jace grins at me.
I feel high on happiness like life is so good and is only gonna get better.
I pour us shots again.
Tito is a beautiful human when he’s happy. Also flirty as hell when he’s tipsy and a red flag when he’s drunk.
“Oh, and”—he gives Jace a meaningful stare—“whoever pours shots serves the entire evening. No change of hands. And this lady right here”—he nods at me—“has a craaaaaazy hand.”
Jace gives him a confused look. “What does that mean?”
“Apparently, every person has a certain energy that projects on the booze effect.”
Jace chuckles. “Never heard of such a thing.”
It does sound crazy, but I’ve spent years around my mom’s crazy friends who have all sorts of superstitions and rituals and keep a calendar with every day denoting some sort of holiday. Astronaut’s Day, Einstein’s Birthday, Lazarus Saturday, International Tiger Day…
I open my phone and search the calendar. “It’s Border Guards Day today,” I announce.
“See? Eastern Europeans are crazy.Goodcrazy,” Tito says and we cheer, “Búdzem!”
“It means, ‘We will,’ or ‘To our future,’” I explain to Jace.
“To our future,” he repeats softly, locking eyes with me.
We throw back the shots, chase them with soda, then lemon, then another five minutes of appetizers, another round of shots, all the while talking louder over the music, laughing when Tito brings up Roey and Becky.
Tito is not Roey’s fan, despite Roey standing up for him at the bar in Williamsburg and partying for hours together after that.
“There’s that hypersexual energy around him,” Tito explains. “Like he’s gonna whip his dick out and hypnotize you like those snake charmers.”
I laugh so hard, I can’t sit straight and hold my stomach as I lean on Jace.
Jace points his forefinger at Tito. “Women say he can.”
Tito shakes his head. “I’m serious. He’s all muscles and swagger but with a rough biker attitude and slutty glint in his eyes.”
“Oh?” I muse. “A little harsh.”
“He acts like he’s Adonis’s mafia brother but lacks sophistication. Unlike our Jace here.” He picks up a shot glass and cheers to Jace.
Our Jace.
I like that.
My Jacesounds even better. He has no idea what I do to him in my novel.
I’m tipsy, yes, and I feel so-so happy.
Pushkin partakes too, sniffing at the sardine sandwich, licking it, and turning away. He huffs disappointedly and plops on the floor by Jace’s feet, who takes pity on the little guy and gives him a slice of Moscow salami.
Tito steps out to the terrace to smoke.
I turn up the music, and it’s “Get Down Tonight” by KC.
