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"What if I get cold?" I ask.
"I'll get a blanket," he says.
"When did you get bossy?" I like it way too much.
"When was I ever not bossy?" Damon rights my dress, offers his hand, leads me to dinner.
I barely taste a thing. I hardly notice the ocean breeze. I don't look at the view.
Instead, my entire body stays tuned to Damon's. My head screams sex now, sex now, sex now.
The conversation stays minimal. Small talk. Movies and hot spots and vacations.
Then, Lisa finally arrives, Bryce greets her with a hug, and he announces his true intent for the evening.
Never Have I Ever.
With shots.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Cassie
The air changes. Not the temperature or the breeze or the scent. Some impossible to explain quality. Some sense in the air.
Desire doesn't flee my body—I'm too revved up for that—but it steps aside for concern.
Shots.
Why would six adults, working together in a professional capacity, play Never Have I Ever with shots?
Because there's no such thing as a truly professional capacity in the music industry. We're well behind other parts of the entertainment industry.
Me Too barely made a dent here.
So, lesser forms of inappropriate behavior are totally normal.
Three months ago, I would have rolled my eyes at this suggestion. Shots and a game for teenagers. Dumb and dumber. Seriously, nothing says I have no creative ideas; I learned about fun watching bad TV shows like a suggestion of shots.
Now, I lack the levity to dismiss Bryce as a try-hard. Now, I know my fake boyfriend is an alcoholic. Now, I care about his sobriety.
My heartbeat speeds up. My shoulders tense.
No wonder Daphne is constantly stressed. This is intense.
I don't want that life for you. Dad's words echo in my ears. Usually, I dismiss my parents' advice. They're out of touch.
This time, I can't.
The knowledge is hard-earned. It's from his own experience loving someone who struggles with addiction.
Damon's father.
I never saw that side of him. I never saw him on the downswing. I never thought twice about the weeks or months he disappeared for "work." That was what the adults in my life did.
Is that my future too?
A million things flit through my head. Need, affection, worry, hurt, anger, pride.
Somehow, my desire to protect Damon wins against everything else.
"No shots," I say. "I can't write with a hangover."
Bryce pouts. "We'll do sips. I'll make my signature."
Lisa laughs. "His signature of mixing vodka and ginger beer."
"Plus the lime," Bryce says. "The lime is essential."
"He bought one set of copper cups and he thinks he's a mixologist," she says.
"Oh damn, there are only four cups. Someone has to go without." Bryce frowns.
"You can have mine," Damon says. He keeps his voice even, as if he's suggesting a normal gentlemanly move, not threading the needle of asserting his inclination to skip drinks without sharing his sobriety.
"Ladies first," Frederick agrees.
Bryce nods all right. "What will you gentlemen have instead?"
"I got it," Damon says. "A martini, right, Frederick?"
Shock spreads over Frederick's expression, but he shakes it off. "Thanks."
Unlike Damon, he'd never volunteer to fix drinks for a romantic rival. And, well, he has to wonder if Damon is using the chance to poison him. I wouldn't blame him.
"What a gentleman." Bryce claps. "Come on. You and me, D-man."
D-man. Seriously? How old is this guy?
Damon whispers in my ear. "I've got it handled. I promise." He presses his lips to my cheek and squeezes me with a gentle hug, but I don't feel comforted.
Only concerned.
Lisa distracts me with a question about nineties music. My favorite girl power song. It pulls me from the darkest corners of my mind.
But I don't quite shift back into the ease of the moment, even when Bryce returns with four copper mugs, and Damon returns with two martinis.
He drops the one with an olive in front of Bryce, sits next to me, sets the glass adorned with a lemon peel in front of him.
It's water. I'm pretty sure it's water. I don't smell the awful mix of vodka and dry vermouth. Only the salty air and the freshly squeezed lime.
Damon takes my hand, intertwines my fingers with his, runs his thumb over my knuckle.
The gesture comforts me, but it's not enough. I still feel tense and awkward. I still worry.
"Everyone ready?" Bryce settles into his seat. He's across the table from us, next to Lisa.
Frederick and Tinsel are to our right, on the side of the table facing the ocean.
Bryce looks around the table, deciding we are, in fact, ready. "We'll go clockwise. The usual rules. Everyone has ten fingers. When it's your turn, you sit up straight, and say Never Have I Ever. Anyone who has, loses a finger and takes a sip. I'll go first." He holds up both hands. "Never have I ever, decorated a room with a Grammy."
No one drops a finger.
Lisa laughs. "You're supposed to start with sex and drugs."
