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“That won’t go up in flames for one night,” Cole stressed. “Come on, man, let yourself live for one night. Stop being Cinderfella, work, work, work, and be the beau of the ball for one night. You can dothat. It’s like five hours.”
He was right.
But it felt wrong.
I pressed my lips tight. “If—if—I do this, will you get off my case about it?”
“I’ll zip my lips for a month,” Cole grinned.
Sagging into my ergonomic office chair, I grunted, “Three months.”
“One month, fifteen days, and three hours.”
On the basis of that logic, I reminded myself to get my brother drug tested.
“Two months or no dice,” I replied.
Cole flung his hands up. “Fine, two months.”
“I’ll do it,” I replied. “Now, can you go and do something useful, like help the rest of the guys make the finishing touches at the booth in the town square? Bonus points if you could find the Texas bigwigs if they are in the square tonight and bring them to me.”
“Deal,” Cole spat on his hand and stuck it out.
I looked at his hand and then back to him. “I am not touching that.”
Rolling his eyes, Cole wiped his hand on his jeans. “Buzzkill.”
“Braindead,” I muttered while going back to my books, but I couldn’t hide the smile tugging at my lips. Cole knew there was nothing behind my teasing—even while he still acted like a numbskull nineteen-year-old—and that I still appreciated his help.
Cole was a people person, a concept that made me break out in hives. Interacting with too many people was too much for me; if I went to a club or a concert, I would have my fill of people for a month. Books, numbers, routines, solace…those things were my happy places. Cole filled in for me where I fell short; he had that schoolboy charm that placed people at ease and let them be open with him.
Me—I was the crotchety principal ready with the rulebook.
The grin Cole shot over his shoulder at me reminded me that he knew it, too.
When he was gone, I made myself a strong shot of a mead variety we called Shitkicker—Cole had named that one—and it was named that for a good reason. Made of honey, malt, hops, ginger, and black currants, it was 16% alcoholic and delivered a punch. It was a party favorite and a rave staple, but thank God there were no deaths from it. Knock on wood, they never would.
I was going to a party tonight.
And why did I feel as if I had made a deal with the devil?
* * *
My strategy for surviving that night—stay out of sight, keep away from the rowdy crowd, and by ten o’clock, count myself as having ‘enjoyed’ the night before booking myself back home. I probably would have made it, too…if I hadn’t drunk away half a bar and found it challenging to keep my vision from splitting in two.
It was why I found myself at the fire pit, my back pressed on the cold stone while I watched a circle of mead-drunk, mask-wearing hippies swaying to the beat of a bongo drum. I swayed and tilted my head to the sky—and how it is that I could be dizzy sitting down, I don’t know—but the stars swayed.
Someone was grilling something because I smelled hot dogs in the air and butter.
“Umph,” someone slumped to my side and groaned before she burst into drunken giggles. “It’s so pretty out there.”
I was sauced enough to agree with her.
Twisted my head, I saw a white beaded harlequin mask covering half her face, long, light brown hair out, a curved jaw, and full lips stained by wine. The bonfire was flickering behind her, making a halo around her head. To my addled brain, she looked like a goddess.
“Are you from around here?” I asked.
In the recesses of my brain, I cringed. Outdated, cliché pick-up line much?
