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Chill, Penelope.
“Need help with that?” the guy chuckles softly. His voice is deep and warm, friendly. I glance down at the bottle I’m still squeezing in my hand.
“I’m trying to figure out what I’ll be drinking.” I lift the bottle a little in the air in the way of explanation.
“Well, that’s vodka. You planning to take the whole bottle or what?”
“The whole bo— No, that’s not…” I start to shake my head when unfamiliar hands land on my upper arms, and the guy laughs.
“Chill, I’m just teasing.” He rubs at my skin, and I fight the need to pull my hand out of his grasp.
There is nothing wrong with his hands on me. Okay, maybe his touch is a bit too clammy, but who am I to judge somebody for being nervous? Not that heseemednervous.
“You drinking that straight or with OJ?”
“OJ, I guess?” It seems like the safer choice.
“Not really a drinker?”
I let out a nervous laugh ducking my head. “That obvious?”
“Just a little bit. Here, let me.”
Reluctantly, I allow him to take the bottle from my hand and make me a drink.
“Here you go.”
Slowly I extend my hand, trying to follow the sound of his voice the best I can, but in this environment, it’s useless. Of course, instead of grabbing for the glass, I touch his chest.
“I’m sorry.” I drop my hand immediately, feeling the flush rise up my cheeks. Talk about awkward.
“I feel like if you’re going to try and feel me up, the least I deserve is to know your name,” the guy teases.
“Penelope,” I whisper, lowering my head. I swear my cheeks are on fire.
“Penelope. Pretty name for a pretty girl. I’m Ricky.” His palm wraps around mine as he slides the cup into my hand.
“Thanks,” I murmur, pulling my hand out of his reach.
People didn’t understand how things like touch affected a blind person. Our other senses have intensified to compensate for the lack of sight. What is sight to most people is touch or smell to us. It was hard to explain how downright overstimulating even the most minor of contacts could be.
“You came here with friends?”
“I… Yeah. Just a girl’s night.”
“You have those often?”
“Not really.”
I take a sip of my drink, only I start to choke because the damn thing is probably eighty percent alcohol.
What was he trying to do? Give me alcohol poisoning?
I press my hand against my chest as I start coughing violently.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Do I look okay?
