Discomfort forms in my gut. I’ve had my share of dirty conversations with my girlfriends, but these chicks are going into a lot of detail. And they know they’re not alone in the bathroom. They saw me come in.
“I’m surprised he returned the favor. Guys that good-looking don’t usually give a shit if the girl gets off. A lot of them would take the blowjob and bail.”
I flush the toilet and noisily exit the stall. “’Scuse me, need to get in here,” I say airily, gesturing to the sinks.
They step aside but keep talking. “Well, he wasn’t like that at all,” Jake’s chick assures her friend. “He wanted to get me off.”
This time, I pay closer attention to their appearance. The friend is a tall brunette. The one Jake hooked up with is short, with auburn curls, huge boobs, and enormous brown eyes, resembling a very sexy deer.
Is that Connelly’s type? Hot Bambi?
“Then let’s go to the Dime,” the brunette insists.
Hot Bambi bites her lower lip. “I don’t know. I’d feel weird showing up at his favorite bar. I mean, we hooked up four days ago. He probably doesn’t even remember me.”
I run my soapy hands under the hot water. Four days and she’s concerned he’s already forgotten about her? Is that how little she thinks of herself? Maybe I ought to chime in and advise her not to bother tracking him down. Jake would eat someone like her alive.
“Fine, I guess we’re staying here,” the friend says on their way out. “We should find a…”
Their voices trail off as the door swings shut. I dry my hands with a paper towel and ponder what I just heard. So. Four days ago, Jake and his amazing tongue got some Hot Bambi action. Talk about hypocrisy.
Where does he get the nerve, telling me who I can hook up with and ordering McCarthy to dump me? Here he is, oral-sexing hot deer women and spending his Friday night at some bar, likely trying to pick up. Meanwhile, poor McCarthy is sitting at home, unable to jerk his own dick without asking Connelly’s permission.
Screw that.
Fortitude straightens my shoulders as I go outside to find my cousin. She’s by a parking meter on the sidewalk, standing at the back door of a sporty black sedan. “Ready?” she calls when she spots me.
I join her at the car. “Yes. But change of plans. We’re making a quick stop first.”
6
Jake
The Dime is my favorite place in the city. It’s the epitome of a dive bar. Cramped. Dark. The pool table’s missing three balls, including the eight ball. The dartboard is cracked in half. The beer tastes watered down half the time, and the food is covered with a layer of grease that congeals like a rock in the pit of your stomach.
But despite its failings, I love it. The place is small, which means larger groups usually venture elsewhere. And the clientele is mostly male, so it’s the perfect spot to visit when you’re not looking to hook up.
That doesn’t stop Brooks, of course. My roommate can find a chick anywhere. Take him to a convent and he’d seduce a nun. Take him to a funeral and he’d be banging the grieving widow in the bathroom. Or hell, on the casket. Dude’s a slut.
Right now, he’s at a corner table making out with our waitress. Only two servers are working tonight, and Brooks has his tongue in one of their mouths.
The other one, an older dude with a beard and glasses, keeps clearing his throat pointedly. She keeps ignoring him. When he calls, “Rachel, your table’s waiting,” she breathlessly unlatches her lips from my teammate’s and waves her coworker off. “Can you handle it? Tips are yours.”
I’m assuming she doesn’t want the job anymore and this is her way of quitting, because there’s no way she’s escaping without punishment. The other waiter and the bartender keep exchanging sullen looks, and I’m pretty sure one of them already phoned the manager.
While Brooks is in the corner feeling up the waitress, the rest of us are enjoying the Bruins game and listening to Coby Chilton complain about the two-beer limit I’ve enforced. He can bitch about it all night, for all I care. We’re playing Princeton tomorrow afternoon and nobody is allowed to show up to a game hungover. Hell, I forbade Potts and Bray from going out tonight altogether. I don’t trust the beer pong duo.
“If you could bang any hockey player, dead or alive, who’d it be?” Coby asks Dmitry. Since a second ago he’d been talking about beer, the change of subject is jarring.
“What?” Dmitry sounds extremely confused. “You mean like a female hockey player?”
“And when you say ‘dead,’ do you mean I’m fucking her corpse or am I doing her when she was alive?” Heath pipes up.