I’m dizzy from it, but in an intoxicating way that has me holding my drink halfway to my mouth like an idiot while she tilts her head at me like she’s wondering if I’m gonna make it through the night.
“So…” She finally breaks the silence, sets her drink on the table, and leans forward. “We’re basically going to destroy everyone, right?”
“Right,” I agree with a smile. “Mainly because we’re so good at Squid Game aka Max’s Ministrations.”
Her laugh sends a jolt to all the wrong and right places. “Kind of has a ring to it, Max’s Ministrations.”
“We would be unwise to encourage his madness.”
“Cheers to that.” She lifts her drink again, tilts it back, and then motions for our waiter.
I immediately hate him. Dave… Who’s named Dave these days anyway? Dum-dum Dave smiles dumbly down at her. He has piercings in both ears, sandy blond hair, and a megawatt smile that needs to disappear. “Another drink?”
“Shots.” She shoots me a grin. “For me and my… partner here.”
“Partner,” Dave repeats, then looks at me and back at her. “Ohhhhhh, partner, congrats. I’m all for same-sex marriage. Good for you.”
I nod and then realize that means he thinks I’m a girl, right? Wrong? Or wait, what? I don’t want to be offensive, but I truly want to just pull out my cock and then pee all around the table, like what the fuck?
“I meant in crime.” Ivy laughs. “But that works too.”
“No. Doesn’t work.” I grit my teeth. “She’s my girlfriend. Two shots, top shelf, tequila, salt, lime. Go, go, go. I promise we’ll tip well.”
Dave’s shoulders slump. He shoots me a glare, then smiles at Ivy and struts off like he’s packing, which, no way, I saw his hands and his feet. If he has a big dick, then I quit.
“That was rude.” Ivy rests her elbows on the table and yawns.
I point at his disappearing form. “He basically accused me of being this cockless thing sitting across from you because he was trying to hit on you.”
“He so was not trying to hit on me.” Ivy laughs. “He was taking our order.”
“No. Disagree. Nope. Not it.” I hold both hands out and put them behind my head. “He most definitely was trying to hit on you.”
Ivy rolls her eyes. “And you’re the expert on this how?”
“Manwhore.” I point at myself. “Recognizes manwhore.”
“Oh, and he finally admits it.”
“Please.” I nearly growl. “It’s not like it’s a secret that I was pretty much the worst. You were better off without me.”
“Yeah, could have caught something.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I said manwhore, not stupid manwhore, I always used protection, and it’s not like I just went around throwing my dick everywhere. I made careful choices.”
“Careful. Choices,” she repeats and then bursts out laughing. “Why couldn’t we have had the shots before this conversation?”
As if on cue, Dave brings our shots.
I glare again.
He glares back but walks away.
Probably spit in both of them, but whatever.
I take the shot and hand Ivy hers. “Well, now we have them.”
“Cheers.” She takes the glass. “To…”
“Partners.” I throw in.
She laughs.
How do I get her to do that all the time? And why the hell does that feel like a weird request? What the shit is going on with me lately?
It’s like she broke me, and now I just want her to touch me only so she can fix me and make it all better… and fuck, now I’m thinking about her in a nurse’s outfit. And great, I’ve been staring at her for longer than necessary like a total stalker; that seems to be my new thing. Some people develop good habits like working out and eating celery—then some people end up on Dateline.
Sad to say, it’s looking bleak for me at this point if I keep just staring at her mouth.
“Partners.” She clinks her glass against mine, smile easy, pretty. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been weirder than normal.”
I start chugging my Manhattan like a boss and nearly choke on the cherry while trying to simultaneously nod at her. “Yup, yup, yup, so good, everything’s great, glad we won.”
“Worth it.” She nods.
In the back of my head, I wonder if we should just stick with one type of liquor, but I ignore that still small, wise voice and keep ordering shots of tequila with my Manhattans until I see three of Ivy and can no longer count how many fingers I possess on either hand.
I mean, I know there should be five on each.
But my eyes keep telling me I have seven.
It makes no sense.
It also makes me laugh a bit.
“Seven,” I mutter with a grin and reach for my drink. “Wait, how is this empty?”
Ivy shakes her head. “Because you’re on your third one, and you keep ordering shots and just chugging everything in front of you. Do you need fries? Should we order fries? Because I’ve heard fries help when you’re completely wasted and ready to fall off your bar stool.”