Faking It (Losing It, #2)(13)

I slid out of his reach. “He wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near it today anyway, and neither will you.”

He crossed a hand over his heart, and looked pained.

“You’re cruel. Vagina-of-steel.” exactly towlf

I laughed so hard I had to steady myself on the table next to me.

“That’s even worse. Let’s just say my private parts are made of the usual private part bits. In fact, let’s just never talk about my bits, okay Spence?”

He smirked. “Fine, but I make no promises when I’m drunk.”

I sighed and started gathering my things. “Deal. You coming in tonight?”

“I think so. I’ve got a new song I’m working on. So I might come in and grab food and work on it, maybe run it by you on your break.”

“Sounds good.”

“You want to hear what I have so far? It’s a work in progress, but it goes ‘Your boyfriend’s a dick, a prick, take your pick. But you should take his drumstick and—’ ”

“—Point proven, Spence.”

He fit a fedora over his head. “I’ll believe that when you do something about it. See you tonight.”

I said, “I’ll save you your usual table,” but he was already oute door t and retreated





7

Cade

Milo’s apartment was the quintessential bachelor pad, complete with two weeks’ worth of takeout scattered all over the counters. He shoved aside an empty box from a Chinese restaurant and said, “You overthink things, hermano. So, I’m going to help you out.” Milo opened his freezer and slammed a bottle of tequila on the counter space he’d just “cleaned.”

I was beginning to get a clearer picture of how this night was going to go.

“You’re going to help me stop thinking completely?”

He unscrewed the cap and said, “Exactly.”

I picked up the bottle, and the glass was freezing against my fingertips.

“You could have at least gotten decent tequila. What is this? There’s a freaking pony on the bottle.”

He snatched the bottle out of my hand and said, “I’ll buy more expensive tequila when you get over this Bliss girl.”

I never should have mentioned her name to him. He had this tenden all the pieces of me that I. . His ascy to drop her name into casual conversation as a way to numb me to it. So far, it was a bit like becoming numb to shock treatments. It got more bearable, but I wasn’t going to line up and ask for more anytime soon.

He pulled a few shot glasses out of a cabinet, and I said, “So this is therapy, Milo-style?”

“Yep. If you’re not wasted, it’s not working.”

He filled two shot glasses, and slid one over to me. The other he held back for himself. I gestured to his glass and said, “What are you drinking to get over?”

“You’re not getting it, hermano. We drink so that we don’t have to talk.” I nodded and took my filled shot glass. I started to lift it to my lips, and he stopped me. “These aren’t ordinary shots.”

“Oh, are they magic shots? If I pour one out on the busted concrete outside will a beanstalk grow?”

“Oh, they’re magic, all right,” Milo said. “They’re supposed to make you grow a pair.”

In true Milo-fashion, he laughed at his joke before I could, and did a celebratory dance. I shook my head and said blandly, “You’re hilarious.”

“I know, I know. But seriously, these shots are special.”

I eyed the tequila that I was sure to regret in the morning and said, “Especially bad.”

He picked up his shot and said, “Each one you take is a commitment. If you break that commitment, the gods of alcohol will punish you with a hangover so bad you’ll think Satan himself took a dump on you.”

“And if I don’t take them?”

“You can spend the night being a depressed white boy while I go get laid. Your choice.”

It was pretty depressing when you put it that way. I sighed and gestured for him to continue.

“Cade Winston, by drinking this shot, you hereby swear to get a girl’s phone number tonight. If you fail, may the alcohol gods curse you with the lowest alcohol tolerance known to man—so low that an anorexic baby could drink you under the table.”

I laughed, but picked up my shot. “I don’t think anorexic babies are a thing.”

“How do you know? I’m sure they don’t like being called chubby and having their fat pinched more than anyone else does.”

I took the shot just to get him to shut up. It tasted like rubber mixed with lighter fluid mixed with death. When my throat no longer felt like the burning inferno of hell itself I said, “Okay. A number. I can do that.”

He smiled and poured the second shot.

I eyed him. “If you say my punishment for this one is herpes, I’m out.”

He handed me the glass, laughing. “Relax, Winston. I’ll leave that between you and your giving tree.”

And now I could never read that book to my kids at the after-school program again.

“You should never have children,” I said.

“What makes you think there aren’t a few little Milos running around out there already?”