Faking It (Losing It, #2)(14)

“Because Armageddon hasn’t of our senior yearS drink happened yet.”

Milo punched me in the shoulder, spilling half the shot. He topped off the glass and said, “Cade Winston, by drinking this shot, you hereby swear to do something out of character tonight. Should you fail, you’ll be cursed to a lifetime filled with premature ejaculation.”

“Seriously, man?”

He held up his hands and laughed, “Hey, the alcohol gods giveth and they taketh away.”

I glared at him but took the shot without comment. I’d thought it might taste a little less heinous the second time around, but it was still the most offensive thing to ever assault my taste buds.

Milo finished his own shot with no issue.

“How often do you drink this stuff?” I asked.

“Pretty often. One of my uncles works at the factory in Mexico. He sends me coupons. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

“If I ever get used to it . . . shoot me.”

Milo ignored me and said, “Numero tres! For this one, amigo, I want you to get pissed off. You’ve been too damn nice about this whole thing. I don’t care if it’s over a spilled drink or just how ugly some dude’s face is—but by taking this shot, you promise to let yourself get angry tonight.”

“What if I get pissed at you?”

He shrugged. “You probably will, but I guarantee it won’t be because I’ve got an ugly face.”

“Right, just that ugly shirt you’re wearing.”

“This shirt is awesome. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I laughed and said, “Okay, I’ll get angry. That shouldn’t be too hard.”

He clinked his shot with mine and said, “And none of that holding-it-in shit.”

I took the shot. This time it didn’t burn at all, which was worrisome. Maybe it had already corroded my esophagus. I watched him fill the final glasses and I said, “Last one.”

“Hmm . . .” Milo paused, thinking. “You’ve not been with anyone since Bliss right?”

I shook my head, and didn’t bother telling him I was never really with her either. He poured the last shot and said, “Cade Winston, by drinking this shot, you hereby swear to hook up with a girl at this bar.”

“Hook up?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of what qualifies as a hookup. As long as there is some kind of action involved, I’m sure the alcohol gods will be appeased. If you succeed, may you be blessed with extraordinary game and the best sex of your life.”

A reward. That was new.

“And if I don’t?”

He shrugged and said matter-of-factly, “You’ll be cursed to a lifetime of getting hard-ons at the most inappropriate times.”

That sounded more like Milo. I wondered if he’d spent time thinking this all up, or if it was just another day in the depraved state of his mind. I wiped a hand over my face. I had to give him one thing . . . he was good at getting my mind off my troubles. Maybe he was right. I had spent months chasing after the relationship that wasn@gnwa’t, and then even more time mourning it. Who said I needed to be in a relationship? I’d done my fair share of partying and casual dating during my first three years of college. But when graduation started looming, I had thought I needed to take life more seriously, start building a foundation for my future. Look at all the good that had done me.

I was twenty-two years old. Why the hell was I in such a hurry?

I picked up the glass, my chest still warm from the last shot.

“A hookup it is.” I put the glass to my lips and tipped it back. Damn it . . . the stuff really did grow on you.

Milo cheered and slapped me on the back.

“And now, we party!”

Bliss barely crossed my mind as we made our way to a bar called Trestle. Maybe enough time had finally passed.

More likely it was the tequila.

Milo had brought the bottle with us just in case I sobered up during the journey. By the time we arrived outside Trestle, my liver was probably permanently damaged, but at least my mind was clear.

The bar sat at the crossing of two smaller streets, almost directly under a bridge decorated with graffiti. It was the kind of place that just screamed mugging . . . or hepatitis.

From the outside, the bar looked like an old abandoned brick building. The sign was even missing the r in Trestle.

The inside was a totally different story. There were old black-and-white movies projected onto the wall. Bright colored lights gave the dim bar a retro feel. Then there were the dancers. I saw Milo’s friend Sasha on the far side of the room. She stood up on a platform behind one end of the bar, dancing several feet above the crowd. Her movements were hypnotic, her long hair bouncing around her as she moved. Between the run-down exterior, the projections, and Sasha’s dancing, the bar felt like some kind of secret, underground venue.

If we had places like this back home in Texas, I’d certainly never been there.

Milo clapped a hand on my shoulder and said, “When I told you to hook up with a girl, I did not mean Sasha, hermano. She’s off-limits.”

I laughed and looked away from her. “Is she yours?”

He watched her for a moment, his eyes following her movements. “Nah, man. She’s too good for me. I meant she’s not available to be your rebound girl. She’s been run over by enough guys for this lifetime.”