Thin Love (Thin Love, #1)(65)
“Yes, but our mom says it’s from the sperm donor’s side of the family.” Luka nudged her knee with his foot and she finally looked up at him. When she did, that stupid smile was back, this time stretched so wide that dimples appeared in his right cheek. “Come on, please? Just talk to him. Give him another chance. Maybe you can talk some sense into him or at least get him out of this funk he’s in. Let him grovel a little.”
Keira didn’t think the sperm donor blood had anything to do with the Hale pouts or the asinine things Luka and Kona did, but somehow she knew, deep in her gut, that Luka’s smile was about to get her into a lot of stupid shit.
He felt like a God. He was Kona, God of awesome. God of football. God of the f*cking blitz.
“Whose house is this?” he screamed, blood pumping like a busted pipe. All around him, the crowd, drunk on victory, on the utter pride of their win, cheered Kona on.
“Devils!” The roar of the crowd and their loud chant only made Kona’s blood flow faster, his heart pump wilder.
“You’re damn right!”
He felt like he could wrestle an alligator and that whiny, scaly bitch would be crying for his mama inside of a minute. “Shots!” He climbed onto the chair, arms up over his head as Brian tried to tug him down by his jeans. “Bring me shots!”
Tonight Lucy’s was his kingdom and around him, the crowd of fans, most of them girls climbing over each other to sit with the players at Kona’s side, were his court. Eager, healthy, gorgeous women who wanted them all; drink-buying, back-slapping dudes who wanted to be them. Life was good and through the fog of adrenaline and beer and whatever the hell that purple shit was he’d just downed, Kona couldn’t remember why he’d been in such a bad mood at practice the day before.
The revelry and that win was what he needed.
He jumped down off the chair when the shot girl came toward their table, weighed down with a tray of dark liquid that had Kona’s mouth watering.
“Fuckin right!” he said, shoving the empty beer bottles onto the floor before he patted the table. “Right here, sweetheart.”
“Kona, dude, watch it,” Brian said, scooting his chair back, away from the mess Kona made. “Seriously man, slow down.”
A sudden wave of anger hit him in his chest. He didn’t need a babysitter. He didn’t need Brian treating him like a kid. “Fuck you, brah.” He slammed back two shots of Jagger, chasing one with the next before he banged the small shot glass onto the table. “I’m just getting started, motherf*cker. Either keep up or f*ck off.”
“I think he’s questioning your manhood, dude.” Kona laughed at Nathan’s jab, then laughed harder when Brian got pissed at them both and walked away from the table.
Kona cheered Nathan on when he downed a shot, then beat his fist on the table when Chris Willis followed them. He couldn’t make the smile leave his face as each of his fellow teammates guzzled the shots, one right after the other, each taking a turn, the drinking going faster, racing as the crowd around them cheered them on.
When Ryan Fleming, that stupid punk threatening his spot on the line, took the last shot and choked, coughing like a punk, Kona stood up, punching the air as though their fast downing of the hard liquor was a race and he had pulled into the finish line first.
He loved this place. They came here after every game, made it their second home and preferred place of victory, which was often, and post-loss reflection, which wasn’t. Kona loved the glossy, miniature surf boards on the walls, the yellow tabletops, the red brick floor and the Christmas lights lining the bar. It had atmosphere, was homey, always smelled of pulled pork tacos and sweet pickles, but a sudden bout of dizziness hit Kona just then and even the crowd and the familiar sound of music and laughter couldn’t quite calm him or help to clear his swimming head. Swallowing, he pushed down the sensation, guzzled a glass of water and tried to regroup.
Kona didn’t care about the sweat on the back of his neck or how slick his skin felt. This was good, him with his teammates, the crowd celebrating with them. The only thing missing was Luka, but Kona figured he’d show up eventually.
“Hey baby, how ‘bout another one?” The pretty redhead from behind the bar moved her hips, swaying around the crowd until she was on Kona’s lap. “This one is on the house.” She pushed her chest toward Kona’s face and he smiled at the long glass tube resting in her cleavage.
There was only a moment’s pause, a brief flicker in his mind that told him he didn’t need another drink. His head was muddled with adrenaline, with victory and liquor already and something held him back, something that told him he didn’t want this girl jutting her tits at him. But then the crowd started in again and Nathan egged him on with “Dude, take it,” and Kona silenced that little whisper.
“What the hell,” he said, turning the redhead toward his mouth. A quick dip of his mouth against her warm skin that smelled like apples and his mouth covered the glass. He jerked his head back and the liquor slid down his throat, burning and sweet.
He felt the slaps on his back and heard the crowd roaring, happy that he’d taken the tarty offer, but something in Kona’s chest bunched up tight, something hard and searing that made him feel like an *.
“I’ve got somewhere else you can put those lips, baby.” The redhead kissed the shell of his ear and Kona frowned. Keira’s face shifted back into his foggy mind and he pushed the girl off his lap, shoving her aside.