“Let’s order another round right now!” Blaine enthuses, getting into the moment. He raises his hand for a second time, like a grade-schooler to get the server’s attention, and when she comes over, he orders us a round.
B, b, b…
Bastard drinking club.
Nah, doesn’t have the nice ring to it I’m going for.
Bastard brigade. Bastard…
“Bootleggers.”
“Oh Jesus.” Phillip sits back, crossing his legs.
“What does bootlegger even mean?”
The server sets the drinks in front of us, interrupting the flow of our conversation and doing her best to keep a straight face. “Bottoms up, gentlemen.”
Blaine tips his head to the side, a sour expression crossing his features; he’s downed the most alcohol of the three of us. This place might be in the basement of an old building, but it’s bougie as fuck and serves the best of everything, the best liquor in the best atmosphere. We’re seated beside a brick wall covered with plaques from members who were part of an era gone by, from when The Basement was in its heyday.
In its prime, back when you had to pay to take a seat at the table and share a drink.
Now, anyone can frequent The Basement to imbibe, but that wasn’t always the case.
“Maybe we should get drinking jackets if we want to act like gentlemen,” Phillip suggests. “Like Hugh Hefner used to wear before the old goat kicked the bucket.”
Blaine pats his rosy cheeks. “Yeah, but navy blue instead of red. Red isn’t a complimentary color for my complexion.”
We stare. Did he just argue a case for a jacket to flatter his skin tone?
He shrugs at us, no shame. “What? It’s not.”
“Try not to push down so hard on your razor when you’re shaving,” Phillip tells him. “You’re giving yourself razor burn, you douche.” Reaches forward to give our friend’s cheek a light smack with his palm. “And use an aloe-based moisturizer.”
Blaine swats Phillip’s grabby hands out of his personal space.
I ignore them both and power ahead with my idea.
“The club is still in need of a proper name, but we’ve already got a dress code?” I laugh, excitement building. “Where the hell do we get our hands on three velvet smoking jackets?”
Blaine is rubbing his ruddy face.
“Lisbeth.” Phillip swirls his glass. “I’ll have my sister look into it—she can find anything.”
Phillip’s sister Lisbeth is hot, smart, and a stage manager for a Broadway production company in New York City. If anyone can get us jackets to wear on a lark, it’ll be her. And did I mention she hates my guts? Granted, she seems to hate everyone’s guts, but particularly mine. Pretty certain it has something to do with the fact that when we were in our teens, I accidentally walked in on her while she was in the bathroom. Saw Lisbeth naked before she had tits and told the guys at school how flat-chested she was, before I learned about respecting boundaries, and privacy, and because I didn’t know she would carry a goddamn grudge the rest of our entire lives.
She’s treated me like shit ever since—not that I blame her in the least.
“Hot Lisbeth?” I love calling her that because it pisses him off so bad.
“Don’t call my sister hot. She hates your fucking guts.”
Even better—her anger makes her that much hotter. I love a good loathing, and a hard hate fuck does every body good.
“She can hate me all she wants because she’s hot.” I’d have hate sex with her any day. “Besides, it’s not like I said I want to bone her.”
His laugh is less than amused. “I’m not telling her this involves you. She’d burn your jacket and the building it was manufactured in to the ground before she’d give it over to you.”
Sometimes it makes me jealous that he has a great relationship with his sister; I barely see mine. We’ve never had a great relationship, not since we were young and in grade school. Val was a mama’s girl, I was a daddy’s boy, and our piss-ass broke parents did nothing but fight. Home life sucked; Dad could never hold down a job, and I spent half my life defending that piece of shit to my sister when he didn’t deserve it because I was too ignorant to know better.
My sister and I played outside a lot back in those younger years, but not together. Sometimes in the road, we’d kick the can around until the streetlights came on at dusk.