and then a homerun ignites the room and us in raucous screams.
We finish off our mojitos and get two more. Then three. And then a couple more. I can’t remember being this happy. Or this drunk…in a long fucking time.
Jack’s smile becomes more lopsided—and I don’t know if that’s because I’m wasted or he is—but he has an orange sucker in his mouth and keeps touching my face. “You’ve got something here,” he tells me, his finger sliding down my lips.
“That’s a mouth, Long Beach,” I pretend to bite his finger. He pulls back and plants his hand on my crotch.
“This is a dick,” he defines. “A hard dick.”
I’m laughing so hard some blueberry mojito dribbles down my chin. I wipe it off with the back of my hand. “You’re drunk.” We are fucking drunk.
“Without a doubt.” He shifts the sucker with his tongue. “At least we know that you’re the less flirty drunk.”
“Wait a minute.” I lift my glass. “You think I’m less flirty? Are you sure you’re not confusing flirty with sloppy?”
He smacks my chest, and his expression—kid you not—grows mockingly serious. “I’m not sloppy.”
“Highland, your pants are wet. You spilled your second mojito on your crotch an hour ago.”
He snorts like that’s not true. Then he looks down at his pants, and stares at the wet spot for a long beat before looking at me. “Okay. Okay. I’m sloppy. But the better question is…why aren’t you sloppier?”
“Because I’m me.” I pop a blueberry in my mouth. “We can’t all be this good at drinking.”
Jack laughs and nods as he tries to put the straw into his mouth with a sucker still between his lips. So drunk. So cute.
The straw escapes him every time he tries. I can’t stop laughing. “Here.” I grab his glass, hold the straw steady for him, and he leans in to take a small slurp.
He swallows, pops the sucker out, and smacks his lips. “Nutty with a little aftertaste of citrus from the hills of Napa. Stellar. Five golden stars. A truly revolutionary taste.” He grins. “And that would be my review for your cum.”
Motherfuck. My smile hurts my face. “Get the fuck out of here.” I point towards the door.
“Only if you come with me.” He’s tugging a fistful of my shirt, and I follow him out of the sports bar. We hook arms around each other, walking down the sidewalk and singing songs loud enough that people in their apartments yell at us to shut up.
We end up at a club where no one will scream at us, and we sing until our voices grow hoarse. We drink until we’re holding each other up.
And still, I never want this night to end.
I wake to a pounding in my head that feels like someone is auditioning to become Tom Cobalt’s drummer in my brain. “Fuck,” I groan groggily and rub the sleep from my eyes.
Where am I?
I blink awake. Hell’s Kitchen. My studio apartment, I realize.
Jack sits on the edge of the pullout like he’s been waiting for me to wake up. At the ready with a glass of water and a bottle of Advil. He gives me a tight smile that doesn’t seem right. And then he passes me the water, but I’m not looking at the glass.
“Highland.” I stare at the shiny silver ring on his finger. That was definitely not there last night.
His eyes grow and he points upwards. Shit. My sister is here. Sleeping in the king-sized bed in the loft.
I scoot up the pullout, leather couch, avoiding looking at my own hand. No. No fucking way. I try to think back to last night, but it’s all a messy blur after we reached the club. Quickly, I climb off the bed and grab his wrist, dragging him to the bathroom.
As soon as the door shuts, I take the plunge and look at my hand. Motherfucker! There’s a ring on my finger.
A ring!
“Do you remember what happened?” I ask Jack, his dark hair is tousled from a hard, drunken sleep. My boyfriend leans a hip against the marble sink counter, arms threaded loosely over his chest.
“A little bit,” he says, stiffly. “I was hoping we could talk it out and piece it together.”
I place two hands on my head, chest rising and falling heavily. “Alright, so we were at the club.”
“And then we left,” Jack says.
“Okay…I vaguely remember stopping at a jewelry store?” I shake my head. “But that doesn’t make sense because it was too late—everything would’ve