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 tendency 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?”
“Because Armageddon hasn’t 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’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.”
I eyed him, knowing there was more that he wasn’t saying, but I let him keep his secrets. I certainly had mine.
“Stop looking at me like that, Winston. I’m not going to be your rebound either.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not drunk enough for those kinds of jokes.”
“Well, that’s something we should remedy!”
We moved toward the bar, but a blond girl stepped in my way. She was pretty—light curls, pink cheeks, and a low-cut top. She appeared to have had way too much to drink. She leaned forward to say something, but stumbled into me instead. I caught her around the waist and steadied her. One of her hands went around my bicep, and she giggled.
“I’m so sorry!”
She didn’t let go of my arm even once I’d righted her. She looked up at me through long lashes.
She was attractive for sure, but I kept waiting for something more to hit me. I waited for the electric zing of attraction, the pull in my chest, the pump of blood.
Nothing. Nada.
She asked me the usual questions, and I made small talk, but I could have been talking to a wall for all the impression it made on me. I could make a move on a girl like her. I could forget about serious relationships and just spend the night with a pretty blonde, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t make me feel any better. It certainly wouldn’t fix anything. Plus, talking to this girl felt like work, and tonight I wanted something effortless.
I kept looking toward the bar, wishing I could take another drink. Maybe if I was drunker, I would loosen up and get out of my head.
The girl, Cammie, was saying something about how funny I was. I didn’t even remember what I’d said to her.
I felt an elbow in my back and Milo said, “Here’s your chance to avoid a lifetime of premature ejaculation”
I threw a glare over my shoulder. “Can you not say that in public please?”
“Don’t be ashamed, hermano. It happens to lots of guys.”
I shoved him, but we were both laughing.
When I looked back at Cammie, she seemed to know that my attention was waning. She leaned closer and reached a bold hand into the pocket of my jeans, and came back with my cell phone. Her smoky eyes met mine before she entered her number into my phone’s memory. I marked one thing off the night’s checklist without even really trying. I smiled politely at the blonde and said good-bye. I turned to Milo, preparing to brag about how easily I’d gotten her number.