Page 6 of The Worst Man

Three

“To Miranda!” Rory lifted her Corona high in the air, her voice filled with jubilation over the epic smackdown I’d just delivered.

“To Miranda!” Natasha, Samuel, and Charles echoed in unison. Charles’s declaration immediately followed by a loud hiccup.

Across from me, Hank was bent over at the waist, his palms planted on his knees, as his back lifted and shrank with deep, restorative breaths. I recognized them for what they really were—he was trying not to puke up the beer he’d just shotgunned in thirty seconds.

Unfortunately for him, I’d finished mine in twenty-one. Just like black jack, baby!

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and let out a small belch as Samuel slung his arm across my shoulder—just in time for Hank to rise to his full height and notice the affectionate gesture. His eyes narrowed distrustfully when Samuel’s thumb stroked over my clavicle.

“Okay, Whitcomb. You won that round, but there’s still one more to go.”

The first round had gone to Hank when he threw back three shots of tequila before I could even get down one of them. After an unfortunate incident my freshman year involving a bottom shelf bottle of tequila and cheap pumpkin beer chasers, I’d never been able to drink the stuff again. I should have just forfeited the round altogether, but my reputation was on the line here.

“What’s the tiebreaker?” Natasha asked, her nose wrinkled with a mixture of what looked like disgust and worry. I think she’d decided that she didn’t have a shot in hell with Samuel, so she’d been considering trying her luck with Hank again. But with him looking like he was fifteen seconds away from emptying the contents of his stomach all over the floor, she wasn’t sure she wanted the fun and games to continue.

“I have an idea,” Rory raised her finger to gain the attention of the group.

Hank and I groaned in stereo. Her last bright idea was what had gotten us here in the first place. I wasn’t nearly as bad off as Hank seemed to be, but it was only a matter of time until I joined him on the Green Around the Gills Express. I wasn’t eighteen anymore, which meant I was a bit out of practice when it came to chugging beer. I might have downed my can of Foster’s quicker than anyone had expected me to, but I could feel it threatening to make a reappearance if I tried to do it a second time.

“Just hear me out,” Rory said, her gaze darting between Hank and me with understanding.

“What is it?” he asked, breathing deeply through his nose and then letting it out in a long slow gust from his mouth.

“Let’s grab some food, and then we can head over to this dive bar off the Strip that I Googled before flying out here. They have tables for beer pong, flip cup, and quarters. You guys can captain two teams, and whoever wins gets bragging rights.”

Hank cast a curious glance my way, and I nodded my head in silent assent. As far as drinking contests went, this wasn’t a half bad idea. It meant we could offload some of the burden onto our compatriots, which also meant we might be able to function come morning. I certainly wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity to accept their help, and from the hopeful look on Hank’s face, it didn’t appear he was either.

“That sounds great,” I said at the same time that Hank said, “I’m in.”

Rory beamed at us and then slung her arms around Natasha and Charles. “Perfect! I also read about this taqueria that’s on the way. Supposedly they have the best birria tacos in all of Nevada.”

“What’s birria?” Natasha asked as Rory led her and Charles toward the exit.

“You don’t want to know,” Samuel answered, his eyes dancing with laughter as he followed in their wake.

That left Hank and me standing together near the bar. He tossed a one hundred dollar bill on the counter and then opened his mouth to say something. Then, as if thinking better of it, his lips flattened into a harsh line on his handsome face instead.

“What?” I asked, strangely curious to hear what supposed wisdom he’d intended to impart.

“Nothing.” He shook his head and gestured ahead of him. “Ladies first.”

Confusion mingled with curiosity. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Hank and I had called a truce today, but the last two hours had been … not unpleasant. Almost friendly and convivial. He hadn’t insulted me even once since we’d arrived at the dimly lit bar to begin this ill-advised bout of drinking Olympics. It was actually quite lovely.

Which was why I didn’t trust it to last.

There were a lot of words you could use to describe Hank Talbot, and lovely was definitely not one of them. Arrogant. Brutish. Immature. Handsome. Sexy.

Problematic.

“Suit yourself,” I said over my right shoulder as I strode ahead of him and out into the scorching June night. When he caught up with me outside on the sidewalk, I ignored the fact that I’d caught him staring at my ass as I’d sauntered away.

* * *

“Where’dyou learn to play beer pong like that?” When Hank looped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me in close, I didn’t know if he was just being friendly (which was still weird), or if he was using me to hold himself upright.

I also wasn’t sure that it mattered because I could use some help in that regard too. Until he’d wrapped me up in his arms, I’d been dangerously close to sliding down the wall.

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