Page 73 of Barefoot Dreams
“Drink?”
I eye the red liquid inside it suspiciously. I’m not one to drink usually, but what else do I have to lose at this point? My life is falling apart, my dreams are crashing and burning for the millionth time already.
Maybe getting drunk wouldn’t be the worst idea. So, I swipe the shot and down it in one go, wincing immediately at the overly sweet concoction that could barely mask the strong taste underneath it.
It doesn’t taste like alcohol though, so who knows what Willa just served us. Griffin follows my lead and without saying anything else, pushes the next one my way.
“God, what is in this?” Griffin grimaces after we both take the second shot but waves for another round, nonetheless.
“Knowing Willa, nothing that’ll end good for us.” The subject in question silently sets another set of shots and leaves.
That in itself is strange. Usually, you can’t get her to stop talking, but suspicions go out the window when we pick it up and keep drinking.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” I hear myself say but don’t remember allowing the question to slip out—and I’m not that far gone to not register my cheeks warm up. But it might also be from all the shots I’ve already drank.
“I have,” he agrees, catching me off-guard, and by the looks of it, himself as well.
“Why?”
“I have no idea why I just admitted to it, but we are not nearly drunk enough for that conversation,” Griffin says, pushing yet another shot my way. “Is it me or it’s starting to taste better?”
“Definitely better,” I agree, and since it doesn’t look like either of us is going anywhere and my brain is already muddled, I say the first thing that comes to my mind. “You look good in your firefighter uniform.”
“Huh?” Griffin looks down as if expecting to see it on but it’s not there. “I’m not wearing them.”
“I know.” I roll my eyes, the move making the room dance a little.
“Wait, why are we talking about my firefighter uniform?”
“Because you don’t want to tell me why we are getting drunk and because I’ve always wanted to say that you look hot in it.”
“I do?” He drowns another shot and so do I.
Where are they all coming from?
“Mm-hmm.” Wait, why did I just say that? Yet I’m still talking. “Those shirts are so tight; your chest is very well defined in them.” I feel someone patting my boobs.
Oh wait, that’s me. I snort.
“And let’s admit, nothing will make your ass look bad. Even those huge pants.”
Why am I gesturing with my hands and am I slurring? Already?
“You look at my ass?”
“Everyone looks at your ass, Griffin.” I snort again. God, I need to stop that.
“Why are we talking about my ass?”
I shrug. “I have no idea. What do you want to talk about?”
“Your boobs. Wait, that’s not a gentlemanly word. Breasts? Is that better?”
“Boobs are fine.” I wave him off. “What about them?”
“Are they real?”
I frown, looking down at my cleavage. “Of course!”
