Chapter
One
STRONG AND PRETENTIOUS ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES
Trent sat at the bar sipping his second Pear Pressure, nodding his head in all the appropriate places as Paul talked about his job. The drink was pretentious, but it was tasty and strong, too, and if he was gonna make it to the action part of the evening he needed something strong. He felt like he was drinking straight vodka, and after an hour of hearing about the evils of big corporations, Trent was quite pleased that he was blurry around the edges.
That’s what rideshares were for, after all.
He wasn’t usually the guy that had random hook ups, but the dreaded V-day was a few days away, and he fucking hated that holiday with the passion of a thousand suns. It was like the day was created to make single people feel like shit and to make people who were coupled up spend extra money. Never mind that any V-day where he had been coupled up had kinda sucked. You had so much expectation, and things were never as romantic or sexy orwhateveras they were supposed to be.
So here he was, listening to Paul and drinking a pretentious as fuck drink at some upscale bar while the guy talked shit about upscale corporations.
“Everything is covered in blood, Trent. This table is saturated with it. The blood of the working class. We aredyinghere in order to make The Man richer,” he spouted, tapping the table before drinking his own Rose Something.
Maybe Paul was a little blurry too, because talking about your table being covered in blood was definitelynotsexy.
Trent nodded, ate the alcohol soaked pear in his drink, and nodded to the bartender for another. Because why the fuck not. He was getting the impression that maybe the hook up wasn’t even gonna happen. The guy had been flirty and sexy on the app, but real life was proving to be very disappointing.
Halfway through his third drink, he had to pee and he wasn’t even sure he could walk.
Probably shoulda skipped the extra drink.
Paul hadfinallystopped talking about the bedraggled middle class (not that Trent disagreed—he felt like he could barely afford fucking eggs lately, but was it really first date material?). Paul turned to the person on the other side of the bar, who was apparently asking something, when the guy’s phone went off.
Trent wasn’t being nosy. Really he wasn’t. It was just that the phone was sittingright there. And the text popped up clear as day.
The name Raul appeared along with the wordsHey babe - you still at that work thing? Am I cooking or you gonna eat there?
Motherfucker.
Paul turned back to him, not even glancing at his phone, which had gone dark by now.
“I gotta pee,” Trent blurted. He wondered if there was a back door. He was way past buzzed at this point, and he was not up for a scene.
Paul’s hand rested lightly on his, and he leaned in to whisper, “You want me to join you in there in one minute?”
“Uh, no thanks, man. I’m a little nauseous. All that blood covering everything, you know,” Trent managed. He stumbled out of his chair, managing to throw some money on the bar to cover his drinks (he sure as fuck wasn’t covering Paul’s), and nodded at the bartender, saying, “That covers me and tip.”
He gave Paul one final salute, and he had to suppress a laugh at the confused look on the guy’s face. A little giggle did escape as he managed to weave his way back towards the bathroom. He turned around once, almost falling over, and thankfully dickhead was not pursuing him.
Although really, he liked dick heads, so calling Paul a dickhead was probably not the worst thing he could do. He liked assholes too, so that wouldn’t work either. He almost stopped walking to think it over, but luckily forward momentum kept him moving.
Geez, he was fucking drunk.
He tried to do that thing where you pretend you aren’t drunk and nod at people all the while knowing that you’re so fucking drunk you shouldn’t be allowed in public.
Had they actually just given him pear flavored vodka? The drinks were certainly expensive enough.
Somehow, miraculously, he made it to the bathroom. It was all deep reds and oranges and swanky as fuck. He managed to pee (and not on himself, thank goodness for small favors), and then washed his hands and splashed some cold water on his face, although he was way past that making a difference at this point.
That’s when he noticed the dreaded V-day ad. Only $150 per couple! Set menu!
“Go fuck yourselves! Fucking V-day,” he muttered.
He heard a bang as one of the wood stall doors opened. A guy walked out, stared at him judgmentally, and then left the bathroom.
“You didn’t even wash your hands. Don’t stare at me all judgy-wudgy. Dick. Although I like dick, so maybe I should call him vagina. Nothing against vaginas—just not my thing,” he muttered.
