Page 9 of Sweet Spot
Someone slides the shot glass from the center of the table to just in front of me. I open my mouth to protest again, but Cassidy looks at me with those big, brown eyes. The girl is some sort of sweet ninja with her ability to make me want to do things.
I don’t usually care about going along with people just because I can stand on my own—maybe too much sometimes. But if Cassidy were holding a torch gun in one hand and a bottle of moonshine in the other, I’d probably want to tag right along to see what she was going to get into.
She’s the scary type of friend who makes everything seem like a fun time until you’re sitting in the back of a police car or holding your head over the toilet while you sit on the dirty floor of a frat house bathroom. That first thing hasn’t happened yet, but the second has on more than one occasion.
I knew she had this effect on me within two hours of meeting her freshman year, so I shouldn’t be surprised that right now as she tries to push a shot glass in my hand, my fingers curl around it and effectively sign me up for wherever the night might lead.
Cassidy squeals with victory as I raise the shot. “Cheers!” she exclaims merrily, making sure to clink glasses with everyone.
I give a little mini salute with mine and then bring it to my lips. I tip the shot glass back ever so slightly so just a taste falls into my mouth, and my stomach clenches in warning. Nope, not happening. Absolutely not.
As discretely as I can, I move the glass to the left and quickly toss the remaining liquid over my shoulder. I glance around to see if anyone noticed, but everyone is busy squeezing their eyes closed and grimacing. Freaking tequila.
I giggle at the ridiculousness and set my empty glass on the table at the same time Cassidy does.
“That wasn’t so bad, right?” she asks.
“No, it really wasn’t,” I say with sarcasm that goes totally missed.
Success. I’ll just tag along tossing my good intentions and my drinks over my shoulder with no one being the wiser.
4
Lincoln
I hate to admit it,but I’m not having an awful time. I feel a little old as these kids talk about lounging around their parents’ houses all break and how bummed they are to start waking up for eight a.m. classes again, but I can’t remember the last time I had a night out that was this carefree.
Sure, I go to games and get to booze and schmooze, but I’m there to make connections, not to get shitfaced. As such, there’s always a certain level of professionalism I have to maintain so when business talk slips in, which it always does, I’m ready to make my pitch.
I stand from the table of hockey players, which is more difficult than it should be thanks to the crowd. I sidestep at the same time as something wet hits my neck and trickles down the back of my shirt.
What the hell?
My hand instinctively wipes away the liquid, and I turn my head to survey the spot on my white shirt. The smell of tequila hits me, and a cold shiver runs down my spine. Tequila and I are not friends. That bitch screwed me over years ago, and I still haven’t forgiven her.
I look up to find wide, brown eyes staring at me, horrified. I glance between the soaked fabric and the empty shot glass in her hand.
“You,” I say at the same time she blurts out, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
The girl from the golf course yells at someone to hand her napkins, but no one at the table is paying attention, so she finally leans over to the holder, grabs a handful, and turns to shove them toward me. Seeing her flustered after she was all confidence and sass earlier is comical.
“If you were aiming for your mouth, I’d say you missed.”
“My aim was dead on, but I wasn’t expecting someone to walk into it.”
Ah, there it is. I lied. Her sass is far more amusing than her fluster.
“You were trying to toss tequila on strangers?”
“Not on strangers, just anywhere but my mouth.”
I chuckle at her response. I feel that.
“I can’t take another shot,” she adds with a wobble of her head.
I look to the group she’s with. They still haven’t noticed she’s gone, and by the number of empty shot glasses on the table, I can assume they are all drunk.
I can’t tell if she’s in the same boat, but since she’s chucking shots over her shoulder, I’d say it’s likely she’s either drunk or out of her mind. Someone bumps her from the side, and I reach out to catch her, cupping her small shoulders. Her long, reddish-brown hair falls forward, teasing my fingers.
