Page 128 of Fight or Flight
“Betty?”
“My knife.”
“You named your knife Betty?” He shoots me a confused look and picks up a bottle of vodka.
“Yup.” I add a splash of ginger ale to my drink. “The other one from the set is Veronica, but I left Ronnie at home tonight.”
“You named both of your knives?”
“I namedallmy knives,” I correct.
“Allof your knives?” He pours about a shot of vodka into a glass. “How many do you have?”
“Not sure. Lost count a while ago.”
“And you gave them all girls’ names?”
“Not all of them.” I pick up a bottle of cranberry juice and unscrew the cap. “Some of my favorites have guys’ names. It all depends on the blade.”
“You know that’s not normal, right?” He puts the vodka back on the table and picks up an energy drink. “Normal people don’t name their knives. Or even have enough knivestoname.”
I chuckle and use a plastic stir stick to mix up my drink. “I’ve never claimed to be normal.”
He watches as I lift my glass and take a sip.
“You forgot the good stuff,” he says when I put my glass on the table.
“I did?”
He nods. “How’re you going to get fucked up on just juice?”
“Who says I want to get fucked up?” I gently pry the energy drink out of his hand and replace it with a can of Sprite.
He glances down at the can, then back at me. “Why do I want this?”
“Because the caffeine will cancel out the vodka.”
That isn’t true, but it’s less likely to trigger his “you can’t tell me what to do” defense than telling him that mixing booze and caffeine is bad for his heart.
“Good call.” He pops the tab on the can and pours most of it into his glass. “You don’t want to get fucked up?”
I shake my head.
“Why not?” He blinks at me like a stunned owl.
His eyes are red and a bit unfocused, and the slight slur to his words tells me he’s well on his way to getting fucked up.
“Because I don’t get fucked up around people I don’t trust.” I take the mostly empty can out of his hand.
“You don’t?”
Shaking my head, I lift the can to my lips, and I don’t miss the way his eyes fill with heat as he watches me drink what’s left in it.
“But I’ve seen you drunk before,” he says when I lower the can.
“No, you haven’t.” I toss it into a nearby bucket full of empties. “You’ve seen me high, but that’s it.”
“I have seen you drunk,” he insists. “I’ve lived in the same building as you for almost three years. Gone to the same parties for just as long. I’ve seen you drunk.”
