Page 15 of Gin and Lava

“How about we start with me giving you a ride home so you don’t end up dead,” I reply, trying to keep the squeamishness out of my voice. “You can give me sex advice when you’re sober.”

“But my sex tips are so much hotter when I’m drunk.”

“Hot is relative, Mason.”

“But you won’t listen to me when I’m sober.”

“Do you actually think I’m listening to you now, Haas?”

“Oooooh,” Mason makes a gesture like I’ve stabbed him in the stomach. “You don’t have to be so cruel on the day my best friend gets married.” He fake-mimes pulling the blade out as I shake my head at his dramatics. “There’s only so much a guy can hope for when he knows a girl is out of his league.”

I squint at him. That was a surprisingly graceful thing to say for Mason. In fact, I’m surprised at how many times tonight he hasn’t been a complete ass. Sure, he still says all sorts of perverted shit, but occasionally he’s also sweet.

Mason’s eyes narrow at me, like he has a sixth sense and he knows I’m thinking about calling him sweet again. But he lets the moment pass.

“I accept your offer to drive me home,” he announces. “But only because I can see inside your dress when I’m looking at you from the side, and every once in a while, I get to see your tits.”

“Wow.” I look at him incredulously. “My tits, huh?”

“They’re lovely,” he compliments.

“They’re small,” I shoot back.

“There’s no such thing asbad tits. Big, small, medium, inverted. They’re all perfect. The real question is, are they responsive?”

He gives me a suggestive side-eye.

“So, you’re telling me the reason you’re accepting my offer is so you can ogle my tits? It has nothing to do with responsibility, or that it’s actually a nice gesture?” I ask.

“Fine, Tate!” he hisses. “It’s a very nice gesture. But shit, I have a reputation to uphold. I can’t go five minutes without mentioning dicks or tits. Don’t cock block a guy’s brilliance.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“In a charming way.”

“In an asshole way.”

“Are we talking about butt plugs again?”

“I’m going to go say goodnight to Esme,” I announce, pointing to the reception party still happening inside the restaurant. “Why don’t you meet me by the elevator in ten minutes. That is, unless you accidentally throw yourself off the side of this building instead.”

“I’m notthatdrunk, Tate.” He shakes his head at me like I’m over exaggerating. “But, if I did fall off the building and break all of my bones, except the most important one”—he motions to his crotch—“would you visit me in the hospital and suck me off?”

I shake my head.

Mason will be Mason.

“Elevator,” I instruct. “Ten.”

5

MASON

Iknow I’m a little tipsy, but I’m not hallucinating. Naomi and I are in the parking lot, and I swear she’s walking up to a giant, red pickup truck like it’s hers. Naomi’s a thin, runway-model waif of a woman. She’s not the kind of person who owns a macho red truck.

Is she?

“Are you drunk?” I ask, nodding to the behemoth of an automobile. “It’s pretty hard to mistake your car for this monster.”

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