Disclaimer, etc., in chapter 1.
That Greater Monster, Planning
But immediately he's got questions.
"What do you want to drink?" he asks.
I tell him I don't really care as long as we stick to hard liquor.
He eyes the beer he's been drinking and the one I've been drinking and raises an eyebrow to let me know.
Yeah, yeah, whatever.
"Okay," he shrugs. "Any particular reason why?"
"Liquor is quicker," I quip.
He sniffs and stretches.
"No, I mean, any reason you want to get drunk," he clarifies.
I shrug. "Bored. Got a better idea?"
I watch him consider the same alternatives I've already considered.
"Can't think of anything," he answers.
He leans back in the chair.
"So…wanna go out or pick it up?"
I close my eyes and groan. If I'd known it would be this much trouble, I wouldn't have said anything.
I hear him sigh.
"Okay," he says, "I'm reading your mind."
I open my eyes. He's got two fingers on each temple, massaging, pretending to receive signals. Cute.
"You want…I'm getting a dark liquid…not vodka, gin, or rum…something you like without ice…I see an M…two M's…it's—it's Maker's Mark!"
He gasps. His eyes pop open. "My God, who would have thought!"
He gets my shut up, I hate you glare.
"You gonna pitch in or am I left with the tab as usual?" he asks.
I glare at him again. He knows where my wallet is if he wants cash.
"Staying or coming?"
Both options bore me equally. Inertia says I stay. Impatience says I go.
I sigh as though it's his fault I'm bored—and it is, if he were more entertaining, neither of us would be bored—and begin the process of lifting myself off the couch.
He's up. He grabs his keys.
I realize I'm too bored to goad him into being my biker bitch. The bike's not big enough, anyway, I tell myself, and he nearly tears my flesh off he clings so tight. Pansy.
My leather jacket conforms perfectly to the contours of my upper body. We've been too bored to take off the clothes we wore to work today.
He holds the door open for me, bowing and extending an arm to show me the way out. I reach over and slap his ass, then turn and hold the cane diagonally in front of me so he can't do the same.
He glares and locks the door.
Where would I be without him?
He winks and keeps his front facing mine, opening the outer door with his back to it.
He dashes down the stairs and turns again—then realizes he's acting like a fool in public and straightens up.
I smile and follow him.
Once I fall in step next to him, I slide my left hand into his back pocket, press fingers hard against his butt, and dare him to take it out.