Eddie
“Finger dexterity, huh?” I say to Finley.
Dima might not have used the word nice when he gave me the quick 411 on the models downstairs, but he had labeled Finley as too sweet. But without proof, I’m undecided.
She looks at me, a big smile on her face. “Yep. That’s a thing.”
It’s a thing. All right then. I nod toward the table. “You take the first shot.”
“Just so you know—” Finley rolls the ball between her fingers.
“Don’t worry, I don’t have any expectations.” This is true. Tonight is a big test for me. I’ve been away from the party scene for months. I need to prove to myself I can be this, be here, without getting out of control. Because if I can’t, I have a lot further to go than I realized.
“I was going to say,” Finley says, prepping for her shot, “that I’m extremely competitive. Meaning, if you screw up”—she tosses the ball and sinks it, easy—“I might kick you off the team. But don’t take it personally.”
A cheer erupts from the two girls beside us—the animal-noise girl and the Ivy League girl. Dima downs the cup of beer, and Finley leans closer to me. Her hair brushes over my arm. “So what’s your technique? Do you have any trick shots?”
“Yeah, well…” I start to say and then, “No.”
She laughs. “At least you’re honest.”
Depends what you ask me. “I’ll drink first. Will that help?”
Dima’s partner—Alex, I think—makes his shot. I hesitate for a second and then down the beer. Damn, these cups are way too full.
Finley gives me a pat on the back. “Well done. Maybe that can be your job?”
I hold the ball in my hand, and I’m nervous all of a sudden. It’s just a stupid-ass drinking game, but I can’t get my father’s voice out of my head. You play something, you sure as hell better win.
“I recommend the arch technique,” Finley says. “Nice and easy, big arch.”
I look at her and smile. She’s completely serious. Somehow, this takes the pressure off me. Like if she’s worried, I don’t have to be. “The arch.” I nod. “Nice and easy.”
“You got this, Eddie,” Finley says.
And for a second, the world is at my fingertips. Then I realize no, I don’t got this. The ball taps the inside of a cup and then hits Dima right in the crotch.
I scratch my head and avoid looking at Finley. I need to get out of my own damn head. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Next time.”
Luckily, Dima misses his shot. Finley goes for the bounce shot this time and sinks it again, earning her a cheering section of four or five people now. Alex picks up that cup to drink, then passes the second to Dima.
The Ivy League girl points a finger at Dima. “Do not get him drunk. We have an 8:00 a.m. flight.”
Like Finley, Alex makes his second shot. I offer to drink the beer, but Dima stops me. “She has to drink. That’s the rule.”
“You just want her impaired,” Ivy League girls says. “If you aren’t considering weight or metabolic rate, it’s hardly fair to make everyone drink the same amount.”
Dima spreads his arms out wide. “And this is why I don’t allow Ivy League players. None of that shit in this game. Keep it simple. Otherwise, I’ll get a fucking headache.”
“He’s right.” Finley picks up the cup, staring it down even longer than I had. “Rules are rules.”
She chugs the beer like a champ and tosses the empty cup aside. When it’s my turn again, I focus more on my shot, less on all the noise in my head. Maybe all this newfound inner peace will kick in. Right. About. Now.
“Yes!” Finley shouts. She spins to face me. “That was beautiful. Perfect arch.”
I’m about to thank her, but the animal-noise girl distracts me. She’s making some kind of gesture that I’m pretty sure would be in the crude category, but it’s hard to tell. “Uh, what is she…?”
Finley turns around, and her cheeks and the tips of her ears turn bright red. “Summer. Stop.”
Summer. The bitchy one.
“Tourette’s,” Finley says to me. “She doesn’t like to talk about it.”
And Finley Belton. The sweet one.
She jumps into a deep explanation of why my last shot was so great, and her words start to blur together in this hypnotic way that relaxes me, makes me forget about anything outside of Finley and her jeans, hugging her ass perfectly. And the tank top straps that keep shifting, exposing more bare skin.
“What do I like to do for fun?” Finley says, tossing the ball in the air and catching it again. I shake my head. I missed something. “This is what I should have said.”
“What? Parties?” I ask.
“That stupid casting guy,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What do you like to do for fun?” She mimics his voice perfectly. We must have had the same casting today. “I should have said I’m a beer pong champion.”
“And you play poker and scratch your balls a lot,” I suggest.
She nods. I think the beer is working its magic. “Yes. That. Probably ride a Harley too.”
“So what did you tell them?” I ask.
“The truth. Unfortunately.”
I smile again. “Cute.”
“So they said.” She tosses the ball at the wall beside us. It bounces off and lands squarely in the cup sitting in front of Alex. “Cute sucks.”
Yeah, agree to disagree.