“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Bergeron asks, one eye clamped shut as he studies me.
“You can’t even see straight,” I shoot back. “Yes, I’m sure.”
No way am I letting one of these assholes spin that wheel. They’re already three sheets to the wind. The last thing they need is more liquor.
My gaze slides to the other team. Which of them will I be facing? It’s impossible to guess, but I have no doubt I could outdrink any one of them under normal circumstances.
Unfortunately, this game is anything but normal. There’s no accounting for the luck of the draw.
Or rather, the spin.
The girls are having a lively debate, and it must end in a two-one vote because they shove Tink forward, peppering her with encouragement. Her dark eyes go wide, and her jaw damn near hits the floor.
The whole scene is so ridiculous I can’t help laughing, but since I don’t want her to think I’m a dick, I cover my mouth with my hand.
She sighs, clearly resigned to her fate. “Looks like it’s just you and me, Flamingo Boy.”
Did she just— I glance down at my shorts. She really did.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
I wink. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“Don’t think you can sweet-talk me. I’m unsweet-talkable.” She taps a finger playfully on my chest and, damn if a spark doesn’t ignite deep within my sternum. “I may be small in size, but I’m big in spirit. You’re going down.”
Gladly. Hell, I’ll do it with a smile on my face. But in the meantime, I might as well have some fun.
Camila waggles a finger between us. “Who will spin first?”
I gesture for Tink to go ahead. “Ladies first.”
Is it a smart move? No clue. But it’s not like she can sweep the grand prize out from under my feet.
Tink steps up to the wheel and the crowd cheers, offeringadvice and well wishes. She sucks in a breath, her chest rising and falling slowly, before she grabs the wheel and spins it with all her might.
The wheel clacks as it rotates, but it’s moving so fast all the words blur together.
No shot. No shot. No shot.
The phrase echoes through my head on repeat. I’m fucked if the wheel lands on a shot, unless I get one too, and I really don’t want to throw back a double.
“Luck be a lady,” Tink whispers, clasping her hands together. “Don’t you dare do me dirty.”
The wheel slows, and my pulse stutters as the wordsdouble shot of tequilaglide under the flapper. I inhale sharply and will the wheel to keep spinning. Just one more peg and I’ll be in the clear.
Come on, baby. Give me a fighting chance.
There’s an audibleclack,and the flapper settles overchug a Corona.
Relief washes over me, and I pump my fist in the air. Who cares if I look like a tool? I’m still in this thing.
A raucous cheer goes up from the crowd, and Tink and I exchange a look. They clearly know something we don’t.
We turn to the bartender and watch as he pulls a pink bong from under the bar and holds it up in the air.
Holy shit. “It’s got a—”
“Don’t say it,” Tink hisses. “Maybe if we don’t acknowledge it, it won’t be real.”
