“Hello, handsome.”
“Hey, sexy,” I said, giving her a kiss and a smack on the ass. “Took you all long enough.”
“Yell at the driver!”
I ignored her and waved her in. I would have a part to play, and that part involved a lot of fucking flirtation and partying. But for one of the few times that I could remember, I had some underhanded, quiet goals at a club party. And the first step involved getting Mason drunk.
“Everyone!” I yelled. “Meet the lovely ladies of Sapphire Gentlemen’s Club in Albuquerque.”
“Holy shit,” Zack said. “You can call me Professor Smartass any day of the week.”
Connor came up, slapped me on the back, shook his head, and worked his magic.
And now, it was time to let things unfold for an hour or so.
* * *
It actually wasn’t too far out of character to remain aloof for the first hour or so of the party.
Oh, trust me, when I wanted pussy, fucking nothing held me back. I liked to time myself to see how quickly I could get a chick from eye contact to either grabbing my cock or me fingering her; the fastest I’d ever achieved was four minutes, a mark that I had vowed to cut in half at some point in my life.
But here, at this party, with a dozen girls that I had already slept with, and literally a ratio greater than two women to one man, there was no rush at all. And that was only true if not for the presence of Hannah Jett.
For now, though, I was dealing with a different Jett.
“I’m telling you, Garrett,” he said, taking a shot with me. “You’re a fucking playboy, but you’re a fucking genius playboy for getting this shit set up.”
“Shut up and drink; I want to hear you compliment me more.”
Mason arched an eyebrow.
“Are you fucking flirting with me?”
“No, I’m fucking about to call you a pussy for—”
I downed the shot.
“Not keeping up with me.”
Not much could invigorate Mason these days, although the recent transformation of the Bernard Boys to the Black Reapers MC had sparked a little fire in him. But calling him a pussy was the most surefire way to get him to do what you wanted.
Mason was no pussy. Far from it. Probably the only person who had seen and dealt with harder shit was Connor, and Connor was a fucking legend of some kind. But he took being called pussy very fucking personal, and as soon as you said it, it was the easiest way to ensure compliance.
“Fuck you, asshole,” he said. “Watch me take two. Let’s see you keep up.”
I had plenty of replies. I just kept quiet. I had a larger goal in mind.
Mason took his two shots, wiped his mouth, and nodded to me.
“Let’s fucking go, asshole.”
I smirked back at him, grabbed a fifth of tequila, and drank straight from the bottle. Some of the girls started a chant, counting the number of seconds I was drinking. All the while, I eyed Mason, daring him to keep up with me.
I slammed the bottle down, let out an “ahh” like I’d just drank a bottle of Gatorade, and wiped my lips.
“Two shots the best you got?”
And before anyone knew it, Mason and I were egging each other on, daring to see who could drink more. Mason had size on me, but I had youth. I also had a liver that had never met a day of the week that involved abstinence.
