The first question flashes on the screen.
“What actor voiced both Mufasa and Darth Vader?”
“That’s James Earl Jones,” I say immediately.
Noah scribbles it down. “Savannah coming in hot.”
“I contain multitudes,” I reply.
From the back of the bar, the Iron Reapers’ table erupts at a different question. Deep laughter. A sharp clap on wood. I glance over before I can stop myself and catch one of them leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the screen like he already knows how this ends.
There’s nothing flashy about him.
That somehow makes it worse.
By question four, I’m leaning forward, elbow on the table, gesturing with my pen like I’m conducting an orchestra. “No, no,” I say as Noah writes something down. “It’s not Brazil. It’s Argentina. Think about the shape.”
“You think about the shape,” he shoots back. “Brazil is right there.”
“I will die on this hill,” I tell him. “And I will be right.”
Lena sighs. “I love you all, but sometimes I wonder how we ever win.”
“We win because Savannah is loud enough to intimidate the answers into being correct,” Eli says.
“Exactly,” I say. “Fear is a powerful motivator.”
By the end of round one, my beer is empty and my voice is already a little hoarse. I don’t care. I’m laughing too hard, leaning into Lena when she makes a face at the screen, high-fiving Noah when we nail a question about obscure NBA team relocations.
“See,” I say, pointing at the TV. “Basketball knowledge is useful.”
“You just like yelling at grown men on screens,” Noah says.
“That is a separate and equally valid hobby.”
When the bartender drops off another round without asking, I raise my brows at him. “Ryan, are you trying to get me drunk?”
He shrugs. “You tip well.”
“Fair.”
By round three, I’m warm. Loose around the edges. My laughter comes faster, louder, less filtered. I’m mid-sip when I feel it. That prickle between my shoulder blades. The unmistakable sensation of being looked at.
I glance over, casual. Just another sweep of the room.
One of the Reapers catches my eye.
He doesn’t stare. Doesn’t grin. He just lifts his beer slightly in acknowledgment.
Then he winks.
It hits low and sudden, heat curling through me before I have time to decide how I feel about it. Annoying. Interesting. Dangerous in a way my body remembers before my brain weighs in.
“Well,” Lena says lightly. “That happened.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, absolutely lying.
The question pops up.
