“Why yes, I do,” I answer, matter-of-factly.
“You are a tease,” he says. His words tickle my ear, sending delightful pains down the center of my body.
“I’d only be a tease if I didn’t have good intentions, Austin.”
“And we’re going to sit here and sip on drinks?”
“Isn’t that how you drink down here? Slow?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. He turns his stool toward the bar and adjusts his pants while doing so. I’m pretty much turningmyselfon at this point, and I don’t think I’ve ever played this game as well as I’m playing it right now. I know I’m just as guilty for not contacting him these last two weeks, but clearly, he was testing me, just as I was testing him.
Jack returns a couple minutes later with two shots topped off with whipped cream and the two cocktails.
I wait and watch as Austin reaches for his shot, lifting it up and holding it toward me to clink glasses.
“Have you ever played soccer?” I ask him.
“Of course I have. What does that have to do with alcohol?” He’s totally confused, so I guess we do shots up north differently too.
“What’s the number one rule everyone knows about soccer?” I ask.
“I dunno, no hands?” he replies.
“Same goes for Blow Job shots,” I tell him. “It’s a rule.”
“Says who?” he asks.
“Whoever came up with the shot? I don’t know.”
“Well then, why don’t you go ahead and show me how it’s done since you’re obviously more experienced with this than I am.”
The looks I’m getting from every other man in this bar are hysterical. I’m not usually one for wanting attention, but this is funny.
Austin centers my shot in front of me so I don’t have to use my hands, which I appreciate since it would ruin the effect.
I twist my hands behind my back and duck down, wrapping my mouth around the tall shot glass. I suck it in, pick it up, tilt my head back, and swallow the liquid with the whipped cream, all without choking. I always choke on these shots, especially when I’m trying to be funny, so I’m glad I held it together today. I have to play the part.
“Oh my … damn,” Jack says from a few feet down the bar.
Being the competitor Austin has proven to be, he places his shot in front of him and dives right in to reenact my perfect shot-taking abilities.
He gets the shot glass up in the air and swallows most of it, but the whipped cream gets him like it usually gets me. The glass falls, rolls toward the edge of the bar, and the whipped cream shoots from his mouth with a choking cough.
“We got a spitter,” Jack yells.
Austin rights his shot glass and snaps his head toward me. “You’re going down, princess.”
“How so?” I ask.
“I didn’t mean like that,” he tries to correct himself.
“Tequila, Jack. Two. Oh, and bottom shelf. No lime or salt.”
Jack rolls his eyes and grabs the bottle to pour two shots. He places them down in front of us and raises a brow. “Should I call a winner at the end?”
“Ready?” Austin asks, looking at me.
I grab the shot glass and look back at him. “Whenever you are.”
