“Says the guy vibrating with sexual frustration.”
“We’ll see who cracks first.” I check my phone. “Doors open in twenty. When those jocks walk in, I’ll be watching you, Rox. I know how much you love a big, muscular athlete who needs his ego stroked. Or his balls emptied. Whichever you prefer.”
“Same goes for you, Calvin. The minute some pretty girl bats her eyelashes, you’ll be chasing her around like a lost puppy. We both know you can’t say no to a pair of nice tits.”
“Watch me.”
“You’re gonna break.”
“Won’t.”
“Will.”
Roxy grabs the Fireball from the speed rail and pours two shots, handing me one. “To restraint,” she says as we clink our glasses.
“To your imminent failure.”
We knock them back. The cinnamon burns all the way down.
The door swings open,and a group of girls walks in, giggling and dressed for a night out. Short skirts. Heels. Tight tops pushing their tits together. Way too dressed up for a dive bar like this, which means they’re probably pregaming before heading somewhere else.
They grab a high-top in the corner, voices loud even over the music blasting through the speakers. One of them, a petite blonde, glances over and catches me looking. She smiles, runs a hand through her hair, then turns back to her friends.
I grab a rag and wipe down the bar, trying not to stare.
“She’s checking you out,” Roxy says, sliding past me with a tray of empties.
“Just go take their order, Rox.”
“Tempted already?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Right.” She grabs her notepad, grinning. “I’ll be sure to get blondie’s number for you.”
I watch her walk away, the sway of her hips in those tight black jeans she always wears. Her red hair’s pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands loose around her neck. She’s got a great ass, and I know it. Not that I’d ever tell her. That’s a line we don’t cross.
The thing is, Roxy’s right.
I have zero self-control when it comes to hooking up. Never have. It started freshman year when I realized how easy it was to bring girls back to my dorm, and it’s been a blur ever since. One-night stands, quickies in bathroom stalls, back-alley blowjobs, you name it. If she’s hot and willing, I’m in. Life’s short. Might as well have fun.
But it’s gotten worse over time. A lot of mornings, I wake up next to a girl whose name I either don’t remember or never bothered to ask. At that point, I’m already figuring out how fast I can get her out the door. When they want more than a quick fuck and start texting, I ghost them. I’m not proud of it. I feel like shit for a few hours, then end up doing it all over again the next weekend.
As a bartender, it’s almost too easy. Girls notice the tattoos, the way I make them laugh while pouring their drinks, and suddenly they’re leaning over the bar, showing cleavage, brushing my arm when they order. Most nights, I don’t even have to try.
Doesn’t hurt that I keep in good shape—gym three times a week, running on Sundays—and have the blue-eyed, blond thing going. I’m basically catnip for college girls looking for a no-strings-attached good time.
This bet with Roxy is the longest I’ve gone without sex in years. My balls ache. My dick gets hard at the slightest provocation. I’m jerking off twice a day just to stay sane.
But I’m not gonna lose.
No fucking way.
I turn back to the bar and grab bottles to restock the fridge. More people file in. The noise climbs. Soon it’s crowded, people lined up two-deep at the bar, shouting to be heard. I start pouring drinks, moving on autopilot as the muscle memory of mixing, shaking, and opening bottles takes over. A gin and tonic here, a vodka cranberry there. The register dings. The ice rattles. Glasses clink.
That’s when the door flies open, and the football team pours in all at once. A wave of tall, muscular guys in team jackets, yelling and laughing, patting each other on the back. The bar erupts in cheers and whistles as they pile in. I guess they won.
This is it. My chance to watch Roxy squirm. These big, cocky jocks are exactly her type, and now she’s surrounded by them.
