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“Durian,” Cinnamon snaps. “I fell onto his lips. Here’s your shot.” She reaches for the one on the table, but my hand covers it, lifting it up.

I unfold from the chair and step forward, looking down at Durian.

The top of his head is balding.

Staring into his eyes, I throw the shot back, setting the glass on the table. And then I reach for them. One hand landing softly on Cinnamon’s shoulder, the other on Durian’s, my fingers digging into his cotton shirt.

He winces, releasing Cinnamon in the process, and I tug her to me. My fingers curl around her neck, my mouth presses to hers and I force the shot into her mouth.

She swallows it willingly, not fighting me at all, a light moan leaving her lips as she unconsciously rolls into me.

My cock hardens, but I slam the static down, stuffing her behind me and glaring at Durian.

“We are old friends, catching up.” I offer the explanation he doesn’t deserve.

I won’t kill this man here.

Not yet.

But he will die.

He narrows his swampy eyes in distaste, his sickly alcohol ladened breath wafting against me. It takes everything to not plug my nose in distaste.

“Cinnamon doesn’t have friends,” he responds snidely. “She’s a bad luck charm.”

“She does now,” I assert.

It would be easy to smash his face in. To break his nose. To drag him into an alley and him to never be seen again.

But I don’t want to ruin my reunion with Cinnamon. So instead, I push him back.

I don’t expect him to stumble as far as he does, but I don’t fucking care.

“Let me take you home,” I offer her.

Except, I’m not asking, and thankfully, she doesn’t fight me as I drag her out along the building, across the street, and to where her car is parked.

“Anything you need out of here?” I ask.

“How did you know this was my car?” she asks, her words wrapping around me like velvet. Her eyes widening in surprise.

My cock hardens again, pressing uncomfortably against the leather before her words land.

I press my thumb towards the back seat. “You still have the frog.” I want to ask her more, but I know this isn’t the time.

There’s an odd warmth in my stomach that is reminiscent of fireflies.

“And my bike is right behind it.”

Her head twists to it. Her rusty curly hair bouncing with the movement. “We both have been drinking, we shouldn’t drive.”

My lips twitch at her words. “Want me to call a cab?”

“No. Lettuce walk, I know a place nearby.” She chuckles softly, twisting out of my hold and grabbing my hand instead.

Mine engulfs hers entirely and there is a headiness to the confidence she is putting into me. That she is taking us to a second location. That she is blindly trusting me and my intentions.

Wait did she just say lettuce?