Once the waitress leaves, he raises his shot toward Bryce. His tone is sarcastic as he says, “To clean athletes.”
I resist kicking Sam’s shin under the table as they down the shots.
Sam shoves yet another shot of vodka at my boyfriend while I glare across the table. Ignoring me, he says to Bryce, “Dude, I wouldn’t think less of you if you had. If your career’s on the line, you gotta do what you gotta do.”
Bryce twists the shot around, holding it by his fingertips. He stares intently at the short glass of clear liquid. “Yeah, we’ll see how my hitting goes this fall. I need to bat above three hundred for scouts to come.”
Sam makes a finger motion in his groin area that’s clearly meant to insinuate shrinkage, and since we’re sitting on high stools, the insult would be entirely visible to me and Bryce, if he were to look up.
I kick Sam in the shin.
He lets out an “oomph” and Bryce looks up. Sam smirks and lifts the second shot. “To batting over three hundred,” he says.
Bryce downs his shot with a grimace and I place a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you think that’s enough shots?”
He points to Sam, who is wearing a smirk. “Keeping up with the locals.”
Really? Are we in fucking high school? “He’s not local. He’s in a rock band. He parties regularly.” Tired of the little games he’s playing, I glare at Sam again. “Trust me. You don’t want to keep up with him. You don’t want to be anything like him.”
Sam’s mouth goes from a frown of hurt to a lazy smile so fast, I question if I imagined the hurt.
Sam lifts his beer, the one he’d ordered in the first round and hasn’t touched, before taking a drink, and says, “Yeah, who’d want to be a famous rich rocker?”
I snort but Sam grins.
Bryce asks, “Is it weird?”
Sam cocks his head in a question.
“Being famous, having people fawn over you, girls you’ve never met want . . .” Bryce doesn’t finish his sentence. Nor does he look at me.
“Not there yet,” Sam says, gesturing around the bar. “These people don’t know me from dick, but yeah, the getting chicks part has always been a bonus of the gig.” He glances at me. “Even when I was in a high school garage band.”
Anger burns through me and I clench my jaw. Sam is related to Dr. Jekyll.
Bryce shakes his head. “Chicks come with the territory, then. I should have learned how to play an instrument,” he says with a laugh, wrapping an arm around my waist. “But not my girl. She’s smarter than that.”
“Oh yeah, Peyton’s definitely immune,” Sam says sarcastically as his gaze pins me to my stool.
What the fuck? I’d like to kick him in the shin again and throw my beer in his face. The snide reference to our past is making me furious. I’ve never made a remark about it to anyone, even a veiled one.
Bryce’s gaze snaps to Sam. “You saying she isn’t?” His tone is somehow both threatening and horrified at the same time.
Sam shakes his head. “No, bro, I meant she was immune.” He cuts a hand through the air and adds, “Like totally.”
Bryce’s fingers dig into my waist. “Peyton would never be a groupie.”
Ugh. Hello? I’m right here. I can stand up for myself if needed. What is wrong with these idiots?
Suddenly, Gabe’s back, standing at our table. “You guys ready to head out?”
I look around and notice the girls he was talking to are gone.
Sam jumps off his stool and tugs out his phone from a pocket. “There’s a place I wanted to check out a few blocks from here.”
I should talk Bryce into going back to the hotel, but that king-size bed has been looming in my thoughts all night. So we head into the muggy summer night and stroll several blocks in the direction of the hotel. We took a cab to the East Village, which means it’s way too far to walk all the way back to the hotel, especially since it’s obvious to me now that we’re outside that Bryce is drunk. Though his arm is around my shoulders, he can’t walk straight. He keeps veering left, then right. A few feet ahead of us, Sam and Gabe jokingly argue about who can kick more ass. My opinion? They’re both jackasses.
The next bar is somewhat similar to the last. No dead animals, yet it has a dark, modern interior filled with eccentric antiques. The furniture reminds me of the antique shop below where the band practices when they’re home—maybe that’s why Sam likes these spots.
Only a few minutes pass before the real reason Sam wanted to come here is revealed: Jell-O shots. The bar serves them, and he buys each of us three. I cave in and do one, but refuse the rest. I’m more than aware that the sweet, fruity taste of a Jell-O shot can mistakenly cause people to consider them harmless. I know otherwise, since I once spent a night at the toilet bowl regurgitating a colorful array of Jell-O shots after a fraternity party. Besides, since Bryce seems to be on a tear, I’m trying to stay functional.
Unfortunately, when I emerge from the postcard-covered bathroom, I find my remaining two Jell-O shots empty and Bryce gone from the couch area where we’re sitting.
Sam looks up from whatever he was saying to Gabe and laughs at my expression as I hold up the little plastic cups. “He got mine too,” says Sam.
I look around. “Where is he?”
Sam points to the far end of the bar. “At the jukebox, socializing with the locals.” He wiggles his eyebrows as if I should be jealous and pissed.
I glare at him before following the direction of his pointed finger. Hunched over the jukebox, Bryce stands in between two women. The women are bopping to the music. Bryce is swaying off beat. I mentally do alcohol math. In the past three hours, he has had at least five beers, five vodka shots, and now at least five Jell-O shots. If not wasted yet, any minute he’s going to be blind drunk.
I’m not close to jealous, though I’m beyond irritated. I make my way over to the jukebox.
“Hey, Peyton,” Bryce slurs, then points above one of the girl’s heads. “Kimmy and—um, Braily.”
“Bailey,” the second girl says, correcting him with a laugh.
“Nice meeting you both,” I say. “But Bryce here really needs to go sit down.”
“I’m picking all your favorite songs, baby,” Bryce slurs.
I almost laugh. As if Bryce would know my favorite songs. His music taste is whatever is popular at the moment. We’ve never connected over bands. In fact, so far as I know, he thinks my interest in music, especially punk rock, is peculiar.
“Great,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go sit down and listen.”
Kimmy frowns at me. “He has five songs left to pick.”
I yank Bryce toward the couches in the corner. “How about you pick them?” I say over my shoulder.
The girls give me sour looks, as if I’m being a bitch. Whatever. Fortunately, Bryce lets me lead him back to the little seating arrangement. He bumps into stools and people along the way. I murmur “Sorry” about ten times.
Once we get to our couch, which now has several girls sitting and keeping Sam and Gabe company, Bryce decides he needs another beer.
Grinning, Sam looks around for a waitress.
Standing, I decide it’s time to go.
“We’re leaving,” I say loudly.
“What?” Gabe says, cutting off whatever the girl next to him was saying. He lifts up his phone. “It’s only one thirty. The bars stay open until four here.”
I hold out a hand for Bryce. There is no way in hell I’m babysitting Bryce for hours at the bar. “You can stay. We’ll get a taxi.”