“What are your stages of getting drunk?” she asks, getting them back on track.
His lips turn up at the corners in obvious amusement. “Huh. Never thought about it. What about you?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“I know, but just give me an example so I don’t end up spilling too many secrets here.”
I already know too much about you. “Fine. I only have three levels, and I’d have to drink a crap ton before I even reach the first.”
“Such a brag.”
“I’ve had to up my tolerance for this job. Anyway, my first hits once I get drunk enough not to give a damn about dancing in a room full of strangers. Second is when I start looking for somebody to fuck. Third is…well, let’s just say I get off from there,” she finishes with a smirk that he doubtlessly catches the meaning of, if the way that he bites his lip is any indication.
God, I should stop staring at his mouth.
“So you’ve never been drunk-drunk. Like forget-about-your-name level of drunk.”
She hopes he doesn’t notice her grip tightening momentarily on the wheel. Once. “No. So you?”
He chuckles. “Well, my stage one doesn’t take much—two or three glasses of scotch, and I’d start befriending random strangers. Stage two is when I find myself vibing too happily to the point that I somehow end up with a bill later that covers drinks for everyone.”
She recognizes that—before their contract signing last weekend, he had specifically asked her to watch out for him on that one. She’d assured him that it would be no problem, and it wouldn’t even cost additional since it’s technically already a part of her service. Under the “personal belongings surveillance” portion, she always makes sure that none of her clients sign any unwarranted bill. She figures it’s especially important for rich, important dudes like him.
“Stage three is when the alcohol really starts to hit in an ‘oh fuck, I’m drunk, how do I get home’ way, so I try to recover by smoking cigarettes.”
“Marlboro Ice.”
He raises an eyebrow. “How’d you know?”
“I recognized the scent when we met. So you smoke only when you’re really drunk?”
“Not even every time. So I guess that’s only stage 2.5. What about you?”
She deigns to share this one inconsequential detail about herself, “Only when I’m really nervous.”
“I can’t imagine you nervous.” He eyes her thoughtfully before continuing, “The real stage three was what you saw last week.”
“Your failed, drunken rendition of Pony?”
“My sexy rendition of Pony, according to you.” He laughs when she rolls her eyes. “Stage four is when I start to get horny. Must be all that dancing. Look at that, we match.” She immediately hates herself for noticing him wink right as she glances at the side mirror and turns into the parking lot.
“No flirting.”
“That wasn’t in the contract. There’s no harm to it, is there?”
She shrugs. “Stage five?” she asks once she’s parked the car.
“You make drinking sound like cancer.”
“It could be if you drink too much.” She can’t help a small laughter escape her when his face scrunches up in disgust, though, she figures, it probably has more to do with his next words.
“Stage five: wallowing. That’s when you’ll know you have to take me home.”
