Chapter 12 #3
Raisa doesn’t blink. She raises her mic and says, “Great question! If someone on your team can’t han-dill the Brine-infused vodka shots, they’ll need to take a shot and a half of the Dandy instead.
These are maple rye.” She holds up one of the smaller bottles on the table for the rest of the room to see.
“And remember, we have plenty of nonalcoholic options available for those who’d rather refrain, like my own sweet bride.
” She winks across the room at a woman I recognize as Posy from the Wild Gherkin Chase, who blushes.
“Though, I’ll warn you, the apple-ginger Dandy still packs a punch, and it’ll clear your sinuses. ”
Griffin exhales. “Thank fuck. Maple rye sounds fine.”
Ames huffs into his beer. His laugh’s thin, but it’s better than the hollow smile he’s been wearing. His eyes keep darting toward the back door like he’s trying not to look.
“Everything okay, Ames?” I ask, low enough for only him to hear.
He takes a breath and nods. “Just… you know. Rob and I won the Brine and Dandy last year, so I thought… but it’s fine! Really. I’m going to have fun,” he says, like a man being led to a guillotine. But it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it, so I frown and nod.
I meet Holden’s eyes across the bar and tilt my head toward Ames. Holden nods back, and I know I can trust him to make sure Ames gets home safely. I’m swamped with affection for these fuckers. I love knowing I can rely on them.
Then a bell clangs, and Raisa’s voice is back. “Okay, round one! Do your Brine shots, and then… show your skills with the garnish toss! Land two pickles on your target, or get Brined again!”
Ames and Ry toss back their shots of Brine, while I pour three shots of rye. When I’m done pouring, I slide one of the glasses to Griffin.
“You don’t like pickles either?” he demands.
I shrug. “I don’t care one way or the other. But if I’m going to win—and I am—I’m gonna make sure it’s fair and not because you’re a lightweight.”
Griffin’s face morphs into a mixture of insult and… fondness. And I decide, as I knock back two of the three shots, then guzzle a glass of water, that’s a win.
When Griffin realizes I took his half shot, the look on his face intensifies and warms my belly more than the liquor.
Volunteers come around again with a basket of pickle chips and cocktail toothpicks stuck to a foam board, and suddenly, the bar is a giant cafeteria food fight, with grown adults in various states of inebriation hurling pickle slices at the targets and also at each other.
Ames tosses two without looking and lands them both. So do I. Ry tosses so hard, both his pickle slices fly off the table. Griffin appears to be calculating the trajectory of his shots. He lands one but not the other.
He and Ry take their penalty shots. Griffin, who’s now had two and a half shots in ten minutes, coughs and sputters.
“Y’okay?” I demand.
“Dandy,” he says, sticking his chin high in the air.
Someone at the table next to ours overhears and repeats it to his teammates. They all howl, like it’s the wittiest thing they’ve heard in years, and yell, “That’s the spirit, Griffin.”
I roll my eyes because come on, but I feel my face stretch into a grin against my will.
Griffin’s pun doesn’t get me, but his chin tilt does.
“You look ridiculous right now,” I mutter, reaching out a finger to flick that raised chin.
Hazel eyes flick to mine. “And yet you keep looking.”
True.
Round two is the Brine-Balance Sprint. Think tape line on the floor, mini gherkin on a spoon held high above our heads, and, once again, a bunch of people who have jobs and mortgages and the right to vote taking turns racing around the bar.
Ry goes first, tongue between his teeth, one arm holding the spoon high and the other out for balance. Ames takes the spoon from him and does his lap, steady as a metronome.
Griffin’s three and a half shots in at this point, and when his turn comes, I see his hands aren’t particularly steady. I move in behind him without thinking, my palm hovering over his lower back as he lifts the pickle spoon above his head.
“Short steps,” I advise.
He shifts just enough to lean into my hand. “Bossy,” he murmurs.
He makes it around without losing his pickle—yes, I hear myself; no, I cannot believe it—and when he hands me the spoon, our fingers brush in a way that hits me harder than alcohol.
Somehow, my hands think Griffin’s back, his skin, are their jurisdiction.
When I finish the round with no calamities, Ames laughs.
“That summer you spent impersonating a tree’s really paying off there, bruh.” He lifts his own arms like distorted branches until I fling a leftover pickle chip at him, and he dissolves into tipsy laughter again.
“You did what?” Griffin demands.
“Grandpa Syrup, the sugar maple,” Ames explains gleefully as I look around for more pickle chips to shut him up. “The kids loved him.”
“It was in college,” I say, still glaring at Ames. “My mom’s friend runs the Koasek Highlands Tourism and Visitors’ Center, and they gave me a small scholarship that came with certain… obligations.”
Ames pipes up in an obnoxiously deep voice, “‘Grandpa Syrup says, I’mmmm rooting for you, kids!’ Go on, sing us the photosynthesis song.”
I clamp my mouth shut, hot with embarrassment. Was I feeling fond of my siblings? I take it all back.
Griffin’s already holding his stomach, doubled over with laughter. Ry’s eyes are filled with wonder.
“I get my energy from the sun! It helps me grow and have some fun!” Ames sings.
“Oh my gosh! Could you write that down for me?” Ry demands. “My students would love it.”
Griffin laughs so hard he can’t catch his breath. “That is the best thing I’ve ever, ever heard,” he gasps, leaning his head against my arm.
And I decide maybe it wasn’t so embarrassing after all.
Round three somehow gets even sillier, which I truly didn’t think was possible.
“Tilly-Dilly Tongue Twisters!” Raisa announces. “You need to read the words on your card three times, no mistakes.”
“Easy,” Griffin says as I sneak the extra shot away from him again. Three times, he repeats, “Six slick Big Dills downed a dainty Dandy.”
Ry can’t get through it without spraying vinegary consonants all over our table and ends up taking his punishment shot. Ames doesn’t even try. He reaches for the rye and tosses back a couple of shots like he’s decided to just get hammered.
When it’s my turn, I get through two rounds before Griffin, who’s tipsy as fuck and adorable with it, starts giggling at me.
“Sorry, sorry!” he gasps, face flushed. “It’s just… your mouth… saying those words… I can’t not laugh.”
He’s doubled over, so his arm’s pressed against mine. The citrus-smoky fragrance of him is all around me, and once again, the noise starts to fade. It’s just him and me in this bar, and he’s so fucking beautiful. I want to tell him—
“Come on,” Ry encourages me. “Say the words.”
It takes me a minute to realize what the fuck he’s talking about, and then my own face heats.
“Sex slick dills—” I begin.
Ames barks out a laugh and claps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, bro—”
“Awww.” Griffin leans over and pats my thigh in commiseration. His eyes are warm and teasing. “I thought you were better with your tongue than that, Axford.”
I clench my teeth against the need to remind him just how good I can be with my tongue. But when I lean forward to take my punishment shots, Griffin’s hand slides up my thigh, his fingers curling around, clenching into my muscle, and he doesn’t move it.
Heat knifes through me so fast I forget to breathe. I look down at his long, capable fingers, then up at him. He doesn’t pull back. He watches me watch him, chin tilted, cheeks rosy.
Okay. Fuck.
“Y’okay?” he asks, soft and smart-assed all at once.
“Dandy,” I breathe, for his ears only. And I lay my palm over his knuckles, not to move him but to keep him.
Round four is “Pickle Pong”—basically beer pong, but with miniature mason jars and pickle juice instead of beer. The goal is to land ping-pong balls in your teammates’ jars, and if you miss all three shots, you drink.
Griffin’s gotten progressively more relaxed as the night’s gone on, his usual sharp edges softened by alcohol and what I’m starting to see is genuine enjoyment.
When he leans over the table to line up his first shot, I find myself studying the curve of his spine, the way his sweater rides up just enough to show a sliver of pale skin.
“Focus, city boy,” I taunt.
“I am focused,” he shoots back, not taking his eyes off the target. But his first shot bounces off the rim, and his second goes wide.
“You’re trying to get in my head,” he announces, straightening. Since I’m still sitting on my stool, he’s a couple of inches taller than me, and I can tell he’s enjoying that.
I feel like this is only fair since I can’t get him out of mine, but I simply smirk. “Is it working?”
Griffin narrows his eyes, sets his shoulders, and goes back to lining up his third shot. “You know, my Aunt Jill was a drill instructor in the Marines. Before I went to college, she and Aunt Della decided they didn’t want me getting hustled by frat boys, so they taught me beer pong.”
“Yeah?” I say, intrigued despite myself.
“But Aunt Jill stood behind me the whole time yelling, ‘YOU THROW LIKE MY GRANDMOTHER’S POODLE!’ at the top of her lungs.” He grins at the memory. “She said if I could sink shots while she was screaming at me, college boys would be easy.” He bends over and lines up his shot again.
“YOU THROW LIKE MY GRANDMOTHER’S POODLE!” I bellow suddenly.
The whole bar turns to look at me, but Griffin doesn’t flinch. His shot lands with a satisfying plunk.
“Yes! Told you! Suck it, Axford.” He spins around, grinning, and stumbles slightly.
Without thinking, I catch him around the waist, and for a breath, we’re pressed together—his hands on my shoulders, my hands at his waistband just under his sweater.