25. Cherise
Chapter twenty-five
Cherise
The buzz killer in a security uniform marched back toward us. “Ma'am, if I have to ask you again to get off a table, I am going to have to escort you out of here.”
“Do I get to wear the handcuffs?” I asked sweetly, flashing a grin.
Brows pinched, he didn’t look amused.
Grace yanked my arm, her voice frantic. “What she meant was, it won’t happen again, officer.”
I sighed and stepped down, giving him my best “I’m totally innocent” smile.
“Thank you,” he muttered, already turning back.
“Alright, bitches,” I announced.
“DRANK!!!” Tessa yelled, pushing a shot glass toward me, giddy with energy.
I smirked damnit, caught me slipping. I downed the shot and continued, “Alright, LADIES,” I corrected, opening my glitter box and pulling back the secret compartment to reveal our next game.
“Is this box magic? How the hell did you fit all this shit in there?” Layla asked, staring in disbelief.
“I’m used to jamming things in small spaces,” I said, eliciting giggles from Grace and Chelsea. “Now focus, time for Dare to Drank. The rules are simple: do the dare or take the shot."
Tessa held up a hand. “After doing that scavenger hunt, I might just choose alcohol poisoning tonight. There is no way I am doing any dare that your unhinged ass has come up with.”
I threw her a cocky grin. “Fine. You either make a fool out of yourself doing these dares or make a fool out of yourself because you are spit drunk from refusing to do the dares. Take your pick. At the end of the day…I still win.”
The look of horror flicked across Tessa’s face.
I held up the first dare. “Grace, you’re up.” She groaned as I read, “Lick whipped cream off a stranger’s ab—.”
She downed her shot before I could even finish the sentence.
I guess she would never be that drunk.
Savannah snatched a card from the box. “Sniff a stranger and say, “Yup. This the one! Seriously, Cherise?”
“I mean, if you want to chicken out and take the cowardly way out, you can always take the shot.” I slowly slid the shot her way.
She tilted her head with an I’m better than everyone here smirk. “I never back down from a challenge.”
She shot up, a little wobble in her step, the alcohol already taking its toll, and walked right up to a guy standing near the edge of the bar.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a tight white tee that clung to his biceps. Hair gelled within an inch of his life. Full sleeve tattoo. Definitely someone who thought calling women “mama” was flirting.
Savannah sauntered up behind him, flipped her hair, and leaned in. She took a deep, theatrical inhale.
Then...
Immediately gagged.
Her whole body recoiled as if she’d just been slapped in the face. Her face twisted, eyes watered, and for a second, I genuinely thought she was going to vomit on the poor man’s Vans.
“Yup—this the one!” she shouted, voice crackling like a war cry before she spun on her heel and sprinted back to us.
We were already half-laughing, but when she collapsed onto the couch, fanning herself and looking traumatized, it was over.
“What happened?!” Grace asked between gasps of laughter. “Why the face?”
Savannah shook her head violently. “I think… I think he farted right before I got there.”
The table erupted. I mean—screaming, howling, tears streaming down our faces, laughter.
“I swear,” Savannah wheezed, “I can still taste it.”
I choked on my drink. Looking over at the guy who probably thought Savannah was calling him out for farting. His face was stop sign red, peeking over his shoulder, giving us an evil death stare. “Don’t look at us like that, you know what you did.” I cackled.
Layla was up next.
I grinned and plucked a card from the box, already excited. “Flirt with the bartender and try to get a free drink.”
Layla groaned. “Oh, God. Can’t I just lick a stranger? I am the absolute worst at flirting.”
“Nope,” I said, shoving her off the couch. “Flirt your way to hydration, baby.”
She straightened her top, smoothed her hair, and marched over to the bar. The rest of us trailed behind, crouching just far enough away to pretend we weren’t obviously eavesdropping.
Layla called the bartender over, then immediately forgot how words worked.
“Hi, um… do you like…ice?”
ICE!
Chelsea fell on the floor laughing. Grace had her face buried in her hands. Savannah was wheezing. I was just trying to film it without shaking too hard.
The poor bartender blinked, visibly confused. “Uh… yeah?”
Layla nodded as if she’d just unlocked a secret level. “Cool, cool. Me, too. So… you got any drinks that are…uh… cold? I love cold drinks.”
I had to bite my fist.
She stumbled through a few more humiliating sentences before finally giving up and slinking back over to us.
“That was so bad,” she hissed, cheeks burning. “I think I blacked out mid-sentence.”
“Did he at least give you a pity drink?” Grace asked.
“No, he gave me a receipt.”
But then… the bartender called her back over.
We all leaned forward.
He handed her a drink. Layla’s eyes lit up, but the bartender shook his head. “Not from me. He sent it.”
He nodded toward the far end of the bar.
We followed his gaze… and holy hell.
The guy was gorgeous. Beard trimmed. Designer clothes. And those lips? Made for kissing. He lifted his glass in Layla’s direction and smirked.
“Maybe he witnessed my utter failure and gave me a pity drink.” Layla frowned.
“Or... maybe he’s into you. Only one way to find out… I’m going in,” I declared, wobbling as I made my way to him on Layla’s behalf.
“Please don’t,” Layla begged behind me trying to grab for me, but I was already more than halfway there.
“Hi, hello, hi,” I said, leaning on the bar. “On a scale of one to Layla, how much do you like ice?”
He laughed. Actually laughed. That was a good sign.
I held out my hand. “I’m Cherise, her wing slash hype woman,” I added, motioning to where Layla was trying to melt into a potted plant.
He shook my hand. “She seems…fun.”
“She’s single,” I said with a wink, then leaned in. “And gainfully employed. That’s rare these days.” I wiggled my brows.
Layla yanked me back by the sash. “Enough,” she said, throwing a tight smile at the guy as she dragged me back toward the other girls. “Let's just finish the game. Who’s next?”
“Rude,” I muttered. “I was trying to get you laid.”
“By mortifying me?”
I shrugged. “Tomato, to-mah-to.”
We huddled back at our section, plopping back into the couch.
“All right,” I said, already reaching into the dare box. “Next victim-Chelsea!”
Chelsea’s eyes went wide. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m still recovering from kissing a sweaty bald guy trauma.”
Ignoring her completely, I yanked out a card and read it with dramatic flair. “Ooooh. This one’s juicy.”
She groaned. “I swear, Cherise, if this one involves stripping—”
“Relax. It says: Send a flirty voice memo to your ex.”
Chelsea snatched the nearest tequila bottle and took the longest, slowest drink I’ve ever seen in my life.
“No, thank you,” she said, wiping her mouth. “I choose my dignity.”
“Oh, come on!” I teased. “You used to be wild!”
“I used to have cartilage in my knees, too. We grow. We evolve.”
“Y'all are such squares,” I said, laughing as I shook the dare box like a bottle of dice. “Next up… me.”
I reached in, pulled a card, and immediately winced. “Oh, hell, no.”
“What does it say?” Grace asked, leaning in with a suspicious smile.
“It says not happening.” I grabbed my drink and tilted it toward my lips.
“Uh-uh!” Chelsea interrupted, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “You jumped down my throat when I wanted to take the drink.”
I paused mid-sip, squinting at her.
“She’s right,” Layla added, stifling a laugh. “You were all where’s your sense of adventure, and now you're tapping out like a baby.”
I slammed the shot back down on the table so hard that the lime wedge did a half-flip.
“You know what? Fine. I’m buzzed enough for this.”
The girls whopped as if I’d just volunteered as tribute.
“What’s the dare?” Grace asked, bracing herself.
I took a deep breath. “Fake an orgasm. In the middle of the dance floor.”
There was a split-second of stunned silence—and then mayhem.
Layla fell into Grace’s shoulder, cackling. Chelsea choked on her drink. Savannah’s eyes lit up.
“You have to do it,” Tessa wheezed.
“Of course I do,” I said, already standing. “And you already know I’m giving Oscar-level drama.”
We pushed through the crowd to the center of the dance floor. The DJ was mid-beat drop. Lights flickered like strobe confetti. I threw my hands up and let out the most over-the-top, high-pitched, breathy moan you’ve ever heard in your life.
“Oh-YES-YESSS- right there… THIS IS MY SHIT!”
People actually started cheering. One guy tossed a napkin in the air like a victory flag.
I dropped into a squat, hands on my knees, and popped my ass three times, twirled back up, and struck a final pose. The girls screamed from the edge of the floor, doubled over laughing.
By the time I made it back to the booth, I was breathless.
“Your move, Tessa,” I panted, flopping into the seat and stealing someone’s water.
Tessa looked pale.
“Oh no,” she said. “No, no, no. I am not topping that!”
“Uh uh,” I said, snatching the dare box and shaking it in front of her face. “Pick a card.”
Tessa pulled her dare card and immediately gave me the mom glare. You know, the one that says I have five kids and zero patience for your shenanigans…But I love to test that limit.
“Oh no,” she muttered, holding the card out in terror.
“What does it say?” I asked sweetly, already cracking up.
She sighed. “It says: Find a stranger, give them your best baby voice, and ask if they’ve seen your imaginary emotional support lizard, Mr. Wiggles.”
Layla snorted. “This one is perfect for you, Tessa! With five kids, I’m sure you have your baby voice down pat by now.”
“I hate you all,” Tessa deadpanned, then she stood.
We cheered, readying her for battle.
She scoped the bar and locked in on some poor, unsuspecting guy in a backwards hat and tank top.
“Excuse me,” she said, waddling up to him in the most high-pitched, toddler-tone feral voice. “Have you seen my wittle wizard fwiend? His name’s Mister Wiggles and he's so shy.”
I legit dropped to my knees. Grace fell against me wheezing.
The guy blinked, confusion written all over his face, and the man actually looked under the bar before answering, “I—I haven’t seen—uh...”
Before he could finish, she gasped dramatically. “Oh my gawd! You stepped on him, didn’t you?! He’s flat now!”
Damn, she was really selling it.
She burst into fake sobs and ran back to us, face flaming red, barely able to breathe through laughter. “No one breathes a word of this.”
“Mr. Wiggles would be proud,” Grace said solemnly, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Okay, ladies, you have officially survived boot camp.” Everyone clapped and cheered. “Next up,” I declared, dramatically pointing at Grace, “is our Lady of the Night’s choice. Queen Grace, I now place the evening in your lovely hands. You have two options.”
I held up two fingers and wiggled them.
“One: We stay here, get a few more drinks, and dance like nobody’s filming us for blackmail. Or two…” I paused for effect, and the girls leaned in. “We leave this fine establishment… and end the night at…drumroll please—a male strip club.”
Gasps. Squeals. Bitten fist.
Grace blinked, tipsy and flushed, mascara slightly smudged. “Wait… like Magic Mike?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Only sweatier and with worse choreography.”
Grace looked around the group, swaying just a bit. “Do they actually strip, or is it like…shirtless mime work?”
“I say we find out.” Savannah chimed in, already on her phone.
But Grace raised her hand. “Wait, wait. I choose…”
She grinned, wobbled slightly, then pointed to the DJ booth. “Option one. We stay. We dance. We drink. And then—if we’re still alive—we take the party wherever the wind blows.”
“Respect.” I nodded. “A true queen’s decision.”
Next thing I knew, we were on our feet, heading to the dance floor, ready to let loose, laugh harder, and make memories we’d probably forget by morning but feel in our knees for the rest of the trip.
***
Two hours later, I was drunk, crying in the lounge bathroom with one shoe missing, eyeliner on my shoulder, and Leo on my mind.
I had no idea how I got here.
But there were clues.
One: My phone was in my bra.
Two: My left heel was awol.
Three: My lip gloss tube was somehow in my hair, and I could hear Layla screaming “Mr. Wiggles!” from somewhere in the distance.
I slid down the bathroom stall wall, plopping down on the cold tile floor in a pile of fabric and feelings. My phone slipped out of my bra with a dramatic thud onto the floor between my legs.
I stared at it.
Then I whispered, “Screw it,” and grabbed it.
Thinking was far from my mind. I just clicked Leo’s contact, pressed call, and waited.
It rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
I was about to chicken out when the voicemail picked up.
That’s when I spilled my entire damn heart. If you haven’t picked up on it yet, I am an emotional drunk.
Others giggled, some got angry and wanted to fight. I word vomit every feeling that I am able to hold back behind my armor when I am sober. I mean, everything comes spilling out.
What did I say? Honestly? Not a damn clue. Whatever I said, it was messy. Emotional. Way too real.
Then I dropped my phone, let it slide across the bathroom floor, and let my head thunk against the stall wall.
“Night night,” I whispered to absolutely no one.
And passed out cold.