That Blue Gibson: Etc.

White Claw

"Did you know..." she only pauses when he drops out of sight, blinking into the empty space long enough to wonder where he went before she feels him tugging at the ankle strap on her heel, "that those drinks have booze in them?"

"Which drinks?"

She can sense his frustration even though he's trying to mask his voice. 

The event had been an ordeal. Too much press, too many people wanting a moment with her or a conversation with him. He had been propped up in front of the cameras to present an award and then perform toward the end while she had run into some old friends, wives of other musicians she'd once spent an entire music festival with. And then, as if having aircraft landing lights blasted in their faces for three hours wasn't awful enough, they were obligated to appear at some executive's afterparty. By the time they untangled themselves and dropped into the back of the black SUV hired to take them home, they were exhausted. 

More so him than her. Still, his fingers fumble with the tiny silver buckle and slick leather, careful not to pinch her skin. 

"The ones from the bar by the pool," she offers, once again with precious little helpful information.

His head tilts back to look up at her and it's clear he's done masking now. "The canned ones," she trips over her words in a hurry to get them out, to smooth the line between his brows that scream he's irritated with her, "They were white? And silver."

She knows she's just described nearly every alcoholic beverage that's ever been pumped into an aluminum can and sighs, just as frustrated with herself as he seems to be. But his eyes widen just a bit and it seems he's distressed by the mystery he's unraveled, "How many did you have?"

"Seven."

He rears up from his spot on the carpet, the shoe he just freed her from dangling from his fingertip, "Seven?"

"Seven," she confirms and avoids his eyes by staring over his head at the wall of black band shirts hanging proudly, "before I was advised they have alcohol in them."

"How did you not-? Doesn't it say right on the can?"

"I sort of thought it was a serving suggestion."

His jaw goes a little slack, "Oh no."

"Yeah," she nods ruefully, "I was mixing them with vodka."

Her other shoe is unbuckled and tossed into the corner beside the jeans he'd worn that night while his hands splay over her hips in search of the zipper holding her skirt up, "You didn't think it was weird that they weren't mixing the drink for you?"

"I just thought it was like dinner, you know? Ikea style."

The air stills and the zipper stalls halfway down, but then he barks a laugh that makes her chest swell with pride. Earlier, they shared a glance when dinner had been set in front of them, a half baking sheet consisting of somewhat organized piles of cooked ingredients on waxed paper that required some creativity to assemble and consume.

"Goddamn hipster chefs," he grumbles and stands when her skirt pools to the floor at their bare feet, "Tonight was a fucking bust."

Really, it wasn't. There was an obscenely heavy glass figurine with his name on it sitting on the table next to the garage door that said otherwise, handed over on a big flashy stage by someone he really admired. He'd dismissed it as a suspiciously phallic-like boat anchor when he handed it over to her backstage for safe keeping, but she could tell by the way his smile didn't wane that he was proud. Though he wasn't about to admit any of that now.