“Heey, hey, hey… damn Addie, damn.”
These words came out of my mouth, but I wasn’t trying to speak them. I couldn’t control my words—and not in the sense of “I’m so drunk, I’m going to swear like I have Tourette’s and confess all my secrets.”
I felt like I had no control of my vocal cords as the words slurred out.
How many mixed drinks—fucking tatankas, Obi was right about them—had I had? I asked this question many times. The number I reached the first time was four. But then I remembered a couple of shots Addie and I took, so it was at least six. In all likelihood, it was above that.
All of it was moot as I had Addie glued against my hips, grinding to the beats of the different house beats that reverberated through the club. I let her lean her head back over my left shoulder, soaking in an environment unlike anything she had experienced before. My hands stayed on her hips, and occasionally slid down her legs, but never up her legs.
The room spun like a blender whenever I tried to focus my eyes. I was leaning on Addie as much as I was dancing with her. Every so often, Addie would turn around and get that look in her eyes that suggested devilish intentions. But then she would giggle, maybe even wink at me, and turn back around. It was a fun cat-and-mouse game, where the mouse kept chirping at me to come and seize it. But the cat was wobbly and was going to wait until the mouse rolled over to make its surrender to the seduction clear.
As 2 a.m. approached, Addie whirled around, her hair flowing behind like a shampoo commercial. She grabbed my hand.
“Marcus, can we get a drink?”
I nodded, a huge grin forming on my face.
“But I don’t want vodka, is it OK if we get a rum and coke?”
I looked at her seriously, trying to imply I was insulted. Then I chuckled, patted her cheek gently, and said, “of course.”
When I patted her cheek, her eyes fluttered, as if she wanted to kiss me. But sometimes, the cat gets bored when he knows the mouse is easily captured, and wants to continue the game. So I pulled her out of the dance floor and to the bar.
I immediately cursed myself out halfway there.
I found the bar in the back room where our table was. There was no wait.
“Hey ya, ‘tender,” I said, leaning on the bar for support.
“Lemme uhhh, lemme getta two, two rum cokes please?”
I turned to Addie. God, she was beautiful. Such dreamy eyes, elegant smile, perfect demeanor, great body. It was so easy to get caught up in a woman when the alcohol elevated the dopamine—or something like that, I thought, trying to think intelligently under the influence.
“$40,” the bartender said.
The fuck?!?
“$40 for two drinks? Seriously?”
The bartender nodded, having anticipated my question. The look on her face was the same as Jason’s.
Fucking bullshit, I thought. $20 per mixed drink? LAX charged $12 at the most. Twenty. Fucking. Dollars.
The club scene was fun, but I was through with this shit if this was going to happen again.
I sighed, fumbled my wallet, pulled out my credit card and paid the tab.
I grabbed the drink and handed it to Addie with a forced smile on my face.
“Girl, you better love this, it cost more than our table,” I said.
