Billionaire Beast

“Yeah,” I tell him. “What’d you get me?”

“Cola,” he says. “Now, let’s see this shot.”

I scoff and take both the shot and chaser in my hand.

“Take a deep breath,” he says. “Hold it in and don’t let it out until you’re drinking the chaser.”

“You’re acting like I’ve never taken a shot before.”

“Have you?”

I’d rather not answer that question, so I take a deep breath and down the shot of vodka. It’s a sensation unlike anything else I’ve experienced.

It’s not a pleasant one.

“Here,” Mike says, patting my cola hand, spilling a little in the process. “Sip it slow so you don’t get a ton of carbonation in your stomach.”

I do as instructed, trying to make my expression portray nonchalance. That falls apart as I take a short breath before the vodka taste is completely out of my mouth.

“Hold your breath,” he says. “Drink the soda.”

He’s laughing.

Mike and I became pen pals when I got back to Waterloo.

He’d given me his phone number and address in case I found myself lost again. We’ve always been closer friends than anyone I ever spent time with back home.

When Dad died, he was the one who got me through it.

Now, though, he’s laughing at me, and I kind of want to punch him in the face.

By the time I get halfway through the cola, Mike puts his hand on the glass.

“That’s more than enough,” he says. “You don’t want to get sick.”

“I thought that was the point of the chaser.”

“The point of the chaser—” he sighs. “Who cares? You did it! You took your first shot!”

The people at and around the bar look over at me with surprise and confusion. It doesn’t help matters that Mike’s holding his hands above his head like I’ve just accomplished the unthinkable.

“Now,” he says, “do you still want that sunrise? Really, I’m just looking forward to those two shots.”

I was hoping he’d forgotten about the other drink.

“Two shots?” I ask.

Maybe if I keep talking, I won’t gag.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’ve still only finished one of the drinks you ordered. If you don’t drink the other one, it’ll take you one shot to be even, one shot as the spoils of my victory.”

“First off, your math there is a little fuzzy. Second, I can’t drink that now,” I tell him. “It’s been sitting on the bar, barely guarded, just waiting for a roofie.”

“You are so full of shit,” he says, “but that’s all right. I’ll take the free drinks.”

I didn’t bring that much money.

New York still kind of freaks me out, so I only brought enough for cab fare, club cover, and a couple of drinks. If I don’t want to walk home or have Mike pay my way, I’m going to have to down that other drink.