“I bet they won’t card.” He motions to a store selling blended cocktails.
My eyes go wide. Those drinks are huge. “Do people really drink all that?”
He nods yeah. “It’s mostly sugar.”
“Is that better?” It’s totally out of the question.
“When you’re drunk, yeah.”
“You drink.”
“It’s true.” His laugh is easy.
“Why?”
“Why?”
“What’s the appeal? I get that people do it. That it’s a social thing, but—”
“Your brother’s always getting sloppy drunk?” he asks.
I swallow hard. It isn’t just that. More that I’m afraid of losing control. “You think so too?”
“Yeah.” His voice gets serious. More serious than normal. “Everyone does.”
“Oh.”
“It’s normal. For his age.”
Maybe. “He’s the same age as you.”
“Six months younger,” he says.
“That makes you wiser?”
He nods hell yeah. “You disagree?”
No, actually. There’s something about Holden. Unconventional methods, sure, but—”you seem to know what you’re doing.”
He stops in front of a tequila store. Open door. Dark room filled with bottles. Clear liquor. Amber ones. Honey ones. “You’ve drank before.”
“Yeah.” A few times. Mostly in his presence, actually.
“Remember that party?”
“You can remember a specific party?”
He chuckles. Taps his head. “I remember three things. Tattoos, parties, women. Everything else—” he makes that whoosh motion.
“Uh-huh.”
He nods uh-huh. “You drank that whole cup of rum and diet. Then a second.”
“It wasn’t that strong.”
“True.” He leads me past the tequila shop. Along the boardwalk. “How did you feel?”
“Floaty.”
“Specifically…”
Like I was going to blurt out I need you and climb on top of him. “Uh… More free, I guess.”
“That’s what people like. The loss of inhibitions.”
It’s what I want. I just have to ask him. Somehow. “You?”
“Oh, I don’t need alcohol for that.” His eyes pass over my body. “I don’t have them.”
“Never?”
He holds up his index finger and thumb a little. “You okay in that wet thing?”
“I’m pretty dry now.” My gaze follows his body. He’s still wearing that tank top, but it’s low enough I can see the Latin quote.
I want to touch it.
Something is stopping me.
Sense. Reason. Fear of embarrassment.
If I was drunk, tipsy even, it would be different. Maybe I’d touch him. Maybe I’d know what it means to feel free and uninhibited.
Is that the solution?
It seems wrong. Like some kind of shortcut that will backfire.
“How do you do it?” I ask. “How do you live without inhibitions?”
“Just do.”
“Could you teach me?”
He makes a show of scratching his head. “Teach you to forget your inhibitions?”
“Yeah.” My teeth sink into my bottom lip. Maybe there’s a better way to ask this. One that doesn’t give my secrets away. “Or is that stupid?”
“Not stupid.” He runs his hand through his hair. “More… difficult.”
“Are you saying you can’t handle it?” I make it as teasing as I can.
He just barely chuckles. “Is that really what you want?”
“Yeah. I want to feel free. Like you.”
He gives me a long, slow once-over. “You want to be like me?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“You’re going to Berkeley. You’ll probably graduate with a 4.0, get a great job, marry some guy who can afford a house in Bel Air.”
“Why can’t I be the one who affords the house in Bel Air?”
“You’ll afford it together. With your combined salaries. He’ll wear a suit to work. Have paid paternity leave. Splurge on vacations to European cities with tons of history.”
“Who says I like guys who wear suits and take fancy vacations?”
His eyes stop on my chest. For a second. Then he meets my gaze. “What kind of guys do you like?”
“I, uh…” I swallow hard.
“If you were me, you’d—fuck.” He shakes his head. “I’ve already said too much.”
“So?”
“So this is what you get when you drop your inhibitions.”
“What?” I ask.
“Trouble.”
“You’re afraid of trouble?”
“No.” His eyes pass over me again. But faster. “But I care about some things.”
“My brother.”
“Yeah.”
“And how he’ll kill you if you touch me.”
His eyes meet mine. “I’m not going to touch you.”
My stomach twists. He’s so sure of that. And what am I going to do? It’s not like I want to trick him, wear him down, somehow manipulate him into touching me.
I only want it if he wants it too.
If we’re both lucid enough to decide.
“I know.” I try to make my voice even. Easy. Like I don’t care. “I’m not stupid.”
“Good.” His eyes move to the bar across the street. “If you were me, you wouldn’t take that. You’d pin me to the wall, put your hand right here”—he places his hand on the waistband of his board shorts—”say some shit like okay, I’ll drop it if you can look me in the eyes right now, and tell me you don’t want me.”
“Are you advising me…” Is he telling me he wants me? He is. But then. “You want me?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“But you… is that a dare?”
“No.”
“It is.”
He drops his hand. “If I wanted you to touch me, I’d ask.”
“Say please touch me, Daisy.”
“Yeah. With different words.”
I try to find the words. Something dirty enough to make an impression.