Page 20

Chapter twenty

Mike

I had exactly three questions before walking into this bar.

One: How drunk am I expected to get?

Two: How much of my personal life will be dissected?

And three, most importantly: How painful is this going to be?

I turned to Elliot, sitting in the driver’s seat of his truck, watching me with a suspiciously amused expression. “So,” I said, gripping the handle of my door but making no move to get out. “How bad is this gonna be?”

Elliot pretended to ponder.

Then, with the straightest face possible, he said, “Well, Omar will probably grill you about your job and make vague threats about what will happen if you hurt me. Sisi will flirt with you just to see if she can get a reaction. Guard your crotch—that’s where she wants the reaction.”

“And Matty?”

Elliot shrugged. “Matty will absolutely ask about your dick.”

I blinked. “I—my what?”

“Oh,” Elliot continued, deadpan. “And they will judge everything you say, everything you drink, and every answer you give during trivia.”

“Wait—”

“Think of it as Hunger Games for first meetings. Only time will tell if you are Katniss or one of the dead kids.” He thought a moment, then added, “Oh, one more thing. They have a long-standing tradition where the newest person has to do a dramatic reading of the worst answer they submit. So, you know, prepare yourself.”

I stared at him.

He stared back, nary a hint of a smile or any other expression on his infuriatingly handsome, utterly blank face.

“You’re lying,” I accused.

He shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Elliot.”

He opened his door. “Come on. Time to meet the pack.”

I groaned. I was going to die here.

The second we stepped inside, chaos ensued.

“There he is!” a brown-haired girl I assumed was Sisi called, lifting her beer, her eyes glinting with pure mischief. Standing and extending an open palm, she gestured and intoned, “Bring me the sacrifice.”

Omar took one glance at me, exhaled through his nose like a disappointed father, and went back to his drink.

Matty clapped his fingertips like some maniacal Disney villain who’d just spotted his evening meal. “Okay, first question—does he have a twin? Because if so, dibs.”

I blinked. “I—”

Elliot scoffed. “Matty, Jesus.”

Omar growled. “Wedding ring trumps dibs. There will be no coupling with Mike’s twin.”

Matty ignored him. “Fine, second question—dick size. Cut or uncut. Ridges like a Snickers bar or smooth?”

I choked on my own spit. They’d not even let me order a drink or sample a chicken wing before attacking.

Elliot groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Matty, no.”

“Matty, yes.” Matty grinned. “Besides, it’s not like I asked how his precum tastes. That would’ve been rude at a first meeting.” Then, turning to me, he added, “ Tell me if you want, now that it’s out there.”

“Oh, God,” Elliot muttered. “I knew this was a mistake.”

I coughed into my fist, trying to regain composure. “Uh. Hi. Nice to meet you all.”

Sisi smirked, propping her chin on her hand. “Oh, I like him. He’s cute, and he thinks there’s no need for fear. How adorable.”

Omar finally looked up, watching, assessing.

I met his gaze, steady, unblinking.

He nodded, once.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Apparently, I had at least passed some Omar stare-down test.

Ten minutes later, drinks in hand, we were seated around a high-top table, waiting for the first round of trivia to begin. I cowered on my stool, having been thoroughly vetted throughout the first round of drinks. The gang’s relentless questions finally quieted as Sisi stood, raised her glass toward Elliot, and spoke in a formal, stilted voice.

“We are gathered here tonight to celebrate the life of our dear friend and brother, Elliot Hart, as he embarks on a grand adventure.”

“Grand adventure?” I leaned in and whispered in Elliot’s ear. “What’s she talking about?”

Sisi ignored me. “This time next week, our lumbering ox will cross the border of a distant land, entering the People’s Republic of Florida to assist the poor souls impacted by the Great Storm. He may face bandits. He may fight demons. There might even be a dragon or two. Yet, our hero bears the Sword of Truth.”

“More like the baseball bat of death, if Grindr is to be believed,” Matty quipped.

Omar nearly doubled over.

Sisi continued. “Whether by his sword or with his mighty bat, our mountain of a man must prevail. He must secure the peace in said foreign land, escape without his books—or the rest of him—being burned. He must help little old ladies retrieve wayward pets, while avoiding damage to his mighty bat atop rough-hewn poles.”

“Hail the bat!” Matty cried.

Sisi nodded solemnly. “Yes, hail the bat.”

Elliot covered his face, careful to avoid any eye contact—with anyone—and groaned.

I snickered. Fucking traitor.

“Here’s to our unsung hero, the Rising Son of our story, He Who Shall Overcome, Elliot Dragonheart!”

“Here, here!” Omar cheered, raising his glass.

“Is there a spanking in this story? I need a spanking!” Matty added.

And then they drank. And the toast was over.

“What’s all that about?” I asked once Sisi and the others were distracted with whatever music was blaring over the speakers.

“Sorry, I forgot to tell you. I’m on hurricane recovery. They’re sending me to Florida for a few weeks, maybe a little longer if it’s really bad,” Elliot said.

My face drained of color. “Is that safe? Will you be all right?”

Elliot smiled. The bastard could tell I was worried. I watched as something in his chest unknotted, as though no one had ever worried about him going on a trip before. He leaned forward like he wanted to kiss me right there, but the gravitational pull that was Sisi held him in place.

Instead, he simply said, “It’s cleanup and restoration. I’ll be fine. Think of it as more of my day job, a lot more.”

I tried to relax, though something in my gaze must’ve told him I wasn’t entirely convinced.

Matty tapped his pen against the table—over and over and over—until he had all our attention. “Okay, game plan. Elliot is good at geography, Omar is solid on history, Sisi knows pop culture—”

I cleared my throat.

They all looked at me.

I shrugged. “I, uh . . . I’m kind of a trivia nerd.”

Sisi raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Omar leaned in slightly. “How nerdy are we talking?”

The host grabbed the mic, and the music stopped. “All right, teams! Time to turn in those names. What should we call you tonight? Five minutes before we begin.”

“So,” I said, “what’s the team name?”

Matty perked up. “I suggested ‘Elliot Hart’s Big Fat—’”

“No,” Elliot cut in.

Sisi grinned. “I liked ‘Trivia Newton John.’”

“Also no,” Elliot sighed.

Omar leaned forward, finally weighing in. “I stand by ‘Bitch Better Have Answers.’”

I laughed. “Okay, that one’s solid.”

Elliot gave me a betrayed look.

I shrugged. “Hey, democracy.”

“Fine, you go turn that in,” he growled, though a smile parted his lips.

The moment my butt hit the stool again, the host barked, “All right, teams! Let’s get started with round one!”

The first question flashed on the screen, and the host read:

“In what year did the Ottoman Empire officially dissolve?”

Matty groaned. “Shit, history. Omar?”

Omar tilted his head. “Uh . . . 1922?”

I was already writing. “1923, technically.”

Omar blinked. “Excuse me?”

Matty leaned over to look at my writing. “Wait, is that right?”

The answer popped up on the screen.

1923.

Omar’s head snapped toward me.

Sisi grinned. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Next question.

“What is the national flower of Scotland?”

Sisi perked up. “Oh! I know this! Thistle!”

I was already writing.

“Actually, it’s the Scotch thistle. There are over two hundred species, so it’s probably best we are as specific as possible.”

Elliot’s mouth fell open.

The answer popped up.

Scotch thistle.

Guys and gals at neighboring tables tossed their answer sheets in frustration. Those who’d thought they’d answered correctly had left off the “Scotch” part, just like we would’ve had I not worked my magic.

Matty gasped. “HE’S A WITCH!”

“BURN HER!” Omar added to the Monty Python imitation.

Sisi slowly turned toward Elliot. “Where the hell did you find this one?”

Elliot smirked, full of pride. “Told you he was smart.”

Next question.

“Who was the first person to reach the South Pole?”

Omar hummed. “I wanna say . . . Shackleton?”

“Amundsen,” I muttered, already writing.

The answer popped up.

Roald Amundsen.

Sisi stood. Physically stood.

Matty slammed his hands on the table and screeched, “WHAT IS HAPPENING?”

The game continued.

“What is the only U.S. state with a one-syllable name?”

I blurted without thinking, “Maine.”

“What’s the rarest blood type in the world?”

“AB,” Elliot said.

“AB negative,” I corrected.

“Who wrote The Picture of Dorian Gray ?”

“Omar something,” Sisi said.

Omar laughed. “Was not me.”

“Oscar Wilde,” I answered.

Matty collapsed onto Omar like a wilted flower. “I can’t take this.”

Omar stared at me. “I am both terrified and aroused.”

Sisi leaned over to Elliot. “Again I ask, where did you find him, and does he have a brother?”

Elliot grinned, his eyes locked on me, expression so goddamn pleased I felt it in my spine.

He leaned in, voice low and growly, just for me, “You’re so getting laid for this.”

I choked on my drink.

Matty frowned. “Hey! No secret whispers! What did he say?”

I cleared my throat, fighting my grin. “Uh. Nothing.”

Sisi’s eyes narrowed. “It was definitely something.”

Elliot just took a sip of his beer, eyes twinkling with mischief.

And suddenly, I had never wanted to win a trivia game so bad in my entire goddamn life.