Page 12 of Cognac Secrets
“Fuck no,” I said. “You maybe want to hand over my fuckin’ keys?”
“Bro, ain’t none of us fuckin’ seen you like that before,” he said and he settled in on his bike. I knew this wasn’t going away. That he was going to be stubborn.
I shook my head and said, “It’s fine. Just some shit from my life before. Nothing to worry about. Just got up in my feelings or some shit. That’s all. She reminded me of someone I knew. Someone who died. I was drunk as fuck. It won’t happen again.”
He eyed me and said, “We all had lives before the club. Whatever yours looked like, it must have been some heavy shit with that Mia woman.”
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose, my hangover headache worsening.
“Fuck, you’re hungover as shit,” Saint declared, laughing. “C’mon, let’s get you inside and some fuckin’ sports drink in you, maybe some water, too. I’ll make sure it doesn’t make you drunk again before I give you back your key.”
“Thanks,Mom,” I muttered and he barked another laugh, getting up off his bike.
“So, what happened with her anyway if you didn’t fuck her?” he asked as we went into the club.
“That’s a long and very weird story,” I said wearily.
“Like we ain’t got nothing but time,” he said.
“Who were you fucking?” I demanded, and he lifted a shoulder in a shrug as he went around the bar and reached under the counter, tearing off a red electrolyte drink off one of the packs we kept under there.
“Just some bayou bunny,” he said. “Looks good until she fuckin’ smiles – poor bitch.”
“Yeah, I don’t know how you do it when they have bad teeth,” I said with a shudder.
“Just turn ‘em around, rail ‘em from behind.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re fucked up,” I said with a laugh.
He shrugged and said honestly, “Doesn’t bother me unless their teeth are fucked up ‘cause she’s Crystal Methany from Trailer-Town USA. Sometimes it ain’t her fault. We can’t all have good genetics.”
“You’re a better man than I,” I said, raising the plastic bottle he slid me in salute before cracking it open and downing half its contents in three big swallows.
He placed his hands against the bar and leaned on them heavily.
“Man, we got church this afternoon. Why don’t you crash on one of the couches and grab some fuckin’ shut-eye? No sense in riding home only to ride right back here.”
“What’re you going to do then?” I asked.
“Ride back home, get me another poke or two in, then ride my ass back here.”
“Thought so,” I grunted.
“You get her real name?” he asked me.
“Sandrine,” I said. “Her friends call her Sandy.”
“She was hot,” he said and I shook my head.
“Pretty sure if last night proved anything, it proved I’m too much of a hot fuckin’ mess for anything serious right now.”
“Who said anything about serious?” he asked and pushed back from the bar, standing up to every inch of his six-foot-ridiculous height.
“Get my key back, Serge?” I asked him.
He chuckled. “I ain’t even got it. LaCroix does. You’re gonna have to ask him.”
“Fuck,” I muttered.
