I pull on Anniston’s elbow, stopping her from entering. Leaning in close, I whisper in her ear, “I don’t think you look exquisite. I think you look downright fuckable and I’m not sure we are going to make it to the gala with you in this dress.”
She pulls back and looks me in the eyes and shrugs. “Whatever, Theo, as long as we stop for tacos.”
I belt out a laugh and let her go. This damn girl. “You really do something for my ego.”
She winks and gives me a smile, disappearing into the back seat.
“Oh, oh, here we go,” Anniston chants against me excitedly. Her legs are thrown haphazardly across my lap, her bare feet rubbing rhythmically across my pant legs. We’re parked across the street from the gala’s entrance.
A little while ago, we expertly polished off six soft taco supremes and are now partaking in our favorite pastime—parking lot people watching while taking shots of tequila. Anniston insisted on not drinking her calories with cheap champagne.
“Miss Miller, you are stunning tonight. Who are you wearing?” Anniston questions in a low voice, pretending to be Ryan Seacrest interviewing this chick that’s hanging on the arm of one of the players entering the building. She’s dressed in a skimpy green dress that barely covers her ass. She sadly is clueless when it comes to the etiquette of attire for the All-Star Gala.
In a pitchy voice, Anniston continues, “Oh, thank you, Ryan. You are so sweet and handsome. How about you can take it off for me and we can check the label together. This asshole and his enormous hands can’t loosen me up for shit and his stamina…” she trails a manicured nail down my chest, “… but you, Ryan, you and I could make some magic.”
I chuckle, swat her hand away and try to come up with something equally brilliant. Following her lead, I take on the role of playing the outfielder of the Aces, who unfortunately has the honor of a date who looks like a bad fuck dressed in tissue paper. “Good luck with this one, Ryan. She can’t suck a dick to save her life but her tits are nice, so I overlook the slobbering and all-around gold digging.”
Anniston giggles and slides me a shot of tequila as the couple walks through the double doors.
“The valet checked his watch, take a shot,” she instructs while pouring herself another.
This drinking game we’re playing is an oldie but goodie. We’ve both been watching intently, waiting to see when the valet will check his watch again so we can find another excuse to get drunker.
We don’t have to wait long. The valet checks his watch three more times in the next five minutes. At this point, we are well on our way to sloppy drunk.
“Bailywick!” Anniston shouts too close to my ear. “Take a shot with us!”
Leaning my head back against the seat, I chuckle, knowing Bailey will not agree to the shot. Someone has to be responsible out of three of us. Bailey, unfortunately, is a professional. I’m really drunk. The good kind of drunk. Anniston and I used to do this all the time in college. It feels like old times and I can’t help but prolong our time in this car to keep from breaking our perfect little world.
Eventually, we decide it’s time to go in and deal with the bullshit ahead of us. Bailey helps Anniston out of the car first. She is much steadier than I thought she would be, only stumbling once before getting her footing. I take her hand and lead us down the red carpet, straight into the lion’s den.
The room is draped in red, white, and blue colors. Wall-to-wall are canvases of the baseball hall of famers. Babe Ruth, Hank Aaron, Tom Glavine are all grinning at me as I pass their pictures.
Anniston takes it all in, gasping excitedly as we look at each one. She even has me take her picture next to them. We earn some frowns but not nearly as many as when we start taking selfies with them. Apparently, it’s inappropriate to make jerk off motions at the players you don’t care for.
We mingle a little after that, schmoozing and ass-kissing so much that our lips are chapped.
“This shit sucks.” Anniston is downing another glass of champagne.
“I thought you weren’t going to drink your calories?”
She shrugs, not giving a fuck at this point. “Eh, my buzz is wearing off and I can’t take these pricks sober.”
I one hundred percent agree with her. You can’t take these snooty looks and pretentious remarks without alcohol. It just can’t be done. “Yeah, it’s fucking bad. How bout we liven it up?”
The answering gleam in her eyes is all the assurance I need. I grab her hand and pull her down the hall, scoping out any available room with a lock.
As fate would have it, there’s an empty office right off the hall. I know what you’re thinking. Really? At a charity function? Sure, the room has a lock, we aren’t that disrespectful.
I tug Ans through the door and flick the lock. Faster than she can take a breath, I have her body shoved against the door, ready to maul her drunk ass right here.
“Wait, what if someone tries to come in here?”
“Then their night just turned around.” I attack her mouth, silencing any more protests. We’re alone. Everyone is too high and mighty to leave the ballroom.
Anniston shoves against me. “Wait.”
I’m horny, and getting more irritated by the second with her stalling. “What now?”
