"Get it out. You start."
I could have asked what he meant, but I knew. We were going to shoot stuff. And drink. Two things that don't normally go together, but we'd done it once before, when I'd been upset over not saving a victim. Jack said it was good practice at shooting under less-than-ideal conditions. Which was bullshit. It was stress relief. That's what he wanted right now, so that's what I was going to do. It was a whole lot safer than what I'd had in mind anyway.
As he walked away to find targets, I took a slug of the whiskey, feeling it burn off a lingering feeling that I'd missed out on something I wanted very much. Wanted and didn't want. Hoped for and feared. Drink and burn it away and go back to where we should be, where I looked at Jack and saw a mentor and a partner and maybe a friend. Nothing more.
Another shot of whiskey.
"You gonna shoot?" he called. "Or get drunk first?"
"I'm leveling the playing field for you," I called back.
He snorted. "Seem to recall I won last time."
"No, you were just so drunk you thought you won."
He shook his head and waggled a rusted pop can. I took out my gun. He threw it. I fired.
CHAPTER 8
Jack won. Again. In the early stages, it was close, but the more we drank, the more it became obvious that I wasn't in his league f
or short-range shooting. With every hit from the whiskey bottle, my aim got worse. Jack had to get almost halfway through it to even affect his aim. And that's about all the effect it had. When he drinks, he doesn't get any louder, any more talkative, any more open, and his aim stays good. He just gets a little unsteady. Which is how we ended up on the ground.
We abandoned the bottle and ran out of bullets around the same time. I'd used up my ammo first, so I was stumbling around the forest, finding our shot-up cans to throw for him, drunk enough that even that was a chore.
"Passed one," Jack called.
I looked back, squinting at the ground. Or it looked like the ground. When it comes to drinking, I'm a lightweight. I was plastered, and I was not seeing the can, even with his directions.
Finally, he made his way out to me. Then I caught the glint of metal and bent to pick it up. Just as he came up behind me, I stood, smacked into him, and down we went, with me on his lap. Which would have been a whole lot sexier if I wasn't dead drunk.
"Damn," I said, craning my neck. "It's a long way up."
"Then don't get up. Not sure I could."
I laughed and leaned back against him for a moment before pulling away. "If we're going to pass out in the forest, at least let me find my own spot to do it before I crush you."
"Nah." He put his arms loosely around me. "You're light. Also, warm. Getting cold."
It was, and he was warm, too, warm and solid, propped against a tree. If he wasn't going to argue, then this was a perfectly comfortable place to pass out. Which I promptly did.
When we woke, it was morning and we were still sitting on the forest floor. And I was still mostly on Jack's lap. I felt him stirring and I tensed, ready to jump up, mumbling apologies. But he only yawned and patted my leg. "You awake?" he asked.
"Yes, and I'm getting up before you notice the damp spot on your shirt, which, by the way, is dew, not drool."
A chuckle and another leg pat as I rose. He then groaned softly as he pushed up.
"Too old for that shit," he muttered, rubbing his lower back.
"The boozing or the sleeping on cold ground?"
"Both." A faint shiver. "Fucking freezing."
I walked back to the log and retrieved his jacket, which he'd taken off after a few hits from the bottle. As he shrugged it on, he looked over, studying me, and I tensed. He was going to ask what I'd decided, and I braced for the question.
"You remember where we left the car?"
I smiled. "Follow me."