When I can calm my racing heart enough to speak—damn this man for making me go all gooey when I was just trying to be my normal goofy self—I tell him, “That bar we got our drinks at was owned by Tropical Isle. Hand Grenades are policed like a motherfucker around here. They don’t allow knockoffs. If they find out a bar or restaurant they don’t own is calling a drink a Hand Grenade, they sue their asses in a heartbeat. So if you can walk in somewhere and get one in their signature green bomb cup, it’s pretty safe to say it’s always going to taste exactly the same.”
“Interesting,” he replies, and then smiles over my shoulder when the bartender asks what we’d like. “So do we want another one, or should we try something else?”
“Mine was on the rocks. You could try the frozen one. Or there’s the Shark Attack. That’s one’s really good and they make a big scene when you order one. There’s also the Tropical Itch and the Horny Gator,” I supply, and his eyes twinkle at the name.
“Oh, the Horny Gator. I gotta try that one!” he calls over to the bartender, who nods. “What do you want, sugar?”
“Might as well match you drink for drink. That way you’ll know when I’m reaching that seventy-three percent sober level you were talking about earlier.” I shrug.
He laughs at that, turning away just long enough to tell the bartender to make that two Horny Gators. “I’m sliiightly larger than you, babe. I don’t think our tolerance is the same.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a liver of steel and live in New Orleans. My tolerance is pretty damn high,” I retort, and he nods in acceptance.
We find a table a few minutes later, after I tugged Curtis out of a chair he plopped into, not realizing where he was sitting. Without verbally answering his question of why I made him move, I point to where he’d previously been sitting. He turns to watch as a group of drunk coeds attempt to throw the little green plastic hand grenade that comes in the top of the drink this bar is famous for into a net situated right over where he’d been. It takes them several tries to make their bombs into the net, the people cackling and falling all over themselves as they chase the ones they drop all over the floor before attempting to throw them in again. One of the girls even falls into the chair Curtis just vacated, and I’m happy I won’t have to get into a bar brawl tonight.
That thought makes me sit up straight, my brow furrowing, and Curtis notices.
“What’s the matter? You look… perturbed,” he observes, taking a sip of his drink before glancing down into his green alligator-shaped souvenir cup adorned with little gator toys and licking his lips. “Damn, that’s good.”
I try to change the subject, uncomfortable with my jealousy. “Oh! Do your trick! Do your trick!” I chant, but he shakes his head.
“Nuh-uh. Not until you tell me what just made you look like you tasted something with arugula in it,” he states, and I can’t help but laugh.
“How did you know I hate arugula?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.
He smiles. “Because when we were at the grocery story earlier, in the produce section, I heard you say ‘oh barf, arugula’ when we passed by it,” he informs me through a chuckle. “Now spill.”
“I don’t care what people say. It’s arugula that’s the devil’s lettuce, not weed.” I shiver dramatically.
“Uh-oh, do I have a little pothead on my hands?” he asks, taking another sip of his drink before moaning in approval at the flavor once more.
I shake my head. “Nah, while it does have many amazing medical benefits for both mental and physical ailments, it just makes me super hungry and then sleepy, and I wake up with the worst belly ache. So after the third or fourth time smoking it in college, I decided it wasn’t for me.”
“Sugar.” He gives me a pointed look. “Spill,” he orders.
And I sigh, sitting back in my chair and crossing my arms like a petulant child. “Hey, it was you who changed the subject that time. Not my fault.” He lifts a brow, his lips going in a straight line. “Fine. That girl fell into the chair you were sitting in before. Which means she would’ve fallen right in your lap if I hadn’t gotten you to move over here. The thought… irked me.”
His nostrils flare, and I just know he’s trying not to smile. “It irked you?”
I huff. “Yes. It fucking irked me! I had a momentary vision of a full-on cat fight where I took her by the hair and slung her across the bar, making her slide all the way down it and knocking over everyone’s drinks.”