More Than Water (9 page)

James laughs. “I’m calling bullshit on this one.”

I lift my glass to my lips.

“Wait,” Peter says. “The rules state that we have to verify if she’s wrong first.”

“Do we really need to?” I ask, lowering my drink. “Everyone here knows that it’s wrong.”

“Actually,” Foster says, chuckling at my side, staring at his phone. “She’s right. James, take the shot.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he protests.

“Not at all.” Foster flips his phone around for everyone to witness that I am indeed correct.

James picks up the shot and downs the vodka in one gulp. “Looks like I get to pick again.” He balances the empty glass upside down on another one at the center of the table. “Einsteinium.” He turns to me. “Named after Albert Einstein.”

“Well, I’m up shit creek now with zero paddles, life vests, or lifeguards to speak of,” I mutter.

Graham says, “Discovered in the debris of the first hydrogen bomb explosion.”

“Atomic number ninety-nine,” Foster offers.

“Symbol is E-S,” Peter adds.

It’s my turn, so I say, “The geekiest and smartest element of them all, complete with a pocket protector.”

Foster slides my beer closer to me. “That’s a really good guess, but you should prepare to drink.”

“You think?” I ask, dripping with sarcasm.

Graham lifts his head from his phone. “Surprisingly, the einsteinium element does not have a pocket protector. Time to drink, EJ.”

“Nobody saw that coming,” I snark. I lift my glass, drinking close to half the pint. “I guess this means I get to choose next?”

“That’s right,” Peter confirms.

“Well then, you are all completely out of luck because I’m still convinced that an actinide is a pimple potion.”

Everyone laughs at me, beside me—and soon, I realize, with me.

“I can pick one for you,” Foster offers. “Since your chemistry knowledge is a little remedial.”

“You’re being a little generous by even saying it’s remedial. So, yeah, go for it. Your pick.”

“Very well. Let’s go with californium.”

“I’m guessing that being named after California won’t be sufficient?” I mumble.

“Is that your input?” asks James.

“No. I’m still formulating my Nobel Prize winning answer.” I dramatically rub my temples, like massaging my brain will relax it into geeky submission. “Why don’t you brainiacs free your cerebellums of analytic thoughts first?”

Graham guffaws. “Sure, EJ. I’ll go first. Slowly tarnishes in air at room temperature.”

“Can disrupt the formation of red blood cells,” James offers.

“Heaviest naturally occurring element on earth,” Peter follows.

“Atomic number ninety-eight,” Foster finishes.

They all turn their expectant faces toward me.

“And the smart table award goes to all of you,” I say playfully, spreading my arms wide like a game show hostess. “Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner.” I grab my beer, prepared to drink.

“Aren’t you even going to take a guess?” Foster inquires.

“Oh, sure.” I set my drink back down. “Why the hell not? Californium. The tannest and most valley girl element at the party just below the Sunset Strip.” I raise my glass. “Cheers, gentlemen.” Then, I take another swig of my beer.

“I don’t think we need to verify that one,” Peter says, shaking his head. “Everyone knows that elements don’t have melanin, and therefore, can’t tan.”

“Of course they don’t,” I tease. “Everyone knows that.”

“Shut up, Peter.” Foster laughs, flicking a cardboard coaster at him. “No need to kick her while she’s down.”

“It’s okay.” I giggle with them. “It’s pretty obvious that I know jack dick when it comes to the acne cream elements. Talk about taking advantage of a gal and her tiny brain.”

Drinking games have always been a forte of mine, and admittedly, so far, this is one that I’m failing at miserably. Sitting back, I search through my head for a way to get a leg up on these guys. They all have more knowledge than fourteen-year-old boys have hormones, but there has to be something. I hate losing.

Then, I recall one little trick I might have up my sleeve.

“Let’s change the subject,” I announce, leaning my elbows on the table and capturing everyone’s attention. “Could I interest you all in a bet?”

“This should be good,” says Peter, intrigued. “What is it?”

“I bet I know a little something about physics that you all don’t.”

“Oh, yeah?” Foster says, sitting up in his chair. “Is that right?”

“It sure is.” I glance at my beer, still more than a quarter of the way full, Chandra’s untouched beer, and Foster’s two shots, ready for consumption. “Are you game?” I ask my coworker.

“What do you have in mind?”

“There’s a law I learned in physics a long time ago that I’d like to demonstrate, if that’s okay with you.”

“I’m all ears.”

I point to my beer. “I bet that I can drink the rest of my beer here and the full one next to it”—I point to Chandra’s intended beverage—“faster than you can drink your two shots.”

He squints, looks to the sky, assesses the beverages on the table, and then peers at me once again. “This is a little too simple. You aren’t serious, are you?”

“I sure am. There are a few rules though—to be fair, of course.”

“Like what?”

“Well, since the volume of my drinks are more than yours, it would only be fair that you allow me to finish my first beer before you start on your shots. And you can’t touch your first shot glass until my glass is back on the table. That’s it.”

He puckers his mouth. “Okay…that sounds fair.”

“Also, we can’t touch each other’s glasses—at all. That’s an automatic forfeit. I’m not allowed to touch your glass, and you can’t touch mine.”

“Anything else?”

“You can only hold one glass at a time. So, neither of us can pick up our second drink until the first one is finished and back on the table.”

“You make this too easy.” He unbuttons the cuffs on his sleeves and begins to roll them up his forearms. “I’m game. What’s the wager?”

“If I win—”

“EJ!” Chandra’s voice echoes, approaching the table. “There you are. I thought you might have left.”

“Nah, I just ran into a coworker.” I point to my left. “This is Foster. We work together at the engineering library. And these are his friends—Graham, Peter, and James. Guys, this is Chandra, my roommate.”

In symphony, out of tune and not even close to harmonic, they all share a “hi,” and “hello.”

“So, what’s going on?” Chandra asks, standing near my shoulder.

“These boys just kicked my ass in a drinking game, and Foster and I were just about to place a wager on the law of physics.”

“What do you know about physics?” She laughs.

“Plenty.” I smile, feeling confident about the bet. I turn back to Foster. “Back to our wager, I think we should bet one—”

“If you lose,” James slurs, the alcohol consumption beginning to take hold, “you and your friend have to make out…and we get to watch.”

“James,” Foster warns. “That’s stupid. She’ll never agree to that.”

“Never hurts to ask.”

“You’re cut off.”

“I accept that bet,” I say without any thought. Even if I do lose this bet, which is highly doubtful, swapping a little spit with Chandra doesn’t give me the heebie-jeebies. I peek up at Chandra, and she shrugs, agreeing with the terms as well. “And if Foster loses…” I glare at James. “You have to make out with him, and we all get to watch.”

“No fucking way!” Foster contests. “James has chronic garlic breath. Sorry, man, but you do.”

“Scared?” I taunt.

“No. I just hate garlic.”

“La-ame.”

“I say, take the bet,” Graham encourages. “I don’t see how you could lose, and I could use a little girl-on-girl visual.”

“Whose side are you on?” Foster scowls at Graham.

“Yours…and my dick’s.”

“Typical men,” Chandra comments, amused.

They’re all so drunk.

“Do we have a bet?” I ask with my hand outstretched.

Foster reluctantly clasps my hand. “Fine. You’re on, and I want tongue, lots of tongue.”

“Ditto.” I slide his two shots out in front for everyone to see along with my beer, which is almost empty, and the completely full glass that was intended for Chandra. “Do you remember the rules?”

“Of course.”

“No drinking any of your shot until I’ve finished my first beer and the glass is resting on the table.”

“Right.” Foster removes his dark-rimmed frames, setting them on the table. “And no touching each other’s glasses, and we can only have one drink in our hands at a time. I got it.”

“Awesome.” I pick up my drink. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Remember, you have to wait until I’m finished with this before you can start.”

“I got it.”

I tauntingly raise my brows and then touch the glass to my lips, slowly consuming the hoppy ale. Savoring the anticipation building among the men as they intently watch me, I relish in my soon-to-be victory.

“You know,” Foster begins as I continue to consume the first part of our bet, “according to kinematic viscosity, the flow rate of liquid greatly depends on the temperature of said liquid—the warmer the liquid, the faster the flow. Essentially, even if we were drinking the same volume of liquid, which we aren’t, your beer would take longer to consume since it’s been kept at a near freezing temperature while my shots have been stored at room temperature. So, even with the odds of volume being in my favor, from a scientific standpoint, you would lose, no matter what.”

Closing my blue eyes, I drop my head backward and finish off the last drops of beer.

I wink at Foster.
He’s in for a world of hurt.

The moment my empty glass makes contact with the wooden surface, Foster reaches for one of his shot glasses, remembering the rules. As he’s lifting the vodka to his mouth, I casually flip over my pint glass and cover his remaining full shot still resting at the center of the table.

At my side, Foster slams the empty glass on the hard surface and then instinctually reaches for his other shot, now covered by my empty pint.

“Remember,” I remind him. “The rules state that we aren’t allowed to touch the other person’s glass.”

His hand hesitates over the tempting shot surrounded by my glass.

Picking up my second beer, I add, “This is an example of Newton’s first law of motion. An object is either in constant motion or remains at rest until acted upon by an external force. According to the rules, it looks like your shot will have to remain at rest while my hand will gladly act upon my beer, allowing me to consume it at a much higher rate than you anticipated.”

Foster runs his fingers through his caramel-brown hair, leaving it completely disheveled. “Holy…damn.”

I lower my glass and turn to James. “Don’t forget. We want to see lots of tongue.”

Tongue. Lots of tongue.

Excessive tongue.

Slippery.

Deeply plunging.

My tongue.

Foster’s tongue.

Our tongues.

His mouth is on mine, impassioned and solid, as my eager hands clench his remarkably solid ass.

Holy hell, what in the shit is going on? What am I doing? What is he doing?

“Fozzie,” I mumble against his mouth, gasping for air.

“Yes, Evelyn?” he pants, pressing me harder against the wall.

The pressure of his blaring erection against my hip bone has my groin area seeking his. I’m like a teenager in the backseat of her parents’ car, looking for a stolen moment.

“What are we…”

“Do you want to stop?”

My head is screaming nothing in the negative or positive, but my body is yelling the same as I say, “No, not at all. You?”

“Not really.”

How did we get here?

Full of alcohol, Foster clumsily lifts me by my thighs, using the wall at my back to catch his balance. I wrap my legs around his waist, securing my body to his, and we continue to lock lips like savaged beasts on one of those animal-mating documentaries. With stumbled steps, he maneuvers us away from the kitchen in his apartment and down the hall toward what I assume is his bedroom.

I should be questioning what we’re doing.

I should be stopping this right now.

I should be ripping his clothes off because I’m so blazingly horny, and my vibrator is out of batteries.

He just feels so good.

The heat of his body.

His mouth on mine.

His hands on me.

His breath commingling with my own.

Fuck, it feels good.

Turning a corner, my knee collides with the doorframe.

“Ow. Fuck,” I cry out in protest.

“Sorry.” His sinful mouth drops to my neck, distracting me from the recent injury. “Do you want me to get some ice?”

“Only if you’re going to get kinky with me.”

“Are you into that sort of thing?”

“Not ice. That shit’s cold.”

Foster drops us to the bed, half-falling on top of me with a mistimed and misjudged thump.

“No ice,” he confirms, righting himself a bit. “Got it.”

He removes his black frames, and I grab them from his hand before he has a chance to stash them away. I settle them over my face. The prescription on the lenses is so minor that my already drunken vision is barely distorted.