In Need of a Muse |18+| Book One✔

Chapter 8

Timay

"Another drink?" I slur, the various drinks taking a toll on me.

"Can you manage another?" Andrew snorts.

"Of course," I hear my words slur and I try again. "Of course, I'm not drunk." Sounds better... I think.

"I'll get them, you stay right here."

"Sure," I give him a goofy, drunken smile, my head tilted to the side.

The place is much fuller than when we go here, and I look around the bar, trying to find someone to satiate my growing arousal. It's a side effect of alcohol.

The various men scattered around seem to be old enough to be my dad, ties hanging loosely around their necks, beers in hand. Not one of them age appropriate for me, unless I'm looking for someone older, wiser, and more experienced...

. . . Nope.

Not going there. Not even mentally. If I go there mentally, I'm going to want to go there physically. Out of pure curiosity.

I don't have a problem with people who go for someone much older or younger than them. I do, however, have a problem with going for someone much older than me that could possibly be married, and still screw me in the restroom if I bat my lashes just right.

I'm also not saying all married men in bars are going to cheat on their wives. You truly get some amazing men out there that are loyal to the bone.

I'm not even saying all married men are sitting in bars, let's just clear that up.

I bring my glass to my lips, the last drops of my drink coating my tongue, and my gaze lands on Andrew chatting to the bartender.

Which reminds me, although I regret ending the sex between us, I realized he's my best friend, too.

It's taken me a while to see it and a couple of drinks, but I see it.

I'd rather lose the sex before I lose him. It's not like I have many people in my life that I can truly call a friend.

"I got us some shots," Andrew smiles happily.

"What is it?" I pick up the shot glass filled with clear liquid. I bring it to my nose, and I reel back from the strong smell. The smell alone is enough to intoxicate me.

"Tequila. Bottoms up," Andrew beams, licking the base of his thumb, and sprinkling salt on the wet spot.

I mirror him, raising the shot glass to my lips. "Bottoms up," I lick the salt, down the shot, and bite into a slice of lime.

The liquor burns my throat, and I feel it traveling down, settling in my stomach.

"Here," Andrew pushes three more shots toward me. "I got us four each."

"Alright," I squeeze my eyes shut. Tequila and I don't mix. Last time I drank this shit, I blacked out at a frat party. I heard the stories of the awesome shit I did but I have no recollection of it. I swore to never drink this shit again, but here I am. Breaking that promise. "Let's do this!"

Tonight's the night I let loose, enjoy myself, and forget about the shit that eats at me.

I take the last shot, hitting my breath away, goosebumps spreading over my skin. My vision starts to turn hazy, and I look around, loving how everything looks when my eyes land on a bombshell stepping through the door.

Her long, black hair sways behind her with every confident step she takes. A tight red dress with a plunging neckline hugs her slender figure with killer curves in all the right places. Her ruby red, five-inch heels make her appear taller, complimenting her legs.