Double Star

21 : Sorry.

"Three shots... five shots... ten shots... thirteen shots! SHE'S KILLIN' IT!"
I was dizzy, excited, and way too alive for someone who should be passed out. My cheeks burned, my limbs felt light, but I was still aware of everything—in that strange, overstimulated way right before the world starts to tilt.

Two girls had already collapsed onto the table after just seven shots, leaving me the last girl standing in this chaotic mess. Three guys pushed their luck to fifteen and passed out cold—giggling, hallucinating, completely out of it.

Now, only three of us remained: a sleepy-looking Brazilian guy trying to hold it together, a massive bodybuilder who looked perfectly fine, and me. We were all hovering around our fifteenth shot.

"N... Need a break..."
The Brazilian finally gave up and threw up all over the floor, sealing his loss.

"PEDRO IS OUT!" someone shouted, and just like that, it was me versus the bodybuilder.

I looked at him. He grinned and raised another shot to his lips.

"Didn't expect a tiny girl like you to hold her liquor like that," he said, wide-eyed and tipsy.

"Neither did I!" I laughed—though I wasn't sure what I found so funny.

"Daaaamn, Luke! Your girl's a beast!" someone slapped Luke's arm. He'd been watching from across the room, arms crossed, eyes sharp. He kept telling me to stop after the fifth shot, but I brushed him off with a "Mister pain-in-the-ass needs to chill." He backed off but never stopped watching. Stubborn much?

"She's not my—whatever," Luke muttered, still staring. His eyes hadn't left me all night. I looked away, cheeks hotter than ever.

"Fill'er up?"
I nodded, and the room erupted in cheers. No one expected me to keep going—not even Londi or Emily, who were lightweight champions after just two tiny cups.

Honestly? I surprised myself, too. Maybe it was a hidden talent—or maybe something inherited. I remembered my mom—never drunk, no matter how much she drank.

"You gonna end it?"
The guy across from me—who looked suspiciously like Lincoln Burrows from Prison Break—arched an eyebrow. He'd been silently observing me since the first round, brooding and serious, his steel-gray eyes never leaving mine.

"Of course, Lincoln Burrows," I mocked. "Why so serious? You're starting to look like mister monkey-ass over there." I threw a glare at Luke, and the group burst into laughter. People ruffled his hair and playfully shoved his shoulder. Everyone's afraid of him? Please.

Lincoln cracked a wide grin and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

"Let's make a deal," he said, eyes gleaming.

"If I win, you make out with me."

The crowd howled. My head spun. Every second, I felt more and more detached from reality.

I turned to Luke. His fists were clenched so tight, the veins in his hands looked like they'd pop. He looked ready to explode.

"Okaaay... and if I win?" I asked, tilting my head. It was heavy now. Everything was heavy. Lincoln smiled, all teeth, surprisingly charming despite the bald head and Hulk-sized arms.

"We'll see," he whispered, lifting his sixteenth glass and saluting me.

"Cheers."