Swooped | ✓

Chapter 7: When One's Goose is Cooked

TW: Attempted rape

This sucked.

Having super powers sucked.

It turned out that I could down copious amounts of alcohol and only be shit-faced for approximately 20 minutes before sobering up. Milo had been mildly impressed as he watched me down glass after glass of liquid poison, grow red-faced and drunk, before suddenly snapping back into sobriety only to rinse and repeat.

"You know, if someone doses me with GHB, I would probably just have a light nap for about 2 minutes and then spring back to life," I said, chewing on a lemon in what seemed like my millionth drink, the sour acidity giving me more a reaction than any alcohol. Milo had only had the one drink that I had bought him, never one to overly indulge; usually because it ultimately fell onto him to drag my drunk ass out of bars and clubs and get me home. I felt a little annoyed at Milo's discreetly pleased face, probably having realised that he would never have to do that any more since I physically could no longer get drunk.

Like I said, super powers suck.

"If you watch your drink, you wouldn't get dosed in the first place," Milo said, narrowing his eyes at me. "You have been watching your drinks, right?"

"Yes, dad," I groaned, spitting out the rind of the lemon, the bartender giving me a disgusted look. "Even though I'm sure it'll be fine, I'm not really up to testing the GHB theory today. Maybe next week, though."

"Culver," Milo said warningly, and I pointedly plugged my ears with my fingers, sticking my tongue out at him. Milo just glared at me, turning away to lean on the bar, his jaw tense.

"Oh, cheer up, Milo. You worry too much," I said, slapping his arm as I ordered another row of shots - all for me, because that's apparently what I needed to even feel buzzed. I wasn't sure if I had a super liver, but I guess we'd find out sooner or later. 

"You just don't worry enough," Milo said, pushing his body off the bar. "I need to get some air."

"Okay, be careful baby," I teased, Milo waving away my words as he sauntered outside. It was quite stuffy inside the club, too many bodies packed too tightly together, and Milo had never been one for large crowds. I often wondered why he would subject himself to be somewhere he clearly hated, but he just gave me an incredulous look that one time I asked him, slapping my forehead.

I wasn't particularly a masochist, at least not on weekdays, so I never really asked again.

The bartender, swiping my card with terrified eyes (which wasn't surprising considering the massive bill I was no doubt racking up, plus my apparent ability to drink and not pass out), quickly poured me my shots and darted away. Shrugging before pocketing my card securely, I quickly slung back 3 of my row of 8 shots, swaying to the music as I did so. 

"Impressive."

"Hm?" I hummed, mouth full of my fourth shot, turning to the voice and the body that accompanied it. A man - certainly a man, and definitely not a boy - leaned on the bar beside me, slightly thin lips pulled up into a sensual smile. He had dark brown hair, which was gelled to show his handsome features; sharp eyes, an even sharper jaw line, and a lovely wash of dark scruff around his mouth. He was about the same height as me, but definitely more built, as evidenced by the tight pecs peeking from his precariously buttoned shirt. A little slither of gold gleamed on his neck - a cross. And, possibly more importantly, he was packing. I could see the outline of his cock pressed against his thigh, his tight pants not doing much to hide it. 

I hastily swallowed the shot in my mouth, mouth dry despite it as my eyes dipped down to his  crotch, and then back to his dark eyes. 

"Impressive?" I mused, licking my lips as the man's eyes gleamed, very much aware of the body scan I had very blatantly conducted without a drop of shame. "My drinking, or my dance moves?"