Dylan (18+) [ON HOLD]

chapter two: S A L T

tw: sexual assualt

Gabby

. . .

Two of Ben's friends were recovering alcoholics, and one of Luisa's was aggressively Christian, so those three were going to play designated drivers whilst the rest of us drank our asses off.

I'm acutely aware of my tequila limit, because whilst the wine may not have done much, four drinks of tequila is all I can handle.

I've had three, so I'll have my last free drink and Uber home, away from the lively scene in this nightclub.

God forbid something happens to one of Luisa's younger friends and they need one of the guys to drive them home, so Uber it is.

"Can I get another margarita, please?"

My voice causes the bartender's eyes to widen, just as it has the last few times, but he smiles, shaking it off. "Coming right up," he replies. I watch him carefully as he prepares my drink, having it drilled into my head that even a glance away could sabotage my safety.

He moves methodically, adding two ounces of tequila, then as he squeezes the lime juice, his eyes seem to flit somewhere behind me, and he falters, spilling a bit of juice. 

Whatever spooks him, he shakes it off, and continues, adding in a couple teaspoons of superfine sugar. He stirs it, then adds triple sec. With a practiced quickness he rims the glass in salt, and adds a lime wedge to garnish. 

I find myself watching in nearly drunken awe as he adds ice and then shakes my margarita, pouring it from shaker to shaker before finally adding it to the glass.

With what I hope is a grateful smile, I take the glass, and slowly sip my drink, being sure to rotate the glass each time until I've gotten all of the salt, effectively ending my margarita and my reason for being here.

I think he shook it for too long this time, since the sugar was virtually nonexistent compared to the salt. Though that's probably for the best. I remember my last year of college when I was a bartender, and was told to over-shake the drinks of people who began to get a bit rowdy.

The ice hits against itself and breaks down small enough to melt if you do it properly.

I frown, reaching into my wallet and pulling out the largest bill I have. The poor guy is probably tired, and since I haven't paid for anything else, this fifty dollar tip is nothing. I shove it into the jar, brightly labeled Mickey and stumble off of the impossibly high bar stool.

I nearly fall, but manage to regain my footing as I stumble toward the exit. 

I squint at the door in confusion—I was nearly there, and yet now it seems so far away. Maybe one of my contacts fell out, I think, as the world around me blurs and simultaneously spins.

An arm grips me around my waist. It's warm, but in no way comforting.

"Oh shit," I curse, the words barely a mumble. My eyes fall closed and I instantly know I fucked up somewhere.

Maybe I blinked too hard, maybe the other half of the shaker already had something in it.

Hell, maybe it was the salt.