Chapter 17
HEATH
This woman could out-drink a fish.
Seven shots in, and I am barely scratching the surface of where Miss Violet Keats, Esquire, is, my brain practically pounding from chugging all the cheap alcohol.
The taste of the cocktail on my tongue is sickly sweet, and I order another glass of the bile, my ego not letting me lag too far behind the petite redhead beside me, swinging a pair of long legs along her sturdy stool.
Happy Hour ain’t so damn happy at eight PM; the bar is nearly empty before the late-night crowd comes in.
Our usual barbs have softened over the past long hour, and through the haze of bad tequila and even worse memories, Violet and I reminisce together, our laughs long and loud as we re-tell the story of the last time we talked, a little over a year ago, at
