Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 82508 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82508 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
This time, he’s able to rein it in and smiles as he walks away.
This is so weird.
We hit McIntyre’s, and Cohen immediately goes to the bar to order two pitchers of beer.
Rossi and Martin push Jacobs and me toward a booth and force us to sit opposite each other. The others crowd around us.
I assess my competition and think I have the advantage. Jacobs rarely goes out, and when he does, especially at McIntyre’s, he’s not a big drinker. I’ll occasionally see him at a kegger drinking like there’s no tomorrow, but compared to me … I’d say I’m more seasoned in that department.
Years of binge-drinking at frat parties and European clubs is about to work in my favor.
Cohen places the drinks in front of us. “Ready? Hands on the table. You can’t move them until I say go. No spilling. No vomiting.”
We do as he says.
“Aaaand …”
Anticipation builds. I’m ready to go for this.
“Shit … where’s my stopwatch app?”
I slump.
“Do you need a stopwatch if the winner is who finishes first?” Jacobs asks. “I thought you had a system.”
Cohen grumbles something under his breath. “Fine. Just … Go.”
There’s a blink of pause for us to realize he gave the go-ahead.
I get to my jug first, block out the rest of the world, and drink. The cheap beer has a god-awful bitterness to it that I try not to gag on. Still, I’m determined to win this thing, so I relax my throat and swallow it down as fast as I can.
When I place the empty jug back on the table, Jacobs is still drinking.
“Well, there’s one point to me.” I burp and all I can taste is that gross bitter aftertaste. I shudder. “What kind of beer was that? Tasted like ass.”
“You know what ass tastes like?” Cohen asks.
“Just your momma’s,” I mumble.
He slaps the back of my head.
“Does that make us done here?” I stand and the bar wobbles. Probably shoulda had some dinner first.
The ground stabilizes, and I try to walk it off, but a big hand pushes my chest, and I fall back onto the seat.
“Not done yet.” Cohen takes out his phone. “Challenge number two.”
“You have that shit on your phone as well?”
He shows me the screen which is a photo of the board without the Post-it coverings. It’s only a flash, but I swear I see the word streaking on there.
Great. They’d joked about it, but I didn’t think they’d follow through on that one.
Should’ve known different.
“Now, we all know how Grant was good at picking up,” Cohen says. “And he’s a bit of a player … well, he was until Zach. So, the guy to score the most phone numbers wins.”
“But that’s so unfair,” I point out. “Jacobs is practically a virgin, and I already have half the phone numbers in this place.”
“Oh, game on.” Jacobs walks away saying something about practically a virgin my ass.
Even though it’s a Friday night, this is a college town, so the bar isn’t as busy as it usually is during a semester, but that’s not going to stop me from beating Jacobs at this challenge either.
If I get two challenges in the bag, I only have to win one of the other three. And maybe I’ll get out of streaking.
Not that I’m against being naked. I just prefer not to be while running across campus.
There’s a couple of girls hanging by the bar, so I zero in on them and put on my charming smile. I’m definitely not new to this.
I chat to them for a bit, offer to buy them drinks, and I walk away five minutes later with both their numbers.
Yeah, I’m so winning this one too.
I’m in the middle of talking with the next woman on my hit list, and she is all woman. Like, a cougar woman. Late thirties easy. But hey, a number is a number.
While she rambles about whatever, Jacobs catches my eye behind her. He’s talking to a group of guys who are wearing Boston hockey jerseys.
If he wants to waste his time talking hockey, that’s fine by me.
I get the cougar’s number and then go to move on when Cohen taps my shoulder.
“Time’s up. But it has been so much fun watching you hit on a woman old enough to be your mother.”
“I got three numbers.”
“Nice.”
Back at our table, I stare at Jacobs expectantly.
“Eight.”
I balk. “What? No fucking way. How?”
“I got game.”
“No, you don’t.”
He scowls, and I love it. “What would you know?” he snaps.
“How did you get that many numbers?”
“Six of them were those guys over there.” Cohen points to the hockey fans. “Told them he does hockey coaching as a side hustle and is looking for clients.”
“That doesn’t count. You got two girls’ numbers. I win.”
“Hey, Cohen never said we had to get girls’ numbers. If Grant was doing this, he wouldn’t have limited himself.” Jacobs shrugs. “Think outside the box, Beck.”