Chapter 3
The third warning probably should have been the fact that Church’s new body couldn’t hold its liquor. But Church was having too much fun to notice any ominous signs. It’d been a long time since he’d tasted food or felt the loosening effects of alcohol. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it until he was stuffing his face with nachos and staring lazily across the table at Carolina as they both knocked back their third shot of whiskey.
Carolina causally flipped her glass and set it on top of the other two. Church slammed his down, lost his balance, and nearly fell out of his chair. He was too drunk to care that his friends were laughing at him again.
Wash managed to set him back in his seat without injury. “I’d watch it, Church. Carolina has drank every Freelancer under the table at one time or another. Even Maine.”
“I don’t like to lose.”
Church hiccuped. “I can take her,” he slurred.
Wash patted his back. “Sure you can, buddy.”
When it was clear Church was no match for Carolina’s steel stomach, she challenged the entire Red team—all of their shots combined against hers.
Donut opted out since he only drank fruity daiquiris with frilly little umbrellas in them. Which surprised no one. Simmons backed out, too, until Sarge called him a sissy and threatened to court-martial him if he didn’t defend the Red honor.
“But, Sarge,” he murmured, “you know how I get when I drink.”
“You mean all weepy and clingy?” said Grif. “Yeah, we know. You’re a sappy drunk which is the worst kind of drunk. I’d take a stupid drunk or a mean drunk over you any day.”
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