Therefore I was feeling very happy and this didn’t only have to do with the tequila shooters. It had to do with the fact that my big brother and my good friend were all kinds of happy.
What I was not was shitfaced.
And I decided to inform Ren of this fact.
“I’m far from shitfaced, Zano.”
“You’re hammered,” he returned
Hammered was not shitfaced. I was a bartender and lived the life of a rock star, I would know. I had studied the levels of insobriety both practically and observationally. Hammered was three steps down from shitfaced. There was smashed, blotto, and wasted to get through. I had at least six tequila shooters to go before I got even close to shitfaced.
I did not take the time to educate Ren about this.
Instead, I decided to get annoyed (as was my wont around Ren) and narrowed my eyes at him.
As was his wont, that was to say totally oblivious to my dangerous eye narrowing, he stated, “We have to talk.”
We “had to talk” a lot. Ren’s Talks were becoming part of our everyday repertoire. Though it should be noted that talking with Ren and talking with Ren were two different things.
We talked when we ate together at his place, or takeout at mine, before we fucked each other’s brains out. We also talked while I ate the breakfasts Ren cooked for me (his place) or he ate the toast I toasted for him (my place) before we both tackled our days.
We talked when Ren got whiff of some case I was on and didn’t like it. These Talks occurred after a fight about the same thing which led to no-holds-barred sex, sleeping tangled up in each other and after we woke up and were in bed.
But I could tell by the tone of his voice this was not a talk but a Talk.
I knew from details received from the Rock Chicks that they, too, had Talks with their badasses. Jet called them Eddie Chats. Roxie called the ones she had with Hank Conversations.
These talks always centered around the respective badass wanting his Rock Chick to bend to his will in some way. And they were usually successful in getting what they wanted though it wasn’t always the talking that got them what they wanted. They tended to shift tactics and the way they did got them what they wanted. It also gave the Rock Chick what she wanted so although she bitched, she didn’t quibble.
Ren’s Talks were different. He shifted tactics during the preceding fight to end it by initiating mind-blowing sex and could shift tactics during the Talk but only when the Talk degenerated into a Fight. And although Ren’s Talks happened frequently, they always happened at the same time in the same place and he never got what he wanted.
Partly because I was stubborn.
Okay, that was mostly why.
I was lucky Ren’s Talks were different. Jet’s Chats and Roxie’s Conversations could happen any time, willy-nilly, so they could be unprepared.
I always knew when it was coming.
So this suggested Talk was outside the norm and at my brother’s wedding. Therefore, in my opinion, I considered it a highly inappropriate sneak attack.
“We’re not talking now,” I denied.
He, as usual, ignored me.
“You’ve been hanging with Kevin James.”
This was true. I had.
Kevin “The Kevster” James was a pothead. He was hilarious. He was clueless. His favorite movie was The Big Lebowski which said it all about him and all that said was good. And he was a friend.
However, lately I had not been hanging with The Kevster as a friend, sitting around with bowls of munchies while The Kevster smoked a doobie and we watched Jeff Bridges floating over Los Angeles.
We were hanging with a purpose.
“The Kevster’s a friend,” I shared with Ren.
At my words, Ren’s brows shot together and he asked, “The Kevster?”
“His preferred handle,” I explained.
Ren looked to the ceiling. I figured he did this because Ren might be a member of a crime family but he reeked class. He likely had no friends with “handles.” Or that smoked doobies. And I didn’t ask because I was scared of the answer, but there was a high probability Ren would not like The Big Lebowski and that might mean I’d have to question his taste. Since he very much liked the taste of me, I didn’t want to do that.
“We’ve been friends ages,” I went on and Ren looked back to me, now with brows raised.
“So he’s not helping you find the grow house that friend of your other friend’s sister thinks her son has set up in Littleton?”
Jeez, how did he find out all this crap?
I decided I didn’t want to know and I also decided not to answer.
He got closer and reminded me, “Ally, we had a deal. You do this shit for people, you stay away from the drug trade.”
We did have that deal, kind of. The “kind of” part was that during a Talk, I’d agreed to that, but I was also lying when I agreed.
“Pot isn’t drugs,” I pointed out. “It’s flora. It’s natural. And it’s now legal.”
“This grow house you’re lookin’ for isn’t legal,” he shot back.
