Reckless

Chapter 18| Dakota Anderson [REWRITTEN]

    Another round of cheers and scattered laughter. I recognised most of my team standing around the coffee table, laughing hysterically at my antics. Friends or people I only knew in passing occupied the rest of my parent's sumptuous house, cheeks flushed from the heat and alcohol racing through their systems.

    "Like," I swayed on my makeshift platform as I tried to take a step forward. Someone steadied me. "He'll be all confident and sexy one minute, and then turn into an absolute pussy the next. I mean, what is that? How am I supposed to understand what he wants when he keeps giving me mixed signals?"

    "Tell him how you feel!" A girl's voice called out.

    "I tried that," I slurred, "but he made it all about himself. As usual. Cause that's what he does, you know? He makes you feel things, say them out loud, and then turns around and pretends he never did anything. Why are the hot ones always so vain?"

    "Preach, dude!" someone called from the left. Others laughed around him.

    "I've got an idea," I said to myself. Then, turning to my team, I yelled over the music, "Matt! Get me a shot!"

    The blonde turned at the sound of his name. "You got it, man! Whiskey or tequila?"

    "Whatever comes!"

    A moment later my beer had been replaced with a shot glass and I held it up to the light, grabbing the microphone once more. "A toast!"

    People raised whatever drinks they had and I grinned wildly. "To anyone who's ever been on the shitty side of liking someone they genuinely can't stand when they're sober!"

    The crowd echoed back the toast. But right before they could drink, I drunkenly added, "And! A Sponsored message if you will. Please do not vomit in my mum's potted golden gardenias. They were on special order from southern China and she will murder me if I ruin another one of her plants. Cheers!"

    The entire room cheered and drank in unison. I looked at my glass, ready to down it and said, "Fuck you, Ta-"

    Quinton appeared in front of the coffee table. Reaching for my hand, he gently tugged me down to whisper in my ear, "Dakota, stop. Think about what you're doing, okay? Is this guy even out? He may not appreciate you announcing to a room full of drunk teenagers how much you want to put your mouth on him."

    Scoffing, I waved him off. "It's fine. He won't care. He's too busy running off into the sunset with-"

    "People are filming this," Quinton hissed urgently. "Some guy in the back is livestreaming. Do you really want that on your conscience tomorrow?"

    He released me and I stood back up to my full height. In the microphone, I slurred, "I have just been informed," A hiccup, "that if I want to be conscious tomorrow, I need to do some guy in the back who's livestreaming."

    Heads turned toward the back of the room where a guy holding up his phone slowly lowered it, turned to see if there was someone behind him, before looking back and asking, "Me?"

    I thrust a pointer finger in his direction. "You, sir, are really hot. In a skittish sort of way. Like a mouse. You're a sexy mouse. Stay right there. I'm coming over. I hope you like the taste of Irish whiskey."

    Laughter rang out as hands forcefully pulled me off the coffee table and into the arms of my best friends. The team booed around us.

    "Alright, and with that, I think our host needs to sober up a little before he does something he'll regret." Quinton now held the microphone and gestured to me. "Give it for Dakota Anderson, everyone."