“So how do we get the tricks?”
“Well, I’m the dealer,” I said, “and play starts to the dealer’s left. So, Ronan, you go first. You play a card. You want to play a high card. Then we go clockwise and each play a card. The highest card played in the suit that Ronan played wins the trick. But if a trump card is played, it wins. There’s a trump suit for each round. The order goes spades, hearts, clubs, diamonds, then no trump, then it starts over again. So this round is spades.”
“You expect me to follow this?” Ronan said. “I don’t think I could follow this sober.” He was definitely looking drunker by the minute. Those last couple of shots were really sinking in.
I wondered if my giant alpha bodyguard was a lightweight.
Doesn’t drink often and gets wasted easily. Noted.
“I think you’re missing the point,” I said.
“You’re not supposed to follow,” Andre supplied. “You’re supposed to get naked.” He looked at me pretty soberly for a drunk person. Definitely had a higher tolerance than his boss. “When do we take off our clothes?”
“Anytime we get a blackball, baby.”
I put on Etta James, “You Can Leave Your Hat On,” and we got down to business.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Ronan muttered.
And as it turned out, he was the first—and only—one of us to get a blackball in the first round.
Andre and I put back another shot and watched with amusement as Ronan drew his little black ball on his paper. “Kinda looks like a blue ball to me,” Andre quipped, referring to the sparkly blue ink of Ronan’s pen.
“Good one,” Ronan muttered.
Then he slipped off his watch, really slowly, like he was performing a watch strip-fetish show.
“Bold move, brother,” Andre said, having his back.
“Very risqué,” I teased. “You know, in some countries it’s illegal for a man to show that much wrist in public.”
The next round, Andre got his first blackball and lost his shirt. He was wearing no watch and no jewelry, so he’d probably be getting naked pretty damn fast.
I had no problem with that. Andre had a nice body.
Next round went Ronan’s shirt, and before I could say pour me another, I was sitting at a table with two built, shirtless men.
Fuck, my life was good.
I also got my first blackball that round, though. I removed my necklace, to Andre’s whistle.
“Hey, if his watch counts, my necklace counts,” I said.
“If I knew we were doing this,” Ronan muttered, “I would’ve worn more clothes.”
Then we took a pause so I could enjoy the shirtless view while I made us margaritas and slowed down the alcohol consumption a bit, lest the tequila shots had us all throwing up by midnight. Luckily, Ronan owned a blender and his freezer was stocked with frozen berries he used for smoothies, so I improvised and we had blackberry-raspberry-blueberry margaritas.
Not bad.
I served them up and we got back down to business while Ria Mae sang “Clothes Off.”
“Do you have a ready-made playlist for stripping opportunities?” Ronan asked me, slurring just a little.
“Absolutely.”
He took a swig of his margarita.
That round, he lost his belt. And Andre lost his shoes, which I was pretty sure he’d snuck on after we’d started playing, like a big fat Cheaty Cheaterson. I wasn’t wearing shoes, and when I peeked under the table, Ronan wasn’t either.
Next round went the ring Ronan belatedly remembered he was wearing.
I slipped off my earrings.
Next, Ronan lost his jeans. He really was fucking terrible at this game.
“You’re terrible at this game,” Andre noted drunkenly.
I’d gotten a blackball, too. I was usually better at this game, but hey, it had been a while since I’d played. And besides, all the tequila.
I stripped off my blouse. Luckily, I had on my date night bra with all the sexy straps and the extreme push-up action. Both men stared at my boobs, and I wasn’t gonna fault them. They were drunk, and I had great boobs.
I raised my margarita. “To getting naked.”
We all took a generous swig of our drinks.
Next round, Andre lost his belt. “I’m really trying to cheat,” he informed us. “But this game is impossible to cheat at.”
Next round, I got another blackball. But I was prepared for this.
I reached under my flouncy skirt and after a lot of digging around—which Ronan watched with rapt, drunken fascination and Andre tried not to watch—I produced my garter belt, which I’d unclipped from my stockings.
Ronan’s mouth fell open.
Both men watched as I held it high in the air, then dropped it on the floor.
Andre swiped a hand over his face. “Think I need another drink,” he muttered, and I refilled our margaritas from the blender.
Next round went one of Ronan’s socks. He insisted they were singular items. We let him have that one, even though he was wrong.
“Socks are a pair, bro,” Andre informed him.
“Are you even trying to win any tricks?” I asked him.
“I’m trying,” Ronan protested. He was naked down to his black boxer briefs and one sock. “This game is fucking hard.”
“It’s not hard,” Andre said. “You’re just that drunk.”
Andre had been betting zero every round and trying to lose every trick, and the tactic was working for him. Every round he won, he was gaining a solid ten points. I’d made the mistake of telling him my grandpa used to use that tactic.
“Fuck you,” Ronan said jovially. “Here, I’ll give you a freebie.” He peeled off his other sock.
“Very bad idea, brother,” Andre said.
We were down to one last hand, one card for each of us, and no trump suit. One trick left to win. Andre was shirtless. I was down to my bra and panties, stockings and skirt.
Ronan was almost naked, and he was up first. He laid down an eight of hearts.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said. “Who bets on an eight?”
Andre howled. “Dude, you have the worst luck of anyone I’ve ever met.” Then he laid down his five.
I laid down my jack. Andre had won
