A sneer was permanently etched into his face, or so it seemed in the semi darkness. He slammed back a slug, then slammed down the shot glass. It rattled the seven next to it. He didn’t blink.
“Your turn, baby doll.”
She shook her head, trying to shake some focus back into her drink dulled eyes. Her dirty blond pony tail swished in the warm, evening air. It was dirty because she’d been working in the yard all day, planting flowers and who knew what else in the garden out back. Sweat was drying on her tits, the man-killers straining at her stained tank top.
She poured a shot from her bottle, then sipped it slow, draining the cool alcohol from the tiny glass. She licked the last drop off her top lip with just the tip of her tongue. She sighed, an achingly sweet sound.
She winked at him, he who was fidgeting in his seat. Both the booze and boobs were starting to affect him.
“How much more can you take, darlin’?” she asked wickedly.
He grunted before pouring two shots, as if in answer.
“They say it’s 50/50. Damn but I wish I had better odds.”
“Aww, babe. And here I thought you were a tough guy.”
He gave her a sour eye before double fisting the shot glasses. He opened a cavernous mouth and dumped them both in, swallowing and then letting out a loud belch.
She sat back, waving at the dusty air between them. “Nice.” Matching him, she poured two shots, then sat the bottle down.
“You know, I was drunk enough, but now I need a few more to forget who I’m dealing with.” Faster than his drunk eyes could follow, she upended one shot, then the other, setting both down simultaneously.
“Ready to do this?”
He winked at her.
“Genetic gambling be damned! Let’s make a baby girl, baby girl!”
Chairs slammed back against walls as both stood up fast, groping for each other. He grabbed her, pulling her onto the table before spinning her around. He spread her legs…and neither of them really remembered what happened after that.
Nine months later though, little Jackie Danielle was born. Most people believed that she was named after her Grandpa Jack, but mom and dad knew the truth, which they often smirked to each other in the murky darkness of their bedroom.
“Whattya say, you hard drinking bastard. Should we try for a little Danny boy?”
“I’m not nearly drunk enough to have a son.”
“Sounds like shots to me…”