After Tommy bought drinks for literally everyone in the club—his grand "I've made it" flex that had the whole place cheering—and Reyna covered our last round of whiskeys with that knowing smile that said she knew exactly what kind of night this had been, he finally called it.
"I'm done," he announced, swaying so hard he had to grip the bar like it was the last solid thing on Earth. "If I stay any longer, I'm gonna promise the whole world to this club. Gonna buy everyone cars. Gonna adopt the DJ. Gonna—" He blinked at his empty glass like it had stolen the rest of his sentence. "What was I saying?"
"You're done," I said, standing and catching him before he went face-first into the counter. "Come on. Time to go home."
"Home. Yes. Good idea. Great idea. Best idea you've ever had." He tried to walk and immediately proved that his legs had resigned mid-shift. "Why's the floor moving?"
"It's not. You're just drunk."
