Brendon was drunk. Shane did a little victory dance in his head, and he could feel a smirk jump onto his face without his consent. Brendon was actually very good at making excuses--he'd talked his (their) way out of things more than once--but not when he was drunk.
"You don't have an iron," Shane replied. He stepped closer to Brendon, backing him up against the table, his hand still wrapped around Brendon's arm. "We're going to talk," he said quietly, eyes locked on Brendon's.