Griff sent an untrusting look at the chair Marcus was sitting on. The bloody thing was squeaking like crazy though Griff couldn’t really blame it. Marcus was a huge guy; built like a brick and unbelievably tall and, if Griff let himself admit it, rather attractive. But the sounds that chair made had Griff waiting for what seemed like the unavoidable collapse.
“Mijo?” Griff asked. It was good to know that there was no crazy drinking ritual that needed to proceed this dangerous looking drink. Griff swirled the bottle once, eyeing the liquid inside before finally pulling the lid off. He made the mistake of giving it a sniff and then cursed himself. He should have known better than to do that.
“Well, here goes,” he said. He couldn’t help it. His eyes squeezed closed on their own accord, his face twisting into a slight grimace before he even got the bottle to his lips. He poured some into his mouth, gave it a swirl like he would whiskey and instantly regretted it. With nothing else to do, he simply pressed his lips together and threw his head back, swallowing the mouthful in one fluid go.
“Holy shit,” Griff rasped. Griff wasn’t much of a swearing man but there were times and places for it, and right now, with the burn of that alcohol sticking to the back of his throat like molasses was certainly one of those times.
“So,” he breathed, trying to get his voice to cooperate again as he handed the bottle back, “tell me,’ he coughed slightly, “tell me about this place. Where the hell are we?”