“Yes, you.” Wren pursed her lips slightly. He was good and buzzed. His thoughts–just the surface ones she couldn’t help but skim–were alcohol soaked. The edges blurred. He was impaired, maybe not completely drunk, but enough.
“Seven’s a good number. A lucky number. I think that’s enough to cut you off.” Her lips pulled into a smile. “But I’m no bartender.”
“But eight’s an even number,” Ray pleaded, wanting to continue his drunken escapade. “A nice, round, even number. eight drinks, eight sides of a stop sign, perfect number to stop at!” He exclaimed, reaching for the shot that was placed before him by the bartender. Ray downed the shot, making a face as it burned. He slapped his credit card down on the bar. “You may not be a bartender, but I’m Ray.”
Cisco backup 