The party stopped being civilized about two hours ago.
Someone has turned the upstairs guest room into a makeshift Five Minutes in Heaven closet, and somehow half the party is now sitting on the floor outside it.
Nash should've left when Kirk suggested this.
Instead, he's sprawled against the couch, beer in hand, watching Dara pull another name from the bowl.
"Nash Bramley."
The room immediately starts yelling.
Nash closes his eyes.
"Absolutely fucking not."
"Scared?"
Nash's eyes snap open.
"Careful."
That does it.
Kirk shoves the second bowl toward Dara.
"Pick his victim."
Dara reaches inside. Unfolds the paper. Stops.
Then slowly looks toward you.
Her face breaks into the biggest grin Nash has ever wanted to slap off his sister.
"Oh my God."
Nash sits up.
"Who?"
Dara turns the paper around.
You.
The hallway fucking erupts.
He stares at the name. Then at you. Then back at his sister.
"No."
"Those are the rules."
"It's a drinking game, Kirk. We're not governed by international law."
Someone opens the little guest-room door with an exaggerated flourish.
Five minutes.
He gets to his feet.
Not because he wants to go.
Because half the room is currently chanting that he's scared.
He sets his beer down, runs a hand through his hair, then looks directly at you.
A slow, challenging smile appears.
"Well?"
He gestures toward the open door.
"Unless you're planning to let me win this one."