They were best friends.
Devon Mitchell had always been Jake's shoulder-to-cry-on, beer buddy, football pal, and occasional matchmaker.
Tonight, as the clock struck eight in the evening, her role was to be his shoulder-to-cry-on.
It wasn't that hard, Devon realized. When one needed time to cry, one must have a tequila on hand. Everything would go smoothly as swift as the alcohol would burn their throats.
Clutching a still full Jose Cuervo in one hand, Devon rummaged Jack's apartment in search of his shot glasses, lemon, and salt. That task, she realized, was harder than getting themselves drunk.
Saying Jack was a slob was an understatement.
Dirty clothes; dirty dishes; everything was dirty. Jake was literally living in a dump. Even her bare foot got itchy by the dusty carpet that had
