As designated driver, I stop at 8 and am good to go. Don't hate, we get home safe!
| DESIGNATED DRIVER OR THE LESSER OF TWO FOOLS?
How perceptive of you thought Devon. John and he exited the club and walked toward the car. Devon’s car. The designated driver, as always. John’s statement merely confirmed John's own glaring need-not-be-confirmed drunken state. Devon pulled the keys from his pocket and unlocked the doors as they drew near.
“Not with me,” said John. He snatched the keys from Devon’s hand and they went sailing to the ground. John stumbled, nearly falling to his face trying to retrieve the keys. Devon put a hand on his shoulder to steady him.
“Don’t touch me, man!” With that, John jerked his shoulder from Devon’s grasp and landed on his ass.
Devon proceeded to the driver’s side and casually leaned on the back door, tapping it with his hand. John looked at him, puzzled, but said nothing. He fumbled for the right key, unnecessarily, and having found it, reached toward the door. Devon slid over, blocking John’s access to the lock and handle. John stared. Devon arched his right brow.
“How bout you drive, then, Dev?”
With a smirk, Devon took the keys and bowed his head graciously. A slight dizziness came over him as he raised his head too quickly. Car started, Devon reached for his ringing cell and must have let up on the brake a bit. A car rammed into the right side of his rear bumper. He cursed under his breath.
“See," said John, "your drunk ass shoulda let me drive.”