If I was drunk, I wouldn’t be here at all. And really, this is pretty good for four White Russians.”
“White what?” I almost sat down but was afraid the chair might dematerialize beneath me.
“It’s a drink,” he said. “You’d think I wouldn’t be into something named that—you know, considering my own personal experience with Russians. But they’re surprisingly delicious. The drinks, not real Russians.

Author: Richelle Mead