Bijan Stephen's “Suckin’ down a pop,” Cam replies, after a slight pause.

I’D asked him what he was doing via text. Twenty-four hours ago, we (minus Cam, our tap-dancing fisherman) were somewhere hazy in Midtown. Ishaan, whom Lars would go home with later that night, controlled the music while nursing a glass of some brown liquid; Diesel was on his third pop in twenty minutes.
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