Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
JACK
I wake in the bar surrounded by the stench of stale smoke and spilled liquor. I’m on one of the couches over by the far wall near the old jukebox. Dust motes dance in the pale morning light as the bones of the clubhouse start to creak with heat from the rising sun.
Sitting up, I yawn and stretch, the kink in my neck telling me I am not a young man anymore. Next birthday, I’ll be hitting the big 4-0, and try as I might with regular gym sessions and curbing my need for alcohol, I’m not going to outrun getting older. My time for couch sleeping has clearly passed.
Not that I had much of a choice. The card game had gone on until the small hours and because Bronte was full of tequila and sleeping it off in my bed, I’d opted for the couch. Because there was no way in hell I was sharing that bed with her.
Not because I don’t trust myself or because I think lying next to her might lead to something.
No, it’s because I’m a fucking gentleman, that’s why.
Groaning, I run my palm over the nape of my neck and knead the muscles to loosen the kink.
Across the room, Ghoul is sitting upright on another couch with his head dropped back and his eyes closed as the blanket over him bobs up and down. When the bobbing increases with speed, he bites down on his lip, and his knuckles turn white as they fist beside him.
Jesus.
I look away and rub my eyes.
Seeing one of my brothers getting a blow job first thing is too much.
But to be honest, it’s probably not the last time I’ll see it. Following a clubhouse party, anything is possible.
Ignoring Ghoul and whoever is under the blanket, I walk behind the bar and grab a bottle of water from one of the glass refrigerators and scull it down until it is empty.
I’m not hungover. Far from it. Just sore from a night on the couch and not enough sleep.
But I have shit to do—people to see.
But first, I have to get Bronte home.
I find her in the bathroom adjoined to my bedroom, slumped around the toilet, her hair a curtain of tangles. I can’t help but grin. She never could handle her liquor.
Sensing me in the doorway, she raises her head. “I think I might actually be dying,” she moans out.
Despite the sweat and puke, she looks damn cute.
“I told you to take it easy,” I say, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.
She’s dressed in nothing but her T-shirt and a tiny pair of panties.
Fuck.
I drag my eyes away.
“Come on,” I declare, needing the distraction. “I’ll drive you home.”
After getting Bronte into the truck, I pull out of the clubhouse parking lot and head for home. It’s one of those hot summer days, where the sweltering heat gets into your veins and leaves you with a sheen of sweat all over your skin.
In a nutshell, it’s the worst kind of day for a hangover.
Bronte moans. “I’m never fucking drinking again.”
Grinning, I glance over at her. She’s slumped against the door of my truck, her eyes closed, her face pale. She’s suffering all right.
“We’ve all said that before,” I reply. Hell, I’ve said it more times than I can count. “You’ll feel better after a sleep.”
“The only thing that’s going to help would be a brain transplant.” She groans again and presses her fingers to her temples. “When did the road get so bumpy?”
“About the same time you were downing shots of tequila like they were water.”
“Oh God, don’t remind me.” She opens one eye. “I can’t think about it. I might puke again.”
“Not possible, wildflower. I don’t think you’ve got anything left.”
“Don’t be so sure. Linda Blair has nothing on me.”
I laugh at her Exorcist reference. She might be right. She’s vomited a couple of more times since I found her on the floor of the bathroom. For someone so tiny, I’m surprised by how much she can keep in her stomach.
“We’re almost home,” I say. “The torture is almost over.”
“It won’t be over until I’m dead.”
She closes her eyes, and a small whimper leaves her slightly parted lips.
I flick on the radio because the last thing I need is to hear those whimpers.
Pulling into her driveway, I park near the front steps. She’s out cold, so I carry her inside and while she’s in my arms, she moans and snuggles her face into my chest.
Ignoring the strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, I lay her down on her bed, and she whimpers a little before sinking back into a deep sleep, her body settling into the mattress as she murmurs, “Thank you, Jack.”
In the kitchen, I find a bottle of Advil in a basket by the phone and pour her a glass of water from the tap. The house is quiet, but an odd sound breaks into the stillness and stops me. I pause, listening to see where it has come from.