“Threw up?” Gemma put her hand on Crystal’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever, and you didn’t drink anything.”
“Nachos…” Crystal put her hand on her stomach and said, “I’ll have Bear come back and drive you guys home after he takes me home, but I don’t think I can be in the car for that long without puking.”
“We can get an Uber,” Penny assured her, and the girls all agreed.
“I’m sorry you don’t feel well,” Finlay said. “I’d offer to drive you home, but…” She pointed to all the empty glasses on the table.
“None of you are getting behind the wheel. Got it?” Crystal demanded.
They all nodded.
Crystal leaned back, holding her stomach. “Now, please talk so I think about something other than my stomach.”
They all talked at once about clothes, movies, and other nonsense to distract her. Fifteen minutes later, Bear appeared by the table, concern written all over his handsome face.
He helped Crystal to her feet and slipped an arm around her waist. “I’ve got you, sugar. Can you make it to the car, or should I carry you?”
Carry her? Finlay’s heart swelled at the love billowing off him.
“I can walk, but we may need a bucket.” Crystal smiled at the girls and said, “Sorry, you guys. Gem, I’ll call you if I’m still sick in the morning, but hopefully it’s just the nachos.”
They said their goodbyes, and after a few minutes of gushing over Bear’s love for Crystal and hoping she was okay, Dixie said, “I think we need to dance.”
She grabbed Finlay’s hand and dragged her toward the crowded dance floor. Gemma and Penny followed them out. It had been a long time since Finlay had gone dancing, and even longer since she’d been this tipsy. She felt amazing! She gazed up at the colored lights misting over the dance floor, where couples swayed seductively, bumping and grinding, their skin glistening with sweat. Finlay was right there in the middle of it all, lost in a topsy-turvy world. Guys cut in to dance with her, and she sang along with the lyrics, without a care about anything other than having fun. But as men cycled through, dancing with her for a few songs, bumping and grinding, her inebriated mind turned them all into the scowling, bearded giant she was trying not to think about. The one who stood up for a total stranger at the risk of being arrested.
The one who wanted her to ride his Bullet train.
She gazed up at the blond guy she was dancing with. He was hot, with sexy dark eyes and serious dance moves. Maybe he could take her mind off Bullet. She swayed her hips and tried to give him a seductive look, bracing herself for the tingling sensation in her belly and the fluttering inside her that had hit full force every time she was near Bullet.
But nothing came.
Her body was numb. Or dumb.
Come on, she pleaded with herself. She needed a night of freedom and flirting, and kissing. Gosh, she missed kissing so much! She wasn’t even sure she remembered how to do it. Maybe she’d really get wild and touch all this guy’s muscles, too. That’s what she needed. A good fu—
She couldn’t even think the word, it went so strongly against her grain.
Just like Bullet.
BULLET KICKED HIS feet up on the porch railing and cracked open a beer. Tinkerbell, his rottweiler puppy, named by Kennedy, rested her chin on his leg. “How’s my girl?”
He set the beer down and patted his stomach. Tinkerbell hopped up on his lap and licked his face. He grabbed her furry head between his hands and planted a kiss on her snout. “I missed you too, sweetheart.”
She rested her head on his chest and curled up like a giant lap dog. His brothers were always giving him shit about allowing Tinkerbell to sit on his lap, but he didn’t give a fuck if she grew to be a hundred and twenty pounds. He’d happily love her up. There weren’t many things that made Bullet truly happy, but Kennedy, Lincoln, and that eighty-pound pup always put a smile on his face. Finding Tinkerbell had changed his life for the better, and he only hoped he made her life just as good. He’d been up late one night when insomnia had dug its nasty nails in deep and refused to let go. He got in his truck and got stuck behind a beat-up black Cadillac on his way out of town, when the car slowed and tossed a load of garbage into the road. Pissed off, and worried someone might get into an accident, he’d pulled over to clear the debris. He’d never forget the sick feeling that had consumed him when he’d lifted the garbage bag and felt something move. He’d found the rail-thin pup inside. He’d torn every fucking trash bag open to make sure there were no other animals, and then he’d taken the rottie straight to his buddy Marty “Paws” Miller, a veterinarian who was also a Dark Knight. The first few days were rough, with Tink puking up her food nearly every time she ate, out of nerves or because her stomach was just not used to food, he wasn’t sure. But she’d soon acclimated, and she’d been Bullet’s companion ever since. Neither of them could sleep without the other. Tinkerbell had become so attuned to Bullet, that on the rare occasions when the nightmares he’d experienced after first returning to civilian life claimed him, she’d wake him before they pulled him too far under.
To this day, he kept his eyes peeled for a black Cadillac with a big-ass dent in the right rear fender. God help the owner if he ever caught him, because while there were many things Bullet wouldn’t put up with, hurting children, women, or animals topped the list.
He stroked Tinkerbell’s back and reached for his beer. There had been a time when Bullet was a big drinker, but that, along with everything else in his life, had changed when he was in the military. Now he had an occasional beer, but for the most part he liked to remain sober just in case someone fucked up and needed his help. But it had been a long night, made longer by a stroke of unexpected jealousy that gnawed at his gut. Tonight he wanted to try to drown out thoughts of Finlay Wilson.
As he lifted the bottle to his lips, his phone rang. Goddamn it. He remembered that Finlay had his number, and a spear of ridiculously embarrassing hope rang through him.
Tinkerbell lifted her head as he dug his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. Bear. He set the bottle back on the table and put the phone to his ear. “Hey, B, what’s up?”
“You at home?”
“Yeah.”
“Drinking?”
He glanced at the open and untouched beer. “Not yet.”
“I need a favor. Crystal was out with the girls and she was the designated driver. She got sick, and I had to go pick her up.”
“Where are they?” He gently nudged Tinkerbell off his lap and rose to his feet.
“Whispers.”
“Aw, fuck. Seriously? Was Dixie with her?” He hated that place. Unfortunately, Dixie liked going there for exactly that reason.
“Yup.”
“I’m on my way.” He patted his leg and headed for his truck, with Tinkerbell trotting beside him. “How’s your girl?”
“Not well, but I’ve got her. She thinks she ate bad nachos, but if she’s not well in the morning I’ll call Bones and have him check her out.”
“You need anything while I’m out?”
“No. We’re good. Thanks, Bullet. Take your extended cab. You’ll need the space.”
With Tinkerbell on the passenger seat, Bullet drove down the rural road and pulled onto the main strip. Picking up the girls was no big deal, even if he had to drag his ass out of the house after working a fourteen-hour shift. He’d spent his later teen years driving drunk customers home from the bar. That was when his father had still run the place, before his stroke. Before Bullet had enlisted and entered the Special Forces. Before he’d seen too many men take their last breaths. Before he’d found out that he wasn’t invincible.
Before PTSD.
He rolled down the window as he cruised toward the nightclub. The cool air helped clear his head. He reached across the seat and petted Tinkerbell, glad for the company. When he pulled into the Whispers parking lot, he spotted Crystal’s car and made a mental note to pick it up with Bear if Crystal was st
ill sick tomorrow. Poor girl. He added one more item to the list of things that made him smile. The way his family took care of each other. They always had each other’s backs. Knowing his family was safe, that might just take the cake.
Thinking of cake, his mind turned to Finlay. She was a sugar rush if ever there was one. He felt himself smiling, and just as quickly, that smile faded. Where the fuck was she tonight? He threw the truck into park and patted Tinkerbell’s head. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t go for a drive.”
He cracked the windows, locked up, and headed inside to collect his sister and whoever else was wasting their night in this douche bag place.
Bullet strode into the dimly lit, testosterone-laden bar. The heat was almost as oppressive as the aura of yuppiness. He was a good head taller than the crowd, making it easy to scan his surroundings. A sea of sexed-up women danced with too-pretty men sporting manicured eyebrows and buttoned-up shirts. The guys were probably hoping for a fuck, the girls, dreaming of their frogs turning into princes, complete with a diamond ring and a white picket fence.
Bullet knew he was a menacing force, and he was used to crowds parting for him, as they were now, eyeing him up as if he might pound the hell out of someone for no damn reason. Idiots. Goddamn kids, living their safe little lives, afraid to step outside of the harbor and experience the harsh real world.
Fucking Dixie. Why did she get off on this shit? His gaze locked on her red hair, and he plowed through the crowd. She was dancing with Gemma and Jon Butterscotch, the doctor dude who came into the bar with Bones sometimes. Bullet lifted his chin in greeting. Jon was a good guy, but not for Dixie. She didn’t need a stuffed shirt who drove fancy cars.
Bullet grabbed Dixie’s arm. “Let’s go.”
Dixie spun around with fire in her eyes, grabbed his wrist the way he’d taught her, and twisted out of his grip. The anger in her bloodshot eyes morphed to irritation when she realized it was him who had grabbed her.
“What’re you doing here?” She continued swaying to the music, or maybe she was swaying because of how much she’d had to drink. Bullet couldn’t be sure.
The music blared so loud he had to raise his voice to be sure she heard him. “Driving your drunk ass home. Let’s go.”
“I can take her,” Jon offered, his gaze sliding to Dixie.
Over my dead body. “That’s okay. I’ve got her.”
“I’ll grab an Uber,” Dixie insisted.
“My ass you will.”
“Bullet!” Gemma clapped her hands. “Are you here to dance?”
Jesus fuck. They were both blasted. “No, sweetheart. I’m taking you home to Tru.”
“Oh! Okay, thanks! I miss him. And my babies. I should be home with my babies.” Gemma craned her neck, looking around the dance floor. “We need to find Finlay and Penny!” she hollered. “There’s Fin! With that guy!”
Like a scope on a rifle, he zeroed in on Finlay’s blond hair, her slinky little body dancing too damn close to some prick. Bullet glared at the guy as he closed the distance between them, drawing the weasel’s attention. The guy stumbled back, putting space between him and Finlay as Bullet’s arm swept around her waist. “Come on, lollipop. Time to go.”
“Bullet? What are you doing here?” she yelled, pointing to her ear. “I can’t hear you!”
He bent to speak into her ear and she threw her arms around his neck and said, “Dance with me!”
Christ. You’re plastered too? So much for Shirley Temples. “We’re leaving.”
He took a step, and she squirmed from his grip.
“I’m not leaving! I’m dancing.” She reached for the guy she’d been dancing with, and Bullet gave him a dark look.
The guy held his hands up and disappeared into the crowd.
“You scared him away! Now you have to dance with me.” She plastered herself against him, and he caught Penny’s sleeve as she stumbled past, yanking her against his side and holding on tight as he pried Finlay’s delicate arms from around his waist. He hauled her against his other side and demanded, “Gemma, Dixie. Front door. Now.”
Groaning, arms flailing, Dixie traipsed ahead of him, while Gemma hummed with a smile on her lips.
“I don’t want to leave!” Finlay pleaded.
Bullet glanced at Penny, who said, “She doesn’t get out much.”
Ignoring Dixie’s pouts and Finlay’s struggles, he managed to get them to the front door. He pushed it open, and Finlay spun around, heading into the bar. He grabbed the back of her dress and pulled her against him.
“Not happening, lollipop. You’re too drunk.”
“I am not drunk!” she said, leaning against him. “Right, Pen? I can hold my liquor.” Her eyes bloomed wide as he led the stumbling, swaying lot of them toward his truck. “I can hold my booze, my bar liquid. My…I don’t want to go home.”
Penny laughed and buried her face in Bullet’s side. “I can’t believe we have to be escorted home by a Whiskey.”
“More like taken against our will,” Dixie said as she tilted, grabbing Gemma’s shoulder to steady herself.
Bullet grabbed ahold of the back of Finlay’s dress again to keep her from running off, holding on tight as he unlocked and opened the truck door. She came face-to-face with Tinkerbell—and screamed. All at once, Penny squealed, Tinkerbell barked, Gemma turned and puked, and Finlay scrambled behind Bullet, clinging to his hips, her face pressing into his leather vest.
Christ.
Dixie stood by the truck, arms crossed, taking it all in with an amused smile.
“Get in, Dix. Tink, back. Floor,” he commanded, and Tinkerbell jumped into the backseat and lay down on the floor. He turned to Gemma and helped her upright, searching her face. She had the relieved look of someone who had spewed poison from their body. A good sign. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Gemma nodded.
Bullet swept an arm behind him and pulled Finlay around to his front. Her face remained buried in his leather vest. She clung to him, eyes slammed shut. At least she wasn’t running. “I’ve got you, lollipop.”
She whimpered.
“She’s afraid of dogs,” Penny explained.
“You afraid of dogs, too?” he asked Penny.
She shook her head.
“Great. You and Dix, in the back with Tinkerbell.”
Finlay laughed against his stomach. “Tinkerbell? Big, bad Brutus has a dog named Tinkerbell?”
He cursed under his breath. Dixie stomped around to the other side and climbed in as Bullet peeled Finlay from his body and helped her into the front seat. “Slide all the way over.”
“You just want me next to you,” Finlay snapped as she scooted across the bench seat.
He wasn’t going to touch that one with a ten-foot pole. He reached for Gemma and helped her in, taking an extra second to be sure she was okay. Truman, Gemma, and their babies might not be blood relatives to Bullet, but he considered them family. And since the girls had obviously taken Finlay into the fold, she was, too, which meant Bullet would take care of her from here on out, regardless of whether or not she ever gave him a second look. Because that’s how the Whiskeys rolled. Love, loyalty, and respect for all wasn’t just the Dark Knights’ creed. It was how they lived their lives. And when you entered the Whiskeys’ circle, you became family.
“Buckle up, girls.” They were all within reach. Safe. Bullet exhaled with relief. “Let’s get you home.”
“She’s got a fancy pink collar, Fin!” Penny said as she loved up Tinkerbell. “Aw, look how cute.”
Finlay covered her face, doubled over in laughter. “Tinkerbell.”
Bullet pulled the seat belt across Finlay’s lap. She spread her fingers, peeking out at him, and whispered, “Sorry. It’s a good nam—” Laughter swallowed her voice.
Bullet spent the next hour driving Gemma, Penny, and Dixie home and walking them to their doors, all the while Finlay gave a play-by-play of their evening. He gritted his teeth through descriptions of enough guys to gag
a man. After dropping off Dixie, who hugged and thanked him despite all her bitching, he climbed back into the truck.
Finlay rested her head on his shoulder with a long, drawn-out sigh. “You’re, like, a hero.”
“Far from it. Where’s your place, lollipop?”
“Lolli.” She snort-laughed and started singing a song about lollipops he hadn’t heard since he was a kid.
Even drunk off her ass she was too fucking cute. He scrubbed a hand over his face, but couldn’t suppress his smile. “Fins, where do you live?”
“His kiss is sweeter than a cherry pie, and he’s shakin’, rockin’, dancin’, ploppin’…”
“I don’t know that song, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got the words wrong. Come on, let’s get you home.”
She continued singing a drunken rendition of the Lollipop song, only now she was shaking her shoulders and waving her hands. “Oh, lolli, lolli, body, body, candy stick.”
“Christ,” he muttered as he drove onto the main drag. “Where to, Fins?”
“Whispers!” she said far too cheerily. Then sang, “Lolli, lolli, pop!”
“Not a chance.”
“No, I mean, head over there. That’s near where I live.” She sat up straighter, pressed her knees together, and folded her hands in her lap.
He realized she was trying to rein in the carefree woman she’d unleashed. Some people needed alcohol to get a stick out of their ass, and some needed it to escape life. He knew Finlay didn’t need it for the first, and he had a feeling she loved her life as it was, which made him wonder what she was trying to escape.
“How often do you drink like this?”
“Never,” she said happily, and began humming.
“Why’d you drink so much tonight?”
“I’m not drunk,” she insisted, and began bobbing her head as she hummed.
“Don’t stop singing on my account,” he said, earning one of her effervescent smiles.
She sang and hummed, and sang some more, until she collapsed with another long sigh against him. She smelled like warm vanilla and sugar. Like freshly baked cookies, and damn, would he like to eat her up. Her body melted against his side, which he liked way more than he probably should considering she might not remember it in the morning.
Driving Whiskey Wild Page 4
