“You didn’t?” The dip in Jordan’s cheek tells me she’s biting it to hold back a laugh.
I nod. I did. I totally did.
“Don’t worry—I’ll take one for the team and give it to the twins when they get older,” I offer.
“Oh count me in on that one. I can’t let you have all the fun when it comes to our goddaughters.” I bump the fist Skye has held out.
Jordan is so lucky to have us as her best friends. Look at us taking on the burden of having to discuss the birds and the bees with her children. I’m like the fairy godmother of sexual education.
Ooo, that would make a great text handle.
“I want to say thank god Sean is my brother and not my son, because I can’t even imagine the phone call Maverick’s mom is going to be making when she hears her future fourth grader is being taught about sex by a group of relative strangers.” Jordan falls back against the couch cushions.
“You say that like Mama D won’t be calling you as soon as she hangs up,” Skye points out.
“Nah, Top Gun’s mom is cool,” Sean offers, trying to help me out of the sticky situation I’ve found myself in. He’s a good husband.
“Oh my god!” I throw my arms up and happy-dance in my seat. “Can we please watch Top Gun? Tom Cruise is so sexy in a flight suit. And look at the next gen coming up with the good nicknames! I approve.” I give Sean a salute.
Oh I’m in a mood. I narrow my eyes at the tequila, and the level of the brown liquor is lower than I thought it would be. Whoa boy. Dex’s night is going to be interesting.
No, wait—I’m mad at him. How could I forget?
Maybe because you’re drunk?
Oh, shut up Jiminy.
“Oh no.”
“She’s further gone than I thought if she’s fighting with Jiminy out loud.”
Jordan and Skye’s conversation over my head tells me I spoke aloud. Oh well.
You know what? More tequila sounds like a fantabulous idea right now, but I’m gonna have to be sneaky about it.
Maybe if I…
Using my peripheral vision, I check my cohorts besides me and slide forward an inch. Another check then another inch.
I got this. They won’t catch me. Dex isn’t the only one who’s stealthy. Stealth is my middle name.
Yeah, whatever you say, Madison Belle.
Another inch. Almost there. They aren’t going to be able to stop me. One…more…inch.
Got it.
VICTORY!!!!
I jump from the couch, fingers wrapped around the squat neck of the bottle, which I clutch to my chest like it’s my precious as I start doing the running man in place.
My girls give in instead of fighting the inevitable, and “Tequila” by The Champs starts playing from Skye’s phone as they join me in my impromptu dance party.
Just like Aladdin got three wishes, I’ll give you three guesses who walks in while I’m doing an epic sprinkler.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Unlike earlier, as I approach the front door to the Donovan home, I feel like I’m prepared to find a tango strapped in an S-vest on the other side.
It was a risk to leave without telling her, but I’m trained to take calculated ones daily and am prepared for whatever the fallout will be—I think.
So when I come across three females in various stages of doing the shopping cart, the lawnmower, and the sprinkler, I’m not really sure how to react.
If the Patron bottle clutched in the hand by Maddey’s face isn’t enough of a clue, the sloppy jerks of her outstretched arm as she pulses it front of her while making the shhh-shhh-shhh-tick-tick-tick-tick sound of a sprinkler would have given her away. My girl is drunk.
Well this should be interesting.
“Hook!” She throws her arms up with a cheer. “Oh no.” She brings the bottle down, trying to hide it behind her hands against her chest.
“What’s wrong, Tink?” I can’t stop my lips from curling into a grin at her hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar expression.
“We’re drinking tea-key-la,” she whisper-shouts.
“Last I checked, you’re old enough to do so legally.”
“Yeah…but…you’re a pirate, Hook.” Her eyes dart around the room, looking for who the fuck knows. “Pirates drink rum.” Another whisper-shout.
Remember how I said my girl was drunk? I take that back—she’s three sheets to the fucking wind.
Time to go.
With a shake of the head, I stalk across the room, liberate the tequila and pass it to a sober-looking Jordan, and toss Maddey over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
“Whoooooooa.” Hands smack my ass. “This might not be the safest position for you to have me in, Hook, but I’m not gonna complain about the view.” Another slap, this one followed by a squeeze, honk-honk sound effect included.
Jesus. Lord give me strength.
With my bounty secured on my shoulder, I make a pitstop at the back door and whistle for Trident, the dog coming the instant he’s called.
I wish his owner would be as obedient. Instead she’s currently kicking her feet and jostling around, encouraging the chorus of cheers sent our way.
“Put me down if I’m too heavy,” she says when I groan.
Her weight isn’t the issue—it’s the way the hem of her shorts rides up with the movements, giving me a teasing, ball-tingling glimpse of the bottom curve of her ass.
“Please, Madz. My rucksack weighs more than you.”
She huffs and, in true Dory fashion, is quickly distracted by something else. Unfortunately, that something is me. More specifically, my t-shirt.
Cool air brushes along my lower back as she inches it up, her fingers walking up each vertebrae of my spine like steps as they are revealed.
“Stop that, Tink,” I warn, holding the door open for Trident.
“Nope.” She reverses the direction of her fingers, this time letting them dip under the band of my boxer briefs.
“Madison,” I growl as I smack her ass.
Even in her prone position, her back arches and she lets out a hiss.
That was a tactical error.
Then, as if she wasn’t just trying to drive me insane with lust, her little fists start pounding on my back in earnest while her kicks change from flailing to seeking a target.
Hasn’t this woman abused my balls enough this week?
“Maddey.” Like the ones before it, she ignores this warning too.
“You.” Punch, punch. “Left.” Punch. “Without.” Punch, punch, punch. “Me.”
There’s the anger I was expecting.
“Madz,” I soothe.
“Fuck you Dexter.” I swing my hips to the left to avoid a nut shot.
“Maybe when you’re sober.” She’s too intoxicated for my dirty promise to register.
“You left me.” Punch, punch, punch, punch. “You fucking left me.”
Rounding my truck so we’re hidden from view of the house, I lift her off my shoulder, telling myself I don’t notice how good her curves feel sliding down the front of me.
“How could you?” Now that she’s on her feet, this punch connects with actual force, leaving behind a surprising sting on my pec.