He grinned at her, shook his head and put the bottle down to remove an already rolled joint from the Altoids tin he carried. Most of the guys carried some kind of small container for their dope unless they preferred to smoke a pot pipe. But the guys who smoked tobacco found it more convenient to carry both types of hand-rolleds in a tin.
He lit a joint, took two puffs and passed it over to her.
“We probably shouldn’t be smoking in here,” she murmured.
“Shouldn’t be in my bed, either.”
“You or me?”
“Both. Same bed. You wearin’ that shit. Temptin’ me.”
“I’m wearing your shirt.”
“Meant what you got on under that.”
“PJs.”
“That ain’t no PJs. That shit’s whack-off material.”
His speech was getting thicker and his S’s were getting drawn out. Soon they’d turn to Sh’s and spit might accompany them.
Say it, don’t spray it.
She snorted and took another long hit off the joint before passing it back to him.
“Whasho funny, buddercup?”
Bingo.
Watching the Fury members get totally smashed during pig roasts was entertaining. Usually, the sisterhood got a little tipsy, too. However, they had more fun sitting around watching the guys party. Then they’d round up their ol’ men, drag them home and put them to bed.
Unfortunately, Reilly always went to bed alone. The club’s “do not touch” rule extended to even the damn hang-arounds. And it wasn’t like Manning Grove had a hopping singles scene. In fact, it had a completely dead dating scene. Unless you liked rednecks who still lived in their momma’s basements, or married men.
Occasionally a cute tourist would come into town. But it was hard to tell who was truly single and who was lying about it.
She was lucky to find that one guy she humped in the back of his car behind Crazy Pete’s. Maybe not so lucky, since he sucked at it.
Being a part of the club had both its positives and negatives. The biggest negative being that her sex life was pretty much non-existent due to being “property” of the club.
Maybe she needed to set up an online dating profile and do some distance dating. After Billy Warren tried to put her six-feet-under—twice—she was in no rush to get back into the dating scene. It wasn’t like dating and sex always went hand in hand. Sometimes a woman wanted a good sweaty sex session without any bullshit afterward. The same reason the guys used the sweet butts.
They got their rocks off and didn’t have to worry about being tied down. At least when they weren’t hooking up with Billie—the sweet butt Billie, not her burnt-to-a-crisp ex—then they got tied down, tied up and wrung out. She had seen a few of the guys have trouble walking after a night with that sadist.
She glanced over at Rev and let her gaze slide down to his nipple piercings. She pursed her lips, wondering what damage Billie could do with those.
Rev was staring straight ahead, not concentrating on the TV, not concentrating on anything. Probably deep in his head. Maybe even reliving what happened earlier at his parents’ house. Possibly even reliving his youth.
She glanced at the lit joint in her fingers and took another small hit before once again offering it to him. She nudged his arm with hers. “Here.”
His eyes did a slow roll down to her hand and he took the joint, took another hit then pinched out the end.
“You look thoroughly baked,” she told him. His face was relaxed, his body appeared boneless and his eyes unfocused.
“Feel baked,” was his delayed response.
She smiled. She was not into guys who liked to get falling down, sloppy drunk or who turned into abusive monsters, like Billy Warren had. But Rev was pretty chill when he drank. She also understood his need to calm the turmoil deep inside him.
She wanted to ask him about the cause of that turmoil, but tonight was not the night. She had a feeling they’d be in town at least a few more days. Especially if he kept to his word about wanting to be at his father’s side when he passed.
She didn’t understand it but it wasn’t for her to understand. They had both had shitty parents. It was true, having shitty parents deeply affected their lives. But how they dealt with it might not be the same.
She assumed he had just forgotten them, put that life behind him, just like she had hers, until he got that damn phone call. If she had only known, she would’ve thrown the message away and spared him all of this.
She grabbed her drink off the nightstand next to her. “Rev?”
“Yeah?”
“For tonight, let’s just say ‘fuck the rules.’” She lifted her plastic cup between them and tapped it lightly against the bottle he was drinking from.
She took a long swig of her Jack and Coke and smiled. No, that wasn’t quite right. She took a long swig, hiccuped when the strong whiskey hit her gut, then smiled.
“Yeah, buddercup, lesh juss get fucked up in… shtead.”
He was already standing on that precipice. It wouldn’t take much more for him to tumble head first to the bottom. But she’d stick around and help cushion that fall for as long as he needed her. Whether he’d admit he needed her or not.
During that time, if he wanted to talk about anything, she’d be there to listen.
The guys complained she talked too much but she was pretty damn good at listening, too.
They’d taken her in like she was family. Well, after some strong-arming on her part. But even before she was deeply entrenched in the club, whenever she needed help, they stepped in. Like when it came to the whole dangerous mess with Billy Warren.
So, it was only right she help Rev, or any of them, when they needed it.
Rev being shit-faced after dealing with his family was proof this was the time he needed that help the most.
Chapter Seven
With the engine shut off and the keys already stuffed deep in his pocket, Rev sat in his Bronco.
He was in agony this morning, even after stopping at a convenience store for a large black coffee and a bottle of aspirin. His head pounded, his patience was paper thin and he had the damn shakes. He was pretty fucking sure every cell in his body was pickled and he most likely smelled like it, too.
He normally didn’t drink that much and, fuck, if he’d be drinking that much again any time soon. He’d just about kicked that bottle. By himself. Because of that, he passed out sometime in the night.
Earlier, when he finally pulled himself free of his alcohol-induced coma, he’d found himself flat on his back in the middle of the queen-sized bed, still wearing his unbuttoned jeans, with Reilly’s warm, soft body curled around his.
She was knocked out cold and snoring softly since she must have overdone it, too.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have much memory of it. Things had gotten a bit fuzzy after she’d joined him. Of course, she had to come into his room wearing that blue silky shit, trying to make it even more difficult for him to resist her.
Even worse, while she slept, the T-shirt he insisted she wear had pushed up enough he could see her long, bare legs. And, even as fucked as his head was from his hangover, he could not forget the way her hard nipples had pressed through that damn thin fabric the night before.
He’d rubbed a hand over his own nipples, causing a pleasurable pull from his barbells all the way to his toes and also made his morning wood flex in his jeans.