Page 135 of Beautifully Reckless

He keeps me seated at his side, tugging my chair so close we’re practically one person. Always touching by the brush of our thighs, or our hands, or his arm curled around my back.

There are no speeches like the weddings in movies. No cheesy toasts or dramatic declarations. It’s just a big, loud, slightly unhinged party, and honestly, I’m okay with that.

As the day rolls on, the Southern Sadists and Doxies overindulge in their drinks, getting rowdier by the minute.

I’m quietly grateful that Millie took their mum back to the house earlier, because the energy is shifting, and there’s some not so savory activities starting up that are definitely not mother-approved.

“What are they doing?” I ask, now perched on Ringo’s knee, pointing across the room to a group of men, sitting around a table, their laughter louder than any others.

“Oh, the prospects are playing Russian Shot Roulette,” JD answers casually, like that’s supposed to mean something to me, and Ringo chuckles, seeing the confusion written across my face.

“You know the gist of normal Russian Roulette, right?” JD asks, and I nod.

“A gun. One bullet. Right?”

He nods back. “Well, RussianShotRoulette has six shot glasses, and six prospects. Each glass has something different. Only one actually has alcohol.”

“What’s in the other glasses?” I glance at Ringo and catch his smirk.

“You don’t want to know.” Ringo chuckles, and I whip my head back towards the group of guys.

“Stop treating her so precious.” Jols rolls her eyes at Ringo, and then tells me what he wouldn’t. “One is a fireball shot, which isn’t so bad. One is a Worcestershire and wasabi mix. One is castor oil with chocolate syrup. One is unflushed dunny water. One is raw egg with hot sauce and vodka. And then one is a lucky dip.”

By the time she finishes, my mouth is hanging open.

“What’s in the lucky dip?”

“Not exactly sure, but given what I saw earlier,” Jols cringes, “I think the last one will have a prospect walking around with a boner for a fucking week.”

My brows hitch into my hairline. “Viagra is in it?”

“A lucky dip is usually laced with some sort of drug that will fuck you up in one way or another,” Jols explains, and I shoot panicked eyes to Ringo, but he looks completely unfazed.

“They do this kind of shit to the prospects all the time,” he mutters with a shrug.

“And you’re not concerned about your brother?” I ask JD, but he shakes his head, totally chill.

“I just hope the horny fucker doesn’t get the Viagra one. I’ll be locking up the goats if he does,” JD snickers to Ringo, who grins in return.

I make the mistake of watching the prospects downing the first shot, and a jet of vomit erupts from one prospect’s mouth like a fountain, splashing across the table, before another one hurls too.

I gag.

“Okay. That’s enough of that.” Ringo stands abruptly, dragging me out of the barn.

My stomach churns as I try to shake off what I just witnessed, and I hear JD and Jols behind us, howling with laughter at whatever fresh hell just unfolded.

Outside, the sun has dropped lower in the sky, casting a golden haze over the yard, its beauty totally wasted on the craziness happening out here with more of the club brothers getting up to no good.

A couple of motorcycles roar to life before two guys line them up side by side, their engines like a rumble of thunder.

“Fucking hell,” Ringo mutters, coming to stand with Stocky, Murf, and Trunk. “If someone dies on my property, I’m not digging the fucking grave.”

“Why would they die?” I ask, feeling like I’m missing something, but then I see two other men put blindfolds on each rider, before climbing on the back of each motorcycle, and Ringo just gestures to the unfolding madness.

“You’re about to find out.”

The next thing I know, the bikes tear off down the driveway, zigzagging like lunatics as the blindfolded riders try to steer blind, the men on the back yelling directions over the roar of the engines.

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