Page 21 of Ship Outta Luck

Well, maybe I am. “Listen, we just met, and this is all moving a lil’ bit fast for me.”

He’s too fast. The palm trees outside blur as my brain pounds against my head.

Oh my god, drunk. So drunk.

Tequila on an empty stomach was a superbly poor choice rounding out a day full of poor choices.

“Queso would have been a great choice,” I lament.

My nose scrunches up. Maybe Dean did have a point about the margarita, although he’s gone a step too far.

“You owe me another maragrita. Maragarita. Margarita. And queso.”

“Hmmph.” Dean plops me into the Jeep, reaching over to buckle me in before vaulting over the hood to slide into the driver’s side. “You’re done with tequila for tonight, babe.”

“I’m not your babe,” I counter. “Don’t call me babe.”

“Okay, babe.”

Tires squeal as we peel out of the parking lot, his eyes moving from the rearview mirror to me and back. The force squishes me against his shoulder, my internal balance failing miserably as we round the corner onto the highway.

I take a breath, breathing in his rock-hard shoulder. “You smell really good.”

“You smell like tequila.”

“Well, that’s logical, I sppooooose.” I close one eye, then the other.Dang.

“That was tequila, not water. I threw tequila in his face.” I rub my eyes, trying to find some semblance of sobriety. “You know. That guy. Charlie ran him over. That’s why he’s mad. And consunshed. Conchussed. Concussed? Concussed.”

Dean casts a sideways glance at me.

Crap.So much for not telling him that. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

He grunts, turning back to the road. He doesn’t even seem fazed at all by Charlie’s, ah, hit-and-run.

“Did you hear what I said?” My head rolls a little, and I press the back of my hand to my forehead, rubbing my numb face. “The man I threw my drink at, at the bar, was bleeding everywhere because Charlie hit him with my truck. He had a gun,” I say, smacking my lips. Ugh. I feel like shit. “Why did he have a gun?”

Air whips through the car and I gulp it down, trying again to sober up. Leaning out the open window, my stomach grumbles.

“I need food.”

“We need to get somewhere safe,” Dean says. “Fuck.” He smashes his hand into the steering wheel. The violence acts as a shock to my senses, sobering me up a little.

“Take me home,” I manage, stomach churning more now. “I’m safe at home.”

Dean shoots a surprised look my way, his eyebrows furrowing together.

“Your face is going to get stuck like that,” I say, mirroring my face to his. “I can’t feel my face. Ugh.” Leaning back out the window, I gulp fresh air. Like that’ll help.

“Here.” He reaches down, across the center console, his bicep brushing against the top of my thigh, and my lower half tightens. Drunk or sober, I can’t say I mind it at all. The feel of his strong—really freaking strong—arm against the bare skin of my leg has me closing my eyes, imaging what else those strong hands can do.

The sound of a water bottle crinkling reaches my ears and I blink, coming back to reality, staring at the open bottle in front of me.

“Drink.” He thrusts the bottle into my face, some of the water splashing across my chest, soaking my white shirt.

“Scuse you. This is not a wet t-shirt contest, those are on the Padre Islands, sir.”

Dean arches an eyebrow, tugging his eyes from the road to meet mine, then drifts south, to my now clinging, sodden, see-through blouse.

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