Page 22 of Ship Outta Luck

Heat floods me, and I guzzle from the bottle.

I’m never drinking again.

“Don’t call me sir.”

I want to say it again, just to see what he’ll do.

“Here.” He tosses a protein bar into my lap, “Eat. Sober up.”

I take another drink, hydration being key to any situation, then set the bottle aside. Unwrapping the bar, I grimace at the waxy brown exterior. “This looks gross.”

“So does vomit.”

I scrunch my nose up and take a bite. “Tastes like chocolate chalk.”

“Just eat it.” His focus stays on the road, laser tight.

The chalk helps a little, the water and food settling my stomach as I chew. And chew. And chew. Ok, maybe it’s more like cement.

Taking another drink, I watch the sun’s spectacular orange and hot pink bleed into the purple sky as it sinks below the horizon.

“It’s so beautiful out here.”

Dean grunts, eyes darting to the rearview mirror and back. His shoulders bunch together, the muscles in his arms twitching as his hands flex, fingers drumming the steering wheel.

A tattoo peeks out from his tight sleeve, and I extend my finger, curiosity getting the better of me. Almost of its own accord, my index finger nudges the sleeve up, revealing more glorious golden skin, and the bottom of…

His hand grips my wrist, not so tight that it hurts, but enough to get my attention. To get me to stop.

“Phew,” I exhale. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

“Keep your hands to yourself.” The words are mean, but his voice is almost gentle.

I should be embarrassed. But I can’t help the maniacal giggles threatening to turn into tears at any moment.

Thanks, tequila.

Here I am, in a stranger’s car, drunk off my ass, after Charlie hits a guy withmytruck.

“You need food. Eat.” He plucks the protein bar out of my hand, holding it in front of my mouth as he drives.

“Youneed food,” I say before taking a reluctant bite. “I need queso.”

He chuckles, a low rasp that makes my skin tingle. I grab the nasty bar back from him. At lease I’m regaining feeling in my extremities.

My gaze wanders tohisextremities, cataloguing their many fine qualities.

“Why can’t I look at your tattoo? Do you have more on other body parts?” If I lick my lips, it’s because they’re dry. No other reason.

A hint of amusement curls his lips.

“You want to look at my tattoos, huh?” His eyes slide from the windshield, taking me in, trailing over my body, leaving more heat in their wake. “I have more than that one.”

He raises an eyebrow. Is that an invitation?

“You said not to touch you.”

“Now you have permission. I’m ready for it, now.”

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