Page 31 of Dravin

Sure, it’s just for painting purposes.

He asked me what he should wear. I have an answer for that. A black button up dress shirt, done all the way to the top, hair slicked back with oil to make it shine, suspenders, and expensive, tailored black pants with black leather shoes. Black eyeliner on his good eye, done heavily. A black glass eyeball in the other socket, but it’s not like he can just pull one out of his ass.

He groans against my lips as though he can read my thoughts. I pour them back into him, working his cock through his jeans, mashing against the head mercilessly, giving him the edge of pain that he appears to crave. He can’t contain those heavy groans that he pants over my mouth when I do it.

A loud cough behind us goes straight to the parts of my brain that the whiskey hasn’t addled.

I immediately break away, but I don’t stumble. Not with Dravin’s strong hand at the small of my back and the other splayed against my shoulder blades.

A man just stepped outside. He’s a big guy, probably in his early forties, though every single person in there was huge and hard living can play havoc with aging a person. I know who Tyrant, Raiden, Gunner, Bullet, Atlas, and Crow are because the women made sure I was introduced throughout the night, but I don’t know this one.

All the blood rushes out of me. My stomach spins violently and it’s all I can do to swallow convulsively to keep all that whiskey from vacating and ending up all over the asphalt parking lot that starts pretty much right outside the diner’s front door.

The guy stares hard at us both and then gives Dravin a lopsided smile. “I’m not one to judge, but please tellme that when you said she was your sister, you actually meant stepsister.”

Dravin sucks in a breath, choking on the back half of it. His face is nearly bloodless. Not his lips. They’re swollen and red from kissing me. I can’t tear my eyes away.

“We’re not blood related,” Dravin confirms. “But we did share a brother.”

That whiskey burns right up to the back of my throat. Does anyone ever come back from loving someone so fiercely and losing them? The worst part is the love. It remains, torturously, a ghost that won’t ever rest because it’s dwelling so far down inside of me, woven into my tissues, bones, and cells.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about this to anyone else,” Dravin mutters. He withdraws his hand from my back, but keeps it hovering in the air like a crutch.

Aside from still feeling like I’m going to throw up because I was punched in the stomach by Dravin’s words, I’m suddenly quite sober.

“This is Preacher,” Dravin says, eying up the older man.

Preacher offers a bearlike hand to me. I stick mine out and he shakes it with a gentleness I didn’t see coming. “That’s right. I’m Preacher, and I’m good shit. Been through enough and seen enough in my own time to know that most people are walking a difficult road. If you don’t want me to say anything, I won’t. Not everything is straightforward, and we all can all fill in the blanks as to the fact that whatever you left behind you, it might not have been all that pleasant. I’m just fucking relieved that I don’t have to go douse my eyes withbleach after this.” His face lightens, giving the impression that he’s laughing about how mortified we likely both look.

Dravin doesn’t seem like he’s going to come out of his skin, not the way he did a few days ago, but he does look ill, so pale that I nearly reach for him and offermyhand to keep him from falling over onto his ass.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

“You both good? Do you need a ride or anything?”

“I haven’t been drinking,” Dravin responds, producing his keys. “I have my car. Thanks for offering, though.”

“I might have offered, but I’d have to find someone else with a cage. Not like you can both double up on the back of my bike.”

Maybe I am still a little bit drunk, because I giggle at the image of Dravin’s huge body crushed up on the seat, clinging tight to this massive man. Where would I fit? Between them? On the back? Standing up in some weird double version like how I used to ride the pegs on Marcus’ bike when we were kids?

When I nod goodnight at Preacher, it’s through a fresh veil of tears.

I suddenly don’t even have enough strength to fight it when Dravin takes my arm and guides me to his car. It takes me a few minutes to gather myself and shore up my strength, so I don’t sass him until I’m in the front seat, buckled up, and he rams himself in beside me. He did something with his SUV sold it or stashed it somewhere, and this is what he drove us here in. An older, sleek, tinted Bimmer.

He starts the car. It’s old enough to still require a good old fashioned key.

This particular one has an attitude.

It’s amusing that the key sticks in the ignition and refuses to turn.

Dravin curses, flips the middle console, and gets out a screwdriver. He yanks out the key, jams the flathead in, wriggles it at all different angles, and eventually the car purrs to life. It has a distinct smell that even I know is burnt oil. But still. As soon as he gets it going, it’s like riding on clouds and the leather interior is a chef’s kiss.

My stomach spins with the motion and I concentrate very hard on not upchucking all over the place.

He doesn’t look at me, but he can probably hear my deep, forced breathing, which helps with the nausea.

“What was that?”

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