Page 18 of Gator

Rage, incandescent and pure, bloomed in my chest.

When I saw him again, his testicles would be the main course of a very special gumbo.

A revenge gumbo. With extra hot peppers.

Ooh! Serrano peppers!

I sighed, rubbing my temples.

First, I needed to figure out how to explain three unexpected additions to my sister. Then, I’d move onto Gator. Justice, and a fantastic batch of gumbo, awaited that fucker.

But in the meantime, I really, really needed a burger.

A really, really big fat juicy burger.

“Oh, there you are,” my sister said, smiling down at me as I glared up at her. “I know you’re pissed, but, Dev, we need to talk about this calmly before you go off half-cocked and do something you’ll regret.”

Henley’s voice was annoyingly level-headed, the exact opposite of how I felt.

I glared at her, my eyes narrowing. “Fuck calm, Hen! Look at the state of me! I feel like death warmed over, and it’s all because of Gator and his damn Cajun sperm!” I gestured wildly, my hands emphasizing my frustration. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him. One night, one stupid night, and now I’m growing a football team in here!” I thumped my stomach for emphasis, feeling a mix of anger and disbelief.

Henley’s eyes widened, and she took a step back, her hands raised in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, I get it. This is a shock, and it’s not ideal. But we can figure this out together. We’re sisters, and I’m here for you.” Her voice softened, and I could see the concern in her eyes.

Taking a deep breath, I ran my hands through my hair, trying to calm myself. Sitting on my couch, I hunched over and whispered, “I can’t do this, Henley. I never wanted to be a mom. I’m not like you. I don’t have a husband. Hell, I don’t even have a boyfriend. I live in a one-bedroom apartment. Now I’m going to have to find a house. I don’t want to buy a house!”

Kneeling before me, my sister grabbed my hands and smiled. “Dev, you’re panicking. Take a deep breath for me. You are the strongest person I know. You took care of me after Mom and Dad died. You held my head above water before my website took off. You’ve been by my side every step of the way. And you won’t be alone. Scribe and I will help you. As for the house, we’ve got time. I’ll call Lacey after the wedding and have her start looking for something cute that fits your personality. We’ve got time,Dev. It’s going to be okay. Now, why don’t you go get dressed and we can ride to the wedding together?”

“I can’t go. He will be there. If I see his smug Cajun face, I’m liable to kill him and then you will have three more babies to raise. You go on. I’m just gonna curl up on the couch and watch someGame of Thrones.”

“Want me to bring you back a piece of cake?”

“A big one.”

Chapter Eight

Irish Rose Tavern...

“Hey, boss, you think there will be good vittles at this shindig?” Donut asked, leaning against the door as I combed back my hair.

“Don’ see why not.” I smiled, looking at myself in the mirror. “Why?”

Damn, I clean up fine!

“I mean, this is a real fancy place we’re goin’ to. I ain’t eatin’ no bland rubber chicken.”

“Donut’s got a point, boss,” Thore said, stepping up behind him. “We like our food seasoned, and these fancy folks ain’t never used anything but salt and pepper.”

Turning to look at the hulking man, I closed my eyes and counted to ten before I said another damn word.

Thore was eccentric on a good day. Hell, all my boys were, but I was pretty damn sure wearing no shirt to a classy wedding was against some rule or something. If that wasn’t bad enough, the brother had on a bear’s hide kilt with his family’s sword at his hip and calfskin boots up to his knees.

Now, I wasn’t up to date on wedding etiquette, but I was pretty damn sure what Thore and Donut were wearing wasn’tentirely appropriate. But then again, Thore did braid his hair and comb his beard, so that was a plus.

However, Donut totally missed the fucking memo because the brother was wearing a semi-white tank top, board shorts, flip-flops and a polka-dotted bow tie around his neck.

Storming out of the bathroom, I walked into the main bar area of the Irish Rose Tavern and glared at Worm, who wore all black as if he were getting ready for a funeral. Braveheart looked like something out of an Irish romance novel, kilt and all, but it was Juju, my so-called vice president, who put us all to shame. Dressed in a vibrant purple zoot suit, with top hat and cane, the man looked ready to herald Mardi Gras!

Fuck it.

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