Page 25 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I silently curse the day I was born into this family, but as I catch a glimpse of their eager faces, I realize I have no other options.
“Fine,” I mutter, my body deflating in defeat. “I’ll go. I’ll go for a drink.”
Levi pats me on the back, as if he’s just done me a favor. “Attaboy. Knew you’d come around.”
“Like I had a fucking choice.”
They start untying me. My thighs cramp when my legs flop apart like a broken lawn chair.
“Next time, though, we go straight for the Town Hall plan.” Dean runs his fingers over the facial hair along his jaw.
“There’s not going to be a next time.” My shoulder screams as my arms drop away like dead weight.
I don’t ever plan on attending another meeting after tonight.
“There’s not going to be as many chances next time.” Dean points his fingers at me like a pistol and clicks his tongue.
“Keep it up and you’ll have my fist in your face for dessert.” I rub the rope burns on my wrists, as the blood rushes back to my hands so fast they’re pulsing.
“You love us.” Wheeler throws his arm around my shoulder. “Now, let’s get to those drinks before the meeting ends.”
“You of all people? Seriously?”
Dean tosses an electric prod in the back of his truck as he passes it. “I’m disappointed I didn’t get to use that. A light tap would’ve sped up your decision.”
A light tap might teach him not to fuck with me again. I scoop it up on my way past, my fingers curling around the handle.
“Dean?” The idiot actually turns around.
I jab the prod low. The zap cracks through the air, and he jumps two feet.
“Fuck! Shit! Hell!” He does a half-spin, half-slap dance.
“Little tap.” I slap the prod into Wheeler’s chest and keep walking. “I suppose I owe you a drink now.”
“Asshole!” It’s a full-volume screech, but his laughter chases the word.
He liked it.
And they call me kinky.
The bar door slams open, and the first thing I see is Jade.
Fucking hell.
What’s she doing on Bucky’s side?
Life was easier when the Foxes and Wildes didn’t talk and the Foxes stayed on their own damn side. Easier to avoid her.
And after that wretched meeting, and my brothers’ after-party, I need a stiff drink without an eyeful of her ass as she leans across the pool table, arms outstretched, eyes locked on the shot—like mine are locked on her.
A few things hit me hard.
No Stetson.
Instead, a tiara glitters on her head.
But it’s not just the tiara. Her sweater’s gone too, and the shirt she’s wearing looks more like bloody lingerie.
