Page 8 of Driving Whiskey Wild
Finlay laughed against his stomach. “Tinkerbell? Big, bad Brutus has a dog named Tinkerbell?”
He cursed under his breath. Dixie stomped around to the other side and climbed in as Bullet peeled Finlay from his body and helped her into the front seat. “Slide all the way over.”
“You just want me next to you,” Finlay snapped as she scooted across the bench seat.
He wasn’t going to touch that one with a ten-foot pole. He reached for Gemma and helped her in, taking an extra second to be sure she was okay. Truman, Gemma, and their babies might not be blood relatives to Bullet, but he considered them family. And since the girls had obviously taken Finlay into the fold, she was, too, which meant Bullet would take care of her from here on out, regardless of whether or not she ever gave him a second look. Because that’s how the Whiskeys rolled. Love, loyalty, and respect for all wasn’t just the Dark Knights’ creed. It was how they lived their lives. And when you entered the Whiskeys’ circle, you became family.
“Buckle up, girls.” They were all within reach. Safe. Bullet exhaled with relief. “Let’s get you home.”
“She’s got a fancy pink collar, Fin!” Penny said as she loved up Tinkerbell. “Aw, look how cute.”
Finlay covered her face, doubled over in laughter. “Tinkerbell.”
Bullet pulled the seat belt across Finlay’s lap. She spread her fingers, peeking out at him, and whispered, “Sorry. It’s a good nam—” Laughter swallowed her voice.
Bullet spent the next hour driving Gemma, Penny, and Dixie home and walking them to their doors, all the while Finlay gave a play-by-play of their evening. He gritted his teeth through descriptions of enough guys to gag a man. After dropping off Dixie, who hugged and thanked him despite all her bitching, he climbed back into the truck.
Finlay rested her head on his shoulder with a long, drawn-out sigh. “You’re, like, a hero.”
“Far from it. Where’s your place, lollipop?”
“Lolli.” She snort-laughed and started singing a song about lollipops he hadn’t heard since he was a kid.
Even drunk off her ass she was too fucking cute. He scrubbed a hand over his face, but couldn’t suppress his smile. “Fins, where do you live?”
“His kiss is sweeter than a cherry pie, and he’s shakin’, rockin’, dancin’, ploppin’…”
“I don’t know that song, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got the words wrong. Come on, let’s get you home.”
She continued singing a drunken rendition of the Lollipop song, only now she was shaking her shoulders and waving her hands. “Oh, lolli, lolli, body, body, candy stick.”
“Christ,” he muttered as he drove onto the main drag. “Where to, Fins?”
“Whispers!” she said far too cheerily. Then sang, “Lolli, lolli, pop!”
“Not a chance.”
“No, I mean, head over there. That’s near where I live.” She sat up straighter, pressed her knees together, and folded her hands in her lap.
He realized she was trying to rein in the carefree woman she’d unleashed. Some people needed alcohol to get a stick out of their ass, and some needed it to escape life. He knew Finlay didn’t need it for the first, and he had a feeling she loved her life as it was, which made him wonder what she was trying to escape.
“How often do you drink like this?”
“Never,” she said happily, and began humming.
“Why’d you drink so much tonight?”
“I’m not drunk,” she insisted, and began bobbing her head as she hummed.
“Don’t stop singing on my account,” he said, earning one of her effervescent smiles.
She sang and hummed, and sang some more, until she collapsed with another long sigh against him. She smelled like warm vanilla and sugar. Like freshly baked cookies, and damn, would he like to eat her up. Her body melted against his side, which he liked way more than he probably should considering she might not remember it in the morning.
Her hand fell to his thigh, and she sang, “Thick thighs, cherry pies,” as Whispers came into view. “Turn right at the next light.”
He tried not to make too much out of her hand on his thigh, but his body had other ideas. As he turned down the road and drove toward a residential area, he said, “You live across the street from the bar? Why didn’t you tell me before I drove you all around town?”
She grinned up at him and squeezed his thigh, which sent heat straight to his groin. “And miss all the fun? Besides, we needed this time alone.”
Yeah, they needed time alone all right, but not with her ten sheets to the wind.
She traced the tattoos on his forearm, whisper-singing, “Call me babypop, lollipop, lollipop.” She hummed as she directed him down two more streets to a quiet residential cul-de-sac. “I’m renting the one at the end. Why are you so gruff all the time when everyone else thinks you’re a hero?” she asked out of the blue.
He cut the engine and wondered who had been filling her head with bullshit. “I told you, I’m no one’s hero.” He unhooked her seat belt. She curled her fingers around his forearm, gazing hungrily into his eyes. Her hair was tousled, and her cheeks were flushed. He wished he’d been the cause of those things. It took all his restraint not to lean forward and kiss her.
Tinkerbell’s head popped up behind the seat and she barked, startling Finlay into Bullet’s arms. If this was how she reacted to dogs, maybe they’d take a stroll through the pound.
“Lie down, Tink.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, as if talking alone might call Tinkerbell into the front seat. “You didn’t answer me,” she said quietly, looking temptingly innocent. Her hand moved up and down his forearm, slow and painfully soft. “Why are you so gruff?”
He wasn’t used to women like her, all pure and honest. She made him want to talk, and the feeling was so foreign, he forced himself to climb out of the truck rather than contemplate it. She scooted over to the door, her frilly dress bunched around her thighs. A tiny gold heart hung around her neck on a sparkling chain, and she had a sad look in her eyes that nearly dropped him to his knees.
“Talk to me,” she pleaded. “You can’t hide behind all that bigness forever.”
Wanna bet? “How about we get you inside.”
He helped her to her feet, steadying her as she swayed, and then grabbed her purse from the seat. He peered into the back and said, “Hold down the fort, Tink. I’ll be back.”
As he cracked the window for Tinkerbell, he took in the incredibly small house. The covered porch was barely wider than the front door. A small picture window overlooked an even smaller garden, and a single window was centered in the gable. It looked more like a dollhouse than a residence.
“You remind me of that guy in that show,” she said as they walked up a narrow walkway. “The big guy. The one everyone hated.”
He put an arm around her to keep her from tipping backward as they ascended the porch steps. He had no idea what show she was talking about, but he had a feeling neither did she.
He held up her purse, and she dug out her keys. When she dangled them in front of her eyes like they’d magically appeared, he took them from her and unlocked the door.
She leaned against the wall fidgeting with the little bow at her waist. “Why do you open doors and help drunk girls? It doesn’t really go with your bad-boy image.”
She pushed from the wall, swaying forward. He caught her before she could fall, and lifted her into his arms, reveling in her softness and her heavenly scent. It had been too long since he’d gotten laid, and his dick instantly rose to the occasion.
“Whoa!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her cheek against him. “Your chest is so hard.”
He bit his tongue against a filthy retort and carried her inside, closing the door softly behind him. His gaze swept over the room, taking in the white shag rug, a beige sofa and love seat, fluffy pink, purple, and flowered pillows, and a host of neatly stacked notebooks and a giant calendar atop a glass coffee table. Across the room, a round kitchen table littered with ledgers, colorful sticky notes, a cup full of pens, and several cookbooks sat in front of a set of glass doors. The walls were decorated with photographs of Finlay, Penny, and he assumed, their parents, intermixed with happy and inspirational sayings, like, Make today beautiful! and Believe you can and you will.
He headed for the couch and she pointed down the hall. “Bedroom, please.”
Clenching his jaw, he hesitated. Finlay Wilson’s bedroom. The place he’d been fantasizing about since he’d met her at Truman’s wedding. He’d fantasized about the feminine beauty having a dark side that came out in the bedroom. He’d also fantasized about taking her in a soft, frilly bed that was all Finlay.
She leaned up and ran her finger over his beard as she whispered, “Bedroom, Brutus.”
Brutus. Why did that make him even hotter? Against his better judgment, he carried her down the hall.
Her hand slid down his neck, playing over the skin just above the collar of his T-shirt. “Why did you get a snake tattoo? What else do you have tattooed on you?” She tugged at his neckline, peered beneath his shirt, and gasped. “Chest hair! I love chest hair.”
