Garth’s expression ironed out. “My dad.” His words were like ice again, and from that look on his face, I guessed he really did need that drink as badly as I did. “So? Bottoms up?” He shook the bottle in front of me, and even though I knew I shouldn’t, I couldn’t say no.
Not when relief from the pain was a few inches and drinks away.
“Bottoms up.” I took the bottle from him and unscrewed the lid. “Tequila?” Judging from the label, it was cheap tequila.
“To-kill-ya?” Garth said as he dropped into one of the chairs. “Yep.”
Since there weren’t any cups to be found, I lifted the bottle straight to my lips. “Why do I have a feeling I’m going to regret this in the morning?”
“Because you will,” he said as he slid his hat off and dropped it on the ground. Seeing those guys without their hats was always strange, at least when they weren’t sitting around the Walker dining room table. “Me, however? I won’t.”
“You strike me as the kind of guy who doesn’t regret much,” I said before tipping the bottle back. Cool liquid entered my mouth and ran hot down my throat. I hadn’t had a straight shot of alcohol in so long I almost made the pucker face and coughed, but I held it back. I passed the bottle to Garth.
“I don’t,” he replied, taking his own heavy swig. “And you shouldn’t either.” Garth kicked his legs up onto the lounge chair and stared at the stars. He took another drink before passing the bottle back.
“Regret’s one of the few things I’m good at,” I said, taking a shot-sized drink. “I’m not giving that up.”
Yikes. The tequila was already getting to me. That’s the only reason I’d let those vulnerable words slip through my mouth. I didn’t like being vulnerable, but I hated seeming vulnerable in front of guys like Garth Black.
Time to change the conversation.
“So what’s up with you and your dad? Always been this dysfunctional or did you recently decide to jump on that bandwagon?” I handed the bottle off to Garth. Too much, too fast, as my words proved.
Garth’s eyes narrowed at the sky. “I don’t want to talk about my past any more than you want to talk about yours,” he said before taking a drink. Actually, it was more of a chug. “Don’t ask me questions about my family unless you want me asking you the same ones about yours.”
That got my attention.
“Like I said before, Rowen, you and me are so alike, if I had tits and got my head stuck in the clouds every now and again, I’d be you. And if you had a dick and were a bit meaner, you’d be me.” Garth took another drink before passing me the bottle. It was halfway empty. That probably explained why the stars were swirling above my head.
“So.” Just the way he said it, I was already wincing before he said anything else. “I take it, since I found you curled up asleep and alone a good couple miles from Willow Springs, that you took my Jesse warning to heart.”
It wasn’t a question. He knew I had.
The tequila had dulled the blow of hearing his name, but it hadn’t made me immune. I knew it wouldn’t matter if ten years down the road, I heard that name as I passed a stranger on the street. I would never be able to hear the name Jesse again without thinking about him.
“You don’t want to talk about your dad, great. I don’t want to talk about Jesse.” When I took another drink, the tequila didn’t burn. In fact, it drank more like water than alcohol. I’d experienced that enough times to know I was a few more drinks away from passing out. So I took one more drink and handed it back to Garth. I was officially cutting myself off.
“We can’t talk about our families. We can’t talk about our pasts. And we can’t talk about Jesse, or I’m guessing any of the Walkers.” He looked at me and waited. Like he was waiting for me to agree.
So I lifted my eyebrows and gave him a Your point? look.
“Then what will we talk about?” He seemed amused with himself. Or with me. Or with the situation. I couldn’t tell, and the alcohol only made deciphering emotions more difficult.
“Why don’t we just not talk?” I suggested. Partly because I didn’t feel like talking, and partly because I was nearing the point where speech would be difficult. At least non-slurred speech. I burrowed down deeper in the chair and my blanket, closed my eyes, and let the alcohol do its job.
“That’s my favorite kind of conversation to have,” he replied, sounding like he was shifting in his seat.
So we agreed on something at last. “Mine, too,” I said right before the haze took me over, and either I fell asleep or I passed out.
Whichever it was, I was pulled back to the surface when a hand molded over my cheek. The hand was warm, and rough, and strong. Another hand wove through my hair before a pair of lips settled just below my ear, at the pinnacle of my neck. The hands holding my head in place curled deeper when that mouth started traveling down my neck. When it stopped at the base and gently sucked at the sensitive skin, I moaned. The touch was familiar, yet foreign. The urgency in the touch, the gentle strength in the hands were familiar. The stubble I felt scratching against my neck and the spicy scent were foreign.
When that mouth made its return journey back up my neck, I arched for it to come closer and practically trembled when his tongue tasted my skin.
“Jesse . . .” I whispered, trying to push through the haze. I wanted to touch him back with the same kind of precision. I wanted to feel him, but my hands were numb and could barely function.