Jacked (Trent Brothers #1)(69)

The second she stood up, she swayed and then seized the table top.

“Come on, babe. I’ve got you.” I swung her up into my arms before she had a chance to have an opinion. “Kip, get the door.”

“Put me down! Fuck, Adam. Stop. I’m too heavy.”

I felt his hand pat my back. “’Night, bro. Drive safe.”

“Thanks, man. You too.” The minute we hit the cold air, Erin and her leather purse shrank into my chest, shivering. She wasn’t the only thing I felt shrinking in from the extreme cold and biting wind.

“Put me down.”

“Why? So I can pick you up out of the snow?”

“Where are you taking me?” she chattered again.

I kept my eyes pinned on my truck, trying to keep my footing in the slippery snow while carrying a hundred and thirty-forty some pounds. With any luck, it should still be warm inside. I set her down on unsteady feet, opened her door, and urged her to climb in. “I’m taking you home.”

I turned the heater up as high and fast as it would go, knowing that if I was cold, she had to be freezing. Her forehead was leaning on the window the entire drive and the way her head lolled about, I was wondering if she’d passed out. She surely wasn’t talking to me.

“This isn’t my house,” she whispered gruffly when I started to turn into my snow-covered driveway, her words steaming up a small patch on her window.

I hit the overhead door opener; the light guiding my way in. “I know. It’s mine.”

Erin’s head whipped in my direction, gaping at me. “You said you were taking me home.” Her tone, still quite groggy and slurred, was now incensed.

I put my truck in park, shut off the lights, and hit the button again to close the garage door. “No, I said I was taking you home. Never said whose home we were going to.”

I opened her door and took in her reluctant demeanor, wondering if I’d have to resort to lifting her out. She could be mad all she wanted; I just would rather she be pissy inside the house where it was warm. “Come on, Erin. It’s cold out here.”

I grabbed her arms and waist before she stumbled over my Harley.

“Whose motor…” She sighed heavily. “Motorcycle?”

I straightened her up. “Mine.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You have a motorcycle?”

I gave the passenger door a shove. “Yep. Come on, Snow White. Let’s get you inside.”

“You didn’t tell me you had a mo… a motorcycle.”

Negotiating two bodies between the front end of my truck and my long wooden tool bench was tight. “Yes. I did.”

She groaned.

Or was it a purr?

“I like motor… bike things.”

That made me smile inside. “Good to know, Doc.”

She patted my chest. “You’ll take me for a ride sometime. Promise, Adam. Promise me.”

Visions of her arms around my waist, her chest pressed to my back with those thighs squeezing on me, flashed so hard and fast that I didn’t quite know what to do with them. Were they a glimpse at a possible future with her? Premonition? Thoughts of her becoming a part of my life happened all too easily every time I was around her, blasting right through the doubt and the months of counseling.

“I feel sick,” she mumbled.

I had hoped she wouldn’t puke in my truck, although she wouldn’t be the first. I helped her into my kitchen, the warm air instantly leeching the cold from my bones. I had wondered for five miles of slippery, shitty roads whether or not she’d hold her liquor or if this was a typical way she burned off the stress, hoping to hell this was a rare occurrence.

Erin hiccupped. “Adam, I really… I don’t feel so good.”

I pulled off her knit hat and scarf and tossed them somewhere into my living room. “Come on. Let’s get you into the bathroom.”

I barely got the lid to the toilet up before she lurched for it. I stood there and watched her wretch, hovering close to make sure she didn’t choke or pass out. My mind whirled as I watched over her, knowing now with absolute certainty how helpless it feels to be on this side of the drunk. I bit back the automatic urge to gag and courtesy flushed the toilet, wondering what demons plagued her to go out drinking alone. I planned on figuring that out right after I gave her time to sober up.





SOFT BREATHING COMING from behind me was the first thing I’d noticed when my eyes opened to the darkness. It was a gentle and manly snore—rhythmic, peaceful—something I hadn’t realized my soul was parched without. He was definitely asleep and I couldn’t help but want to savor the moment.

Adam.

Just the whispered thought of his name triggered the escalation of my heartbeat with flutters; unfortunately though, that moment of elation was immediately followed up by a Mariachi band tap dancing in my head. My throat was dry, sore, and hinted of an aftertaste that was very distinguishable and completely unpleasant.

One too many shots of pity-flavored tequila combined with beef gravy and deep fryer oil roiled through my stomach again, exacerbated by the recollection that I vomited profusely in Adam’s toilet.

I closed my eyes, recalling how he’d hovered over me as I hurled my guts and my dignity. Oh God, how embarrassing.

I hadn’t been that sick on alcohol since my freshman year of college when I learned the hard way that mixing alcohol inside your internal organs usually doesn’t work out so well.