Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(24)

Also, I wasn’t at all eloquent. I was anti-eloquent. Words were like lightning bugs, or hints, or peace, or a break, or anything else that’s hard to catch but we keep on chasing. Ah, well. If I was going to drink an entire bottle of wine, I supposed a Chianti from a winery just down the road wasn’t a bad way to go about it.

“Claire? Are you out here?” Sienna’s voice called from somewhere behind me, probably the stone porch behind the house.

I’d taken a blanket down the hill—not far, just about twenty feet—and spread it on the grass. I’d watched the sun set over the Tuscan hills, thinking about Billy Winston’s breathtaking torso, angry eyes, and the goat tattoo on his left shoulder I’d had no idea existed, and, apparently, drank an entire bottle of wine all by myself. I only drank like this when I was celebrating or wallowing. However, I could’ve sworn I’d only had two glasses. . .

“Claire?”

“Here,” I called back, not turning. Instead, I reclined on the blanket and closed my eyes. Bad idea. I felt the rotation of the earth flinging through space and I was half afraid I’d be thrown from the planet. Everything was spinning, including my eyeballs.

I opened my eyes again. Better.

“Where? Down the hill?” Sienna’s footsteps on the stone porch soon became footsteps on the stone stairs, and then no sound I could hear, which meant she’d made it to the grass. “I see you,” she said, her voice now a normal volume. “What are you doing out here in the dark? We missed you at dinner.”

“Sorry, sorry—”

“Don’t apologize. This is your vacation, you can spend it however you like. I just wanted to let you know you were missed.” Sienna fussed about at the edge of the blanket, maybe taking her shoes off, and then in my peripheral vision I sorta saw her lie down next to me. “Holy crap, it’s gorgeous here. It’s gorgeous during the day, it’s gorgeous at night. Just look at those stars.”

“I wish I could.” I tried closing my eyes again, more spinning.

I sensed her turn her face toward me. “Why can’t you?”

I pointed to myself with both thumbs. “Drunk.”

Silence for a beat, and then she laughed.

I laughed.

We both laughed.

“No you’re not.” She gently smacked my shoulder.

“Yep.” I smacked the air since all the Siennas wouldn’t hold still.

After a while, she asked, “Are you really drunk?” and seemed to turn her face back to the stars.

“Yep.”

“You don’t sound drunk.”

“How do I sound?”

“All put together, like you always do.”

“Not all put together, not ever, not even close.” I laughed again. Put together? I was about as put together as one of those Jenga puzzle game things toward the end, when it was about to fall over if you removed any number of pieces.

She didn’t laugh with me. “What’s going on, old buddy, old pal? Why are you out here, drunk, all by your lonesome? The boys are already asleep, as unbelievable as that is. Jet and I would’ve—what does Cletus call it?—imbibed adjacent if we’d known you were in a drinking mood. You never drink.”

“‘Imbibed adjacent,’” I quoted, laughing again. “Cletus was always an awesome weirdo. Even when we were kids, he had a funny way of putting things.”

I heard her shift next to me. “You knew Cletus when you were kids?”

“Yep.”

“I did not know that, did I? I swear, pregnancy wiped my memory each time. I thought you and Jethro knew each other because of your husband, Ben.”

I felt none of the usual tension in my stomach or the oppressive fear whenever I thought about my childhood. Maybe because I’m drunk? “Nope. I knew Jethro before Ben. Our fathers were MC brothers in the Iron Wraiths.” Talking in complete sentences was taking a toll, my mouth felt full of used chewing gum.

“That’s right.” She snapped her fingers, or made a sound like it. “I did know that. But your father is Razor Dennings and is Darrell’s boss? I mean, was his boss. I keep forgetting that Razor Dennings is your father, even though it’s literally all over the news.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, ignoring the wave of melancholy pushing at the periphery of my mood, deciding a joke was in order. “Especially seeing as how he’s currently-currently-currently—” Closing my eyes, I worked to catch the tail of my thought. “He’s on trial! For what he did to Simone and Roscoe, and all those other people. I’d be happy for everyone to forget we’re related.”

That wasn’t a good joke. That wasn’t a joke at all. Just shut your drunk face.

A moment later, I felt Sienna’s hand close over mine and squeeze. “I am so sorry, Claire.”

“Why? You murder someone?” Still not a good joke.

She squeezed my hand harder. “I can’t imagine what you’re dealing with right now. I made the mistake of picking up a newspaper for the flight, and the things the press is saying about you, it makes me so angry.”

I shrugged, pulling my hand out of her grip, placing it behind my head, and sending a quick prayer of thanks upward for the numbing qualities of a good bottle of Italian wine. “I don’t think about it. Growing up with Razor Dennings as your daddy, thinking about him . . . and his evilness . . . that don’t do no good.” The world was moving back and forth, but then I realized it was me shaking my head. And so I stopped. “Folks wanna believe thinking about something does some good. Pshaw! Talking, ranting, bitching and moaning ain’t gunna make no difference.”