Tied (Tangled, #4)(47)

We run. We break apart and scatter. The five of us make it back to the confines of the limo in record time, and the driver takes off. The flashing lights of Las Vegas’s finest don’t follow us. Thank God.

You may not understand it, but believe me when I tell you this was an awesome development to our evening. No matter how old he is, every guy thinks it’s cool to drink, gamble, and then beat the shit out of somebody with his closest friends. We pass around a bottle of vodka and show off our battle wounds, bragging about how great we were.

“Did you see that guy’s teeth explode? Bam!”

“I had that big son of a bitch on the ropes. He was ready to cry for his ugly mama.”

“Hope that loser likes liquid meals, ’cause that’s all he’s gonna be able to have for a long time.”

I take a sip of Grey Goose, then pour it on my bleeding knuckles.

Warren shakes his head and laments, “My luck with girls is crap.”

No one disagrees. But what I’ve come to accept is this: it’s not his fault.

Really.

Warren is simply more * than di**ck. It’s how he was raised—surrounded by bush. It’s like . . . one of those weird news stories about a baby tiger that’s adopted by a family of pigs. When it’s older, it doesn’t show its claws or pounce or growl.

It f**king oinks.

Unlike the rest of us, who had confident, strong men in our lives, Warren’s only male exposure was whatever specimens Amelia brought home. Obviously, there were no freaking winners in that bunch.

After a minute, he asks, “I really thought you were gonna let them kick my ass. What changed?”

Matthew takes a drink from the bottle. “Fuck that. No man gets left behind.”

I nod. “Exactly. You know the first rule of wolf packs?”

“What?”

“We take care of our own.”





Chapter 12


I think we should step back and take note of just how much alcohol the boys and I have consumed so far. There were the shots and beers at the pool, the Scotches in the room and at the casino, the wine with dinner, the brandy afterward, and now the vodka that we’re passing around like winos huddled near a burning garbage can.

I’m no lightweight—but that’s a lot of f**king booze. We’re out-and-out walking saloons, for God’s sake. Even though it’s been spread out over hours, eventually that shit catches up to you. One minute you’ve got it all under control, then you take that last shot. The scales get tipped, and you find yourself on the floor—unable to walk or form a coherent sentence without drooling.

Remember this fact.

I have a feeling it’s going to play a big part in whatever lies ahead.



Looking out the window at the dark desert landscape, I ask, “Where are we going again?”

Matthew and Jack grin at each other. Jack says, “We’re going to heaven, brother. No lie—this place is like an oasis. Top-of-the-line women who know how to take care of a man. Nothing is off-limits—T and A will be everywhere.” He kisses his fingers. “Like manna from heaven.”

I just shrug, unimpressed. But apparently Warren’s impatient. “Driver dude? What’s the holdup? I can get out and walk faster than this.”

The driver glances back at us in the rearview mirror. “Sorry, fellas. There’s a Lincoln Town Car in front of me doin’ twenty below the speed limit. She won’t let me pass her.”

I sit up and glance out the front window. Yep—it’s a grayhair. A whole clown car full of grayhairs, actually. You remember my feelings about senior-citizen drivers? In case you don’t, I’ll just say this: menace to society.

Steven holds the bottle of vodka and takes a swig. I don’t know if he’s talking to us or himself, but out of nowhere he says, “I’m going to be dead soon.”

All eyes in the limo turn to him. Matthew asks, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about my life is half over. And there’s so much I haven’t done. I’m not going to hold back anymore—I’m going carpe diem on this bitch from here on out.”

I scoff. “You’re just trashed. Don’t go getting depressed on us now. If you start crying, I’m throwing you out of the car while it’s still moving.”

Steven doesn’t acknowledge my warning. He leans toward the partition separating us from the driver and slurs, “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you can get up alongside ’em.”

With no oncoming traffic, the driver crosses the double line and pulls even with the Lincoln.

Steven’s words slush together as he gets to his feet. “Crossing this one off the bucket list.” Then he unbuckles his belt and grabs the waist of his pants—yanking the suckers down to his ankles—tighty whities and all.

Every guy in the car holds up his hands to try to block the spectacle. We groan and complain. “My eyes! They burn!”

“Put the boa constrictor back in his cage, man.”

“This is not the ass I planned on seeing tonight.”

Our protests fall on deaf ears. Steven is a man on a mission. Wordlessly, he squats and shoves his lily-white ass out the window—mooning the gaggle of grannies in the car next to us.

I bet you thought this kind of stuff only happened in movies.