Page 26 of Altered By Lead (Undercover Sinners 2)
Huh.
Guess my cargo pants and tee won't look so out of place after all.
"This is, uh, quaint," I comment, scrambling off Colt's lap and stretching the kinks out of my back. It'd only been a short drive but the grueling workout Hawke put me through earlier has my whole body a mess of aches.
Colt grunts his agreement, adjusting his pants before climbing out to join me. "It's this, or another tense dinner with Hawke and Mace pretending like they're not jerking off to the memory of your pussy ten times a day."
I roll my eyes. "This will do fine."
He smirks back at me, threading an arm around my waist in a possessive sort of way. Still, I don't exactly shrug him off as we cross the gravel parking lot to enter the bar. I don't even object when Weston flanks my other side and takes my hand, threading our fingers together like we're on some kind of three-way date.
In my defense, the prospect of alcohol is putting me in a good mood.
"After you," Colt says, grinning broadly as he holds the door open.
Given their bullshit bet to make me confess love—gag—I really shouldn't enjoy his touch so much. But when his arm leaves my waist so I can enter the bar, I kind of miss him. Instantly. I mean, he did stand up for me, didn’t he? Even if he hasn’t approached to tell me the truth, he basically told both Hawke and Arsen off.
I feel some of my anger softening a little.
When Weston and I enter the little Podunk bar, and Colt's hand returns to my waist, I savor the happy buzz it gives me.
"Vodka?" Weston asks, arching a pierced brow as we slide onto some vacant bar stools. He doesn't let go of my hand which makes it a little more awkward but once again, I'm okay with it. Yeah, I'm totally blaming my mood on the impending drunkenness coming my way.
My lips curl up in what I know to be a sultry smile. "Actually, I'm feeling in more of a tequila sort of mood. Shots?" I raise a brow at Colt, then back to Weston. "Just a couple."
Hah, such a liar. I fully intend to have more than a couple.
The boys exchange a look over me, and I know they're up to no good. They probably think if I get drunk enough I'll be down to fuck.
They're right.
Except they don't even need to get me drunk for that ... the drinking and dancing is just a bonus.
Weston leans over the bar, yelling our order to the bartender over the loud country music. Why they're belting out Dolly Parton in the-middle-of-nowhere, Oregon, I have no idea. But who gives a shit, right? Beats trying to ignore Hawke’s piercing glares over the dinner table, or feeling like shit for Mace's brush-offs. Again.
Three little glasses line up on the bar in front of us, golden liquor splashing into them as the tired bartender takes little to no care on his pouring. I eagerly grab them and push one to each of the boys while Weston hands over the money.
"Cheers bitches," I mutter, not waiting for them as I bring the glass to my lips and swallow in one gulp. Some might say I'm pretty experienced at that. Swallowing, I mean. And based on the hungry way Colt stares at my throat, he's thinking the same thing.
"Hey Colt," I blurt out, without really filtering my thoughts, "remember that time in the confessional?"
His eyes flare, and he shoves another shot in front of me. I didn't even see it poured, but I'm not complaining.
"How could I forget?" he replies, his voice dark and sexy. "I replay it in my head often."
He holds eye contact with me while downing his own shot, and my whole body flushes with heat. My whole body, but mostly my cunt. Fuck me, that bitch is on fire … in a good way, not an STD way.
"We should dance," Weston suggests from my other side, pulling my attention to him. "Seeing as I'm driving and can't get as wasted as you two."
"Don't tell me you're such a good boy that you won't drive drunk," I murmur, and Weston lifts a single pierced brow at me, coffee colored eyes darkening slightly.
"Just not as stupid as Colt. Has he told you about that one time he got in the car drunk off his ass, crashed into a pole, and almost severed his dick? I'm not about severed dicks." Weston flags the bartender down and orders a lemonade.
We've only been in here two minutes and already, I can feel the eyes on us. Every woman in that bar is admiring the pair of muscle-bound assholes on either side of me.
There seem to be plenty of tourists in here, wearing shorts and flip-flops, so the locals aren't exactly bothered by the fact that we're new faces, but if I don't see at least one woman in here go for either Colt or Weston tonight, I'll be shocked.
