Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Bishop nods his agreement.
Goddammit.
"Fine." I throw my hands up. "If you win, they can do you a favor. But I have to agree to it," I quickly add…just in case a miracle happens here. Better to hedge my bets than risk chaos and anarchy. When the fuck did I become the most reasonable person in this room? My, how the goddamn tables have turned.
She beams at me, and I pour a round of shots.
It quickly becomes apparent that she swindled the hell out of us.
This girl—she doesn't even hesitate. She shoots the first, then slams the glass on the table like a pro.
Son of a bitch.
I pour another round. She throws it back the same way, not even blinking.
"Fuck," Bishop mumbles, suspicion written all over his face.
Morgan just smiles sweetly and nudges her glass toward me.
By the fourth shot, Wade looks less amused and more worried, and Bishop starts hedging his bets with water.
But my Calamity is a fucking force of nature. Every time she throws one back, the room gets quieter, the stakes a little higher. By the sixth, Wade's face has gone white, and he's clutching the edge of the table like it might float him out of this disaster. Bishop is sweating. I see the patches growing on his t-shirt even though he's trying to play it cool.
Morgan's still upright. Hell, she's more than upright. She's fucking radiant, with one elbow braced on the table and her chin in her palm, like this is the easiest thing in the world.
Shot seven goes down, and Bishop barely gets his to his mouth before he sags backward, groaning. "I'm out," he mutters, both hands up in surrender. "I'm too goddamn old to drink like this."
"Chicken." Morgan grins at him. "I thought you were tough."
Bishop just shakes his head in awe. "Where the hell did you learn to drink like this?"
"I worked in a bar for six months right after I turned twenty-one." She beams at him, wobbling a bit before she manages to right herself. "People tip more when you're willing to drink with them."
"Jesus Christ," Wade groans like he's about to crack. "She fucking played us."
"Uh-huh. Like a fiddle," she says, her tone all sunshine and sugar.
I lose it. Just absolutely lose every last ounce of composure I have, laughing like a madman. She's slouched there, cocky, beautiful, and so fucking perfectly proud of herself for swindling us. I love her so goddamn much it physically hurts. It's an ache in my chest, burning and sweet at the same time.
I laugh so hard I choke. Bishop comes back to life long enough to look at me like I've finally lost it, but that just sets me off again.
Wade tries to rally, throwing back two more shots out of pure spite, but immediately regrets the decision. He lays his head on the table, his face a sickly shade of green. "Fuck it. I'm out. I'll do whatever the hell favor she wants so long as it doesn't involve any more fucking whiskey."
Morgan blinks at me, her gaze a little fuzzy but happy. "Did I win?" she asks, her voice is soft.
"Yeah, baby," I say, and it comes out half a laugh, half a confession. "You won."
"Oh good." She looks so pleased for half a second, and then her face scrunches up like she just remembered something really, really important. "Because I think I'm going to be sick."
I'm on my feet with her in my arms before my chair even hits the ground. The guys are still laughing, but I scoop her up, gentle as I know how, and carry her straight out of Wade's living room with her head nestled into my neck like she'd rather die than move.
"Sorry," she mumbles against my skin. "I didn't think I'd—"
I shush her, shouldering the door open and heading for our side of the yard, not caring that it's muddy as hell and my boots are going to track all over the house. She's breathing shallow, clinging to my t-shirt with both fists, like she might float away if she lets go.
When we hit the bathroom, she just looks up at me, green as grass, her eyes desperate.
"It's okay, baby," I say. "I got you."
She does her best, but it's bad.
I hold her hair back and talk her through it, rubbing circles on her back and crooning praise, even as she nearly sobs into the toilet bowl, vomiting up damn near every ounce of whiskey she just drank. My own stomach turns just watching, but I'll be damned if I let her do this alone.
When it's over, she crumples against my chest, shaking. I get her cleaned up, help her brush her teeth, and make her drink the glass of water I fetch. She only glares at me a little before she downs it and the Tylenol, then stumbles to the bedroom and faceplants into the comforter, the way a cat launches itself at something warm and safe.