Page 52 of Five Brothers
He hooks an arm around my neck, grinning. “You’re not at a high school party, honey. Or a St. Carmen one.” He leans into my ear. “There aremenhere.”
Yeah. I know.I’ve been to some parties here, thanks.
I look back up at him. Black pants, black belt, no shirt. The wordSAUCEis written on his abs in blocky black letters. Then there’s an arrow pointing down toward his groin.
“What are you—?” But then I stop, realization dawning.Hot sauce.I roll my eyes.
He chuckles. “What are you supposed to be?”
I open my mouth to answer, but someone else does instead. “Welcome to the mad tea party, Hatter.”
I glance up, seeing Iron approach, his John Wick costume looking entirely too good not to be a daily thing. Black suit, white shirt, and black tie all chic and fitting like the outfit was especially made for him, but I know Iron wouldn’t have wasted money getting a costume specifically tailored. His black hair is pushed back, but a little to the side, and while he doesn’t have a beard like Keanu, he might look better, because the Jaeger boys’ green eyes are something else when they wear black.
“You’ll fit right in,” he teases, paraphrasing a quote fromAlice in Wonderland.
He takes my hand, and Trace releases me, walking on my other side as Iron leads me.
“Please tell me you are actually serving minors?” I ask them.
Trace arches a brow. “You sleeping over?”
“If she drinks, she stays,” Iron says, holding out his other hand. “Give me your keys.”
I look up at him.
And I take out my car key, dropping it into his hand.
Sliding it into his pocket, he takes my hand again and leads us to the kitchen, where the L-shaped counter is full of food and the shorter section has been turned into a bar. Iron takes a cup, uses it to scoop ice out of a cooler, and then lifts the bottle of rum, looking to me before he pours it.
I nod, and the next thing I know, liquor is sloshing over the cubes, damn near filling the glass. My eyes go wide, but I don’t say anything as he adds some ginger ale to whatever space is left in the cup.
He hands it to me, and I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks.”
They’re whiskey and beer guys. I’ll make my own mixed drinks next time.
I sip, instantly feeling that anticipation that the promise of alcohol brings as the spice burns my throat. Iron pours some Macallan over ice, while Trace pops the top on a beer and the song changes to something harder. A cup drops, its contents spilling. I look up, seeing the garage, outside the kitchen window, full of people, too. Macon sits on a brown leather couch.
He’s burrowed into the sofa, slouching with his head resting against the back of it, staring off.
Turin Wilcott is at his side, sitting on her legs and trying to get his attention. Her hand is on his thigh.
“Does Macon know her?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink.
She’s a Saint. Several years ahead of me in school. She must be twenty-five or so by now. Curvier, blond, and she has a hell of a lot more money, which she’s been spending like crazy since she broke up with her fiancé.
Iron replies, “I don’t know.”
I watch her lean in closer and slide her hand up his shirt, touching his stomach. His eyelids drop as the bottle in his hand tilts. Jim Beam. It’s already more than half-gone.
He raises it to his mouth and swallows, closing his eyes as the liquor goes down his throat.
I frown. “He doesn’t look right.”
Iron scoffs, dropping a few more cubes into his cup. “He’s having some fuckin’ fun for once.”
“And he’s out of our hair,” Trace adds.
I look between them, both of them busy moving on with having a good time, and it bugs me. I glance at Macon again, knowing that he’d probably subject them to verbal abuse if they tried to interfere. Or tell him he’s drinking too much lately.