“We’re good here,” Beckett deadpans, shaking his head and breaking her attempt at flirting. He’s used to this shit and is a fucking saint for dealing with it all these years in his subtle, calculating way.

A text pings on my phone, and I reach for the fresh bottle as I look at it. “Smitty’s on board,” I tell him. I should be happy that Smitty’s coming to Vegas with us. We’ve shared plenty of wild outings in the past. He’ll definitely help get rid of my fucked up mood.

If I’m so happy, then why am I disappointed that it isn’t Rylee’s name on my phone’s incoming text?

“Cool. Almost the whole gang then,” Becks says, leaning back in his seat and taking a long pull on his beer. I can feel his eyes on me, waiting patiently for me to talk.

I lean forward and place my head in my hands for a moment, trying to shake my head out of where it keeps returning. Fucking Rylee.

“You want to tell me what the fuck we’re doing here, Colton, at almost six o’clock on a Friday night? Who the hell put that stick up your ass?”

I just shake my head as I peel the label on my bottle and keep my eyes down. “Fucking Rylee,” I mumble, knowing I’ve just opened the proverbial can of worms by admitting it to him.

“That so, huh?” he muses. I lift my head up slowly and meet his eyes, surprised by the lack of smartass comments that are his typical style. He peers at me over his beer bottle as he takes another sip, and I just nod my head. “What the fuck’d you do to her?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Becks.” I laugh. “Who says I did anything?”

He just gives me a look that says look who we’re talking about here. “Well…”

“Nothing. Abso-fucking-lutley nothing,” I bark out, tossing back my shot to help bury the fact that I’m lying to my best friend. “She’s just frustrating.”

“Like that’s a fucking news flash. We’re talking about a woman here, aren’t we?”

“I know. She’s just gotten under my skin and now she’s playing the hard to get card. That’s all.” I sigh, leaning back in my chair so I can meet Beckett’s stare.

“She told you no?” Becks coughs out in shock. “Like no, no? Are you shitting me?”

“Nope.” I catch Connie’s eye again for another round.

“Well shit, Wood. We are leaving for the city of sin in a couple of hours. I’m sure there’s a hot piece of ass there that you could tap for the night to forget about her. Or for that matter, several hot pieces.” He shrugs and a slight, antagonizing smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Since all you’re doing is just fucking Rylee…because that is all you’re doing, right? Fucking her? There’s no commitment there to ruin. No voodoo pussy hex.”

I know he’s trying to push my buttons. Get a reaction one way or another as to where I stand when it comes to Ry. But for some reason I don’t take the bait. It’s gotta be the alcohol running through my veins. Instead, I shrug at him in agreement about finding someone else for the night, but for some reason I have no desire to. None. And why the fuck does that kind of comment—that I’m just fucking her—piss me off. This is Beckett I’m talking to. My best friend and brother for all intents and purposes—the man I discuss everything with, and I mean everything—so why does his off the cuff remark bug me?

It’s like she still has my balls in her grip.

Fuck me.

“She’s got a hot friend.”

Becks looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “Come again? I’m not following you.”

“Well, we can swing by Rylee’s place on the way to the airport and the two of them can come with us.” The words are out of my mouth before my brain can process the thought.

Beckett chokes on his swallow of beer and starts coughing. The look on his face is one of complete shock. Apparently I did grow an extra head.

I ignore him and turn my concentration back to my beer’s label. Where the fuck did that come from? Taking Rylee to Vegas with me? The one place I can most likely forget about her for a while? The ultimate place to use pleasure to bury the pain. Taking a girl to Vegas with you is like taking a wife to your mistress’ house. That’s why I’ve never done it. Never even thought about it. Avoided it at all costs. Companions, dates, whatever they’re called, always stay home. They never even know I go. No exceptions. So why in the hell did I just suggest it? And more importantly, why the hell do I want her to go more than anything?

I must be outside of my fucking mind. Voodoo pussy.

Motherfucker.

“Holy shit…” Beckett says on a long drawn out drawl. “I never thought I’d see the day that Colton Fuckin’ Donavan would say that.” He whistles out a sigh, and then I swear I can hear something click in that head of his. “You’re barebacking, aren’t you?”

I can’t help my eyes from snapping up to his with the comment. Our universal guy speak for sticking with one woman. For thinking of more than just sex without strings. For fucking without a condom because you have complete trust in the other person.

For being pussy-whipped.

Neither of us have ever barebacked. Ever. Kind of a silent solidarity we have between us. Neither of us that is, until now.

“Motherfucker!” Becks jumps up in his seat. “You are, aren’t you, you cocksucker!”

“Shut the fuck up, Beckett.” I growl as I toss back the rest of my beer and raise my empty shot glass up to Connie who hasn’t stopped waiting attentively five feet away. Becks just sits and looks at me in silence until the newest round of shots are placed in front of us. I sit and stare back at him a while longer and let my comment settle between us, get comfortable rolling the idea around in my head…and then it hits me.

Fuck yes, I want Ry to go with us. Now what the fuck does that mean? I throw back the shot, hissing at its burn before scrubbing my hand over my face as numbness spreads into my lips. Beckett keeps looking at me like I’m some kind of circus show freak. I can tell he’s biting his cheek to keep from grinning at me, from saying the shit that’s flying through his eyes at a lightning pace.

He holds his hand up to his ear and leans over the table. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard you correctly. What the fuck was your answer?”

I can’t help the grin that pulls up one corner of my mouth. This is being tame for Beckett, so I’m grateful that he’s keeping himself in check against my obvious discomfort.

“Well fuck me!” he says, shifting in his chair to stare at me for a little while longer with disbelief on his face. He looks down at his watch. “Well, if we’re going to take off on time, loverboy, we best be going.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?” I ask incredulously.

“I haven’t even started yet, Wood! I need time to process…it’s not every day Hell falls below zero.”

Fine by me. If I can get away with only that being said right now, I’ll take it. I nod my head at him and start typing away on my phone. “I’m texting Sammy to come get us.” I tell him. The background music in the bar is playing, and I laugh at the fucking song playing. Of course it’s Pink. Rylee and her fucking Pink. I send my text to Sammy and then hover over her name on my phone. Before I know it, I’ve entered a quick one to Rylee as well.

I’m in this far, might as well go balls deep.



“You really said that to him?” Haddie asks incredulously, the look on her face over-exaggerated and hilariously funny.

“I swear!” I told her, holding up my hand in testament. I look down at my phone where a text just pinged. It’s from Colton, and all it says is: Get this Party Started – Pink.

Haddie doesn’t notice the odd look on my face when I read it because she is concentrating on filing her nails. What the hell? First the text about Matchbox Twenty today, which threw me for a loop, and now this? He’s a little all over the place and a lot confusing.

“Shit! I’d have loved to see his face when you shut that door.”

“I know.” I laugh. “It felt kind of good to leave him stunned for once rather than the other way around.”

“See, I told you!” she says, pushing on my knee.

“Besides the testosterone fest with Colton, did you and Tanner have a nice visit?”

“Yeah.” I smile softly. “It was so good to see him. I don’t realize how much I miss him until—” a knock on the door interrupts me. I look over at Haddie, my eyes asking her who could be knocking on our door at seven o’clock on a Friday night.

“No clue.” She shrugs, getting up to answer it since I have a slew of work papers strewn across my lap and on the couch beside me.