Нора Робертс - Chasing Fire

“Because she’s hot.”

“Hot is a separate issue. She was sitting here grieving for a friend’s loss, worried for that friend and what she might still have to face. Empathy and compassion. She’s pissed off at Leo Brakeman, which shows good sense and a lack of hypocrisy. She told you how she felt about your father, when it’s pretty clear you’re not too crazy about the whole matchup. That took guts, and honesty.”

“Maybe you could be her campaign manager.” Rowan sat back. “She dropped it in my court, and that was smart. I have the power. So you can add smart to her list of virtues.”

“Would you rather see your dad with somebody dumb, selfish, coldhearted and hypocritical?”

“You’re no dummy, either. Hell, let’s buy two bottles of tequila. I could use a good drunk tonight.”

“Who says I’m a good drunk?”

Rowan checked in on Matt when they got back to base, and found him sitting on the side of his bed tying his running shoes.

“I heard it was pretty bad.”

“It was, but it could’ve been worse. Why he wants to blame me and L.B. and, jeez, Marg and Lynn for Dolly getting fired? She brought that on herself.”

Good, she thought, he was pissed off, not broody. “Because people suck and generally want anything crappy to be somebody else’s fault.”

“At the damn funeral? He starts yelling and threatening us at his daughter’s funeral?”

“At my mother’s funeral, her parents wouldn’t even speak to me. They wouldn’t speak to me really loud.”

“You’re right. People suck.”

“We’re going to have a tequila shooter contest in the lounge later. You’re on third load, too. I’ll float your entry fee.”

That got a smile. “You know I can’t compete with you there. I’m going for a run. It’s cooled off a little.” He fixed on his cap. “I got to see the baby anyway, and even held her a few minutes. I’m thinking my parents ought to talk to a lawyer, about custody or rights and all that.”

“That’s a tough call, Matt.”

He gave the bill of his cap a quick jerk into place as he frowned at Rowan. “She’s their blood, too. I don’t want to screw with Mrs. Brakeman. I think she’s a good person. But if that dickhead she’s married to goes to jail, how is she supposed to take care of Shiloh all alone? How’s she supposed to pay for all the stuff Shiloh needs on her salary cooking in the school cafeteria?”

“It’s a hard situation, and, well, I know you already gave Dolly money for the baby.”

Those faded blue eyes flattened out. “It’s my money, and my blood.”

“I know that. It was good of you to want to help with Shiloh’s expenses, to stand in for Jim that way.”

He relaxed a little. “It was the right thing to do.”

“And it’s not always easy to do the right thing in a hard situation. I guess I’d worry bringing lawyers in might murk it up even more. At least right now.”

“It doesn’t hurt to talk. Everybody should do whatever’s best for the baby, right?”

“They should. I... I’m probably the wrong person to ask about something like this. Maybe, I don’t know, Matt, if your mother came out... if she and Mrs. Brakeman talked about everything, they could work out what’s best, what’s right.”

“Maybe. She looks like a Brayner, you know? The baby? Even Lynn said so. I’ve got to think about it.”

She supposed they did, Rowan decided when he headed out for his run. Matt, his family, the Brakemans, they’d all have to think about it. But she knew what it was to be the child everybody was thinking about.

It wasn’t an easy place to be.

Rowan watched Dobie painfully swallow shot number ten. His eyes had gone glassy on eight, and now his cheeks took on a faint, sickly green hue.

“That’s twenty.”

“Count’s ten, Dobie,” Cards, official scorekeeper, told him.

“I’m seeing double, so it’s twenty.” Laughing like a loon, he nearly tipped out of his chair.

Janis, official pourer, filled shot number eleven for Yangtree. “Experience,” he said, and knocked it back smooth. “That’s the key.”

Rowan smirked, licked salt off the back of her hand, then drank hers down. “I’d like to thank the soon-to-be loser for springing for the prime.”

“You’re welcome.” Gull polished off eleven.

“I got another in me.” Stovic lifted his glass, proved he did—before he slid bonelessly to the floor.

“And he’s out.” Cards crossed Stovic off the board.

“I am not out.” From the floor, Stovic waved a hand. “I’m fully conscious.”

“You leave your chair without calling for a piss break, you’re out.”

“Who left the chair?”

“Come on, Chainsaw.” Gibbons got his hands under Stovic’s arms and dragged him out from under the table.

Dobie made it to thirteen before surrendering. “It’s this foreign liquor, that’s what it is. Oughta be homegrown bourbon.” He got down, crawled on his hands and knees and lay down next to a snoring Stovic.

“Rookies.” Yangtree got number fourteen down, then laid his head on the table and moaned, “Mommy.”

“Did you mean uncle?” Cards demanded, and Yangtree managed to shoot up his middle finger.

Rowan and Gull went head-to-head until Janis split the last shot between them. “That’s all there is, there ain’t no more.”

“Shoulda bought three bottles.” Rowan closed one eye to focus and click her glass to Gull’s. “On three?”

Those still conscious in the room counted off, then cheered when the last drops went down.

“And that’s a draw,” Cards announced.

“I’m proud to know you.” Janis dropped a hand on each shoulder. “And wish you the best of luck with tomorrow’s hangover.”

“Gull doesn’t get ’em.”

He smiled, a little stupidly, into Rowan’s eyes. “This might be the exception. Let’s go have lotsa drunk sex before it hits.”

“’Kay. Drunk sex for everybody!” She waved her hands and smacked a barely awake Yangtree in the face. “Oops.”

“No, I needed that. Everybody still alive?”

“Can’t make that much noise dead.” Rowan gestured to snoring-in-stereo Stovic and Dobie as she swayed to her feet. “Follow me, stud.”

“I’m with the blonde.” Gull staggered after her.

“We can do this.” She fumbled at his shirt when he booted the door shut on the third try. “Soon as the room stops spinning around.”

“Pretend we’re doing it on a merry-go-round.”

“Naked at the carnival.” On a wild laugh she defeated his shirt, but started to teeter. When he grabbed for her, she took them both onto the floor, hard.

“I think that hurt, but it’s better down here, ’cause of the gravity.”

“Okay.” He shifted off her to struggle with her clothes. “We should do naked tequila shots. Then we wouldn’t have to take them off after.”

“Now you think of it. Alley-oop!” She held up her arms to help him strip off her shirt. “Gimme, gimme.” She locked her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, then latched her mouth onto his.

The heat burned through the tequila haze, fired in the senses. The world rolled and turned, yet she remained constant, chained around him. Caged, he met the desperate demand of her mouth, rocking center to center until he thought he’d go mad.

The chains broke. She rolled on top of him, biting, grasping, lapping, then rolled off again.

“Get naked,” she ordered. “Beat ya.”

They tugged at shoes, clothes in a panting race. With clothes still landing in heaps, they dived at each other. Wrestling now, skin damp and slick, they rolled over the floor. Knees and elbows banged, and still her laughter rang out. The moonlight turned her dewed skin to silver, glowing and precious, irresistible.