But that’s not happening yet because I have Royal to contend with. His head lolls toward mine, and I suck in a breath.Shit.He seems more and more fucked up by the minute. I guess that’s how the good stuff works, though. It’s so smooth and tasty that before there are any outward signs, boom. Drinkie Drunkerson. Or is it Drunkie Drinkerson? Shit, I think I’m drunker than I thought. Isdrunkereven a word? Fuck. I think I’m toast.
I thank the driver and get out, then circle around to help Royal’s drunk ass. The driver gives me a look, and I can’t tell what it means, but I’m always one to go for the shock with people who can’t mind their own damn business. “My boyfriend, here, had a little too much to drink tonight. Sorry.”
“You motherfucker. Shut up.” Royal rolls out of the vehicle and stumbles to his feet, swinging half-heartedly at me. I dodge his ineffectual punch and shoot the driver a laughing wink before I slam the door on whatever he was about to say.
Oh, boy.Our drunk fighter is weaving where he stands. This is definitely not what Wilder is talking about every time he reminds Royal to bob and weave in the ring. Pale-green eyes drift shut. Time to stop fucking around. I throw an arm around his back before he falls and sling his arm over my shoulders. I’m not much shorter than Royal, but he’s got a tiny bit more muscle than I do, just because he likes to spend time preparing to be in the ring, which means lots of time in the gym. The muscle also means he’s heavier than he looks. “Let’s get you inside, man.” I urge him forward, and he must be at least half-conscious because he walks with me—or at least something that approximates walking. Still, it’s like herding a baby giraffe, all gawky limbs and awkward steps. He’s not completely picking his feet up, and I hope to fuck we both don’t end up face-planting before I can get us into the house. We’ve gotta move quickly, too; I really don’t need Echo looking out her window and seeing me helping Royal. It’ll blow up his entire revenge plot. Not that I’m sure of everything he has planned where Echo is concerned, but he definitely doesn’t want her to know that her helpful buddies are actually hisfriends.
It’s quite the feat, but I’m finally able to get the door open so the two of us can stagger inside. Before we reach the kitchen, Royal turns to me, halting our forward progress. He stares strangely and squints. He’s so drunk he’s probably seeing two of me. “You’re a good friend.” His words come out slurred. “Did I fight okay tonight?”
“You did. You landed a lot of good hits. I think Bear was surprised he had some decent competition, to be honest. He’s not used to that from all accounts.”
A loud exhale blows from between his lips. “I need water.”
“Yeah, man. I know you do. So do I.” We trudge into the kitchen as a drunken unit to find Wilder sitting at the island. It looks like he’s sipping on some bourbon, which strikes me as funny—or maybe I’m just that drunk—because drinking bourbon is exactly what he’d been doing at the warehouse bar before we got interrupted by Hurricane Echo earlier. I snicker. “Hey. Finally getting your drink on, huh?”
He gives me the side-eye, dark eyes appraising us. Rubbing a palm over his jaw, he takes another swallow, then stands up, shaking his head. “The fuck happened here?”
I grimace as Royal slumps against me, and I take on even more of his weight. “Tequila plus a really bad fucking mood.”
Wilder takes over, guiding Royal to a stool where he promptly leans forward and puts his bruised cheek on the granite. He groans in pleasure, closing his eyes. “That feels good.” The stone must be cold.
I hold back a snicker, because let’s face it, I’m not sober either and everything is funnier when I’m drunk.
Cocking an eye at me, Wilder grits out, “He needs damage control. Did you not take care of him after the fight?” Swiveling to the fridge behind him, he stoops and pulls open the freezer. Royal’s eye pops open as several flexible ice packs hit the granite two inches from his nose. He picks one up and slips it under his cheek.
Perturbed by Wilder’s tone, as well as the assumption that I wasn’t taking care of our friend, I growl back, “He wouldn’t fucking let me.” But then my drunk ass starts laughing, and I can’t help but blurt out, “Not from a post-fight injury standpoint and most definitely not in the way Echo was supposed to have taken care of him.” When Wilder groans and Royal lifts his head to shoot me a dirty look, I hold my hands up. “Sorry. Look, he needs some water. And sleep. Those two more than anything else.”
In my alcohol-infused haze, I hadn’t noticed until now that Wilder already had two bottles in his hand. His brow arches, and he sets them down with a thump. “Drink those, both of you. Who can chug it faster? Go, go, go.” He claps his hands like he’s orchestrating some competition.
Royal perks up and snatches at one of them, twisting off the cap. He eyes my lack of movement. “Come on, pussy. Let’s go.”
I roll my eyes and grab the second bottle.
While we’re busy glugging down the water, Wilder pulls out the medical kit from under the sink, yet again—it’s getting a fuck ton of use lately—and sidles up to Royal, inspecting the damage. “The swelling is the worst of it.” He makes quick work of cleaning him up, hands him another bottle of water, along with some ibuprofen, and encourages him to drink.
The entire time, I’ve been watching him buzz around us like the freaking caretaker he is. “Nurse Wilder, you gonna help me get him upstairs?”
“You just worry about yourself. I’ll take his drunk ass up there.” Lips pressed together, he hands all the ice packs to me. “You’re responsible for those. See you upstairs.”
He turns to Royal, tugging him up from the stool. I have no idea how he’s going to get two hundred pounds of loose-limbed male up a flight of stairs on his own, but I can’t wait to watch the show. He slings one of Royal’s arms over his shoulder, then bends at the knees. He surprises the fuck out of me by scooping him right off the floor and into his arms. “Up you go, Charming.”
Royal gives an undignified grunt but doesn’t argue.
Wow. Impressive. My eyes roam over the bulging muscles on display, straining against the T-shirt he’s wearing. Biceps and shoulders and back, ohfuuuck.Kinda makes me wish I were drunker than I currently am. I glance at the glass of bourbon Wilder abandoned—yet again—and throw back the amber liquid. Following them up the stairs, ice packs in hand, I can’t keep my eyeballs off his ass. Fuck me. My teeth clench as my dick hardens, and it’s no longer the booze making me warm, but rather, the thoughts of Wilder and how fucking perfect he is when he surrenders to me.
It’s Sunday night, so we shouldn’t have to worry about anyone roaming around the house because the brotherhood is generally asleep. Monday morning classes, and all. But when we reach the landing, Davis pokes his head out from his doorway. He takes one look at Royal and shakes his head.
“Got something to say, transfer?” Wilder’s bark and his bite are equally mean, so I’m not surprised by Davis’s quick step backward.
Eyeing the three of us, he works his jaw back and forth, before his judgmental gaze lands on Royal. I duck past them to open Royal’s door because I’d rather not have an all-out brawl in the hallway at one in the morning. Finally, the douche huffs out a laugh. “Nothing. But this is classic Royal.”
Wilder hasn’t moved an inch, and he’s got that look on his face he gets when he’s about to really pound on someone. His temper can flare rather quickly, especially in defense of someone he feels he has to protect. Usually Royal can fucking take care of himself. But right now? Not a chance in hell.
Case in point, Royal grits out, “What did he say? Put me down.” Wilder blows out a breath, glances at me, then dumps Royal from his hold like a load of bricks. Luckily, Royal lands on his unsteady feet, but whirls on Davis. “Fuck off.”
“Fight must have gone really well tonight.” Davis crosses his arms over his chest.
Who does this fucker think he is? Seriously. Who has the balls to taunt Royal like this? And what does he even know of the fights? He just fucking got here.
