Or maybe he’d just lost his fucking mind.
“Don’t be stingy with the liquor.” Logan said as he pulled the bottle out of Luke’s grasp and filled both glasses once again. “And don’t worry; I’m only giving you shit about the threesomes.” Logan clarified before tossing back the next shot, a toast apparently not needed.
Not wanting to be left behind, Luke took the shot and felt the heat wash through him, his vision becoming just a little fuzzy while his ears were starting to ring.
“I’ve actually thought about talking to Tag.” Logan admitted, glancing up at Luke as though he expected a reaction.
“Tag Murphy?” As if Luke needed to clarify. How many Tag’s did they actually know?
“One and the same.” Logan slurred, reaching for the bottle again.
So apparently Logan had come over to comfort Luke, for whatever reason, and was seeking his own comfort in the bottle of whiskey that was now… three quarters of the way empty. At this rate, he’d have to pull out another bottle.
“So, why Tag?” Luke inquired, getting that backup bottle. Just in case.
“I’ve seen the way Sam looks at him. I mean, how could she not. The man’s built like a brick shithouse.”
That was the damn truth. Tag Murphy was one of the newest members of Club Destiny, and one mean looking son of a bitch. Apparently the women thought he was hot, or so he’d heard. Cole had actually introduced Luke and Logan to Tag and not long after, the man had asked about joining the club. Luke was a little surprised that Logan would even consider the man. “I figured you’d talk to Dylan.”
Logan didn’t seem surprised by the idea, but he turned his attention back on the bottle. “I thought about it. I just don’t know if he’s in the right place in his head right now.”
Another round was poured and Luke tossed his back as fast as his brother, his legs suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. “No, you’re probably right.” Pulling out the barstool beside Logan, Luke slid into it, wanting to remain vertical as long as possible.
“What the fuck is going on with you and Sierra?” Logan asked after a few minutes of silence. Although he managed to butcher Sierra’s name, thanks to the whiskey.
“Hell if I know.”
Logan’s face contorted, and he suddenly looked… sad. Shit, just what Luke needed, a sappy drunk that wanted to talk.
“From the moment I met that woman, I thought she would be your perfect match. Physically she isn’t what you normally go for, I get that.”
Logan was accurate in that respect. Luke didn’t go for tiny, petite women. At six feet five, two hundred and forty pounds, women like Sierra scared him. He was damn near twice her size, and he feared he would hurt her. But she had proven just how fragile she wasn’t, and the thought made his dick stir.
“But the woman’s a firecracker.” Logan continued, apparently not needing Luke to contribute to the conversation. When he picked up the bottle and began to slosh the liquid into the glasses, Luke knew they were damn near at their limit. How many had they had anyway?
“That she is.” Luke agreed, taking the bottle from his brother and filling the shot glasses once more. This had to be the last one or they would both be flat on their faces in the next few minutes.
“And she’s hot as hell. Granted, she’s not Sam, but the woman is a beauty.”
Logan’s words began to get closer and closer together and Luke had a hard time understanding him. Or maybe that was Luke’s brain running the words together.
“I love her.” Holy fuck! Where the hell had that come from?
Logan turned to Luke like his hair had just gone up in flames, and Luke knew he’d actually said the words out loud.
“I knew it!” Logan slammed the glass on the bar. “I fucking knew it.”
As though Logan had just figured out the cure for cancer, his eyes lit up, and a smile split his face. Luke couldn’t help but laugh. Yes, damnit, he loved her.
“Let’s drink to that.” Logan slurred, drink coming out more like shrink.
They tossed down another shot and this time Luke damn near fell off of the barstool. His eyes crossed, and his vision went gray on the edges. Time to call it a night.
No sense in staying up any longer… Logan had apparently been successful in getting Luke to talk.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Someone must have hit Luke square in the face with an anvil. That was the first thought that sprung to Luke’s mind the next morning when he awoke to the sun bathing the edges of the bed through the blind’s wooden slats.
“Sonuvabitch.” Apparently that was fast becoming one of his favorite words these days.