Page 82 of A Whim and a Prayer

“I … I don’t know, Brayden,” she whispered her brain suddenly muddled and confused as he hooked an arm to her waist to lead her away with a backhanded wave to the others.

“We’ll get you feeling better, Winnie, I promise. Before I take you home, okay?”

Okay? No, not okay, but Winnie was so unsteady and so foggy, she could barely walk, so Brayden carried her up the steps, and she couldn’t even object, her tongue as thick as her speech.

“Where”—she wet her lips over and over—“are … we?” she whispered, panic starting to rise in her chest despite the fatigue dragging her body down.

“My room,” he said softly, setting her down on a bed with the utmost care. “Wait right here, Winnie, and I’ll get you some aspirin powder. Everything's jake, babe. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

“Everything’s jake,” Winnie whispered as he left the room. Her head started to spin again like she’d taken some of that rotgut whiskey Brayden had been guzzling after they’d arrived—and she’d refused. Her eyelids felt like lead as she struggled to keep them open, but they shuttered closed against her will with an unsettling thought: If everything’s jake, then why does it feel so wrong?

“Here you go, babe.” Brayden roused her from her sleep with his upbeat tone, handing her a foggy glass of water. “Drink the aspirin powder down, doll, and when it does the trick, I’ll fix you something that tastes a whole lot better.” He grinned as he held up a full bottle of whiskey. “I scored big at the bar.”

Body quivering, she took the glass he offered and drank it down, hands shaking so hard, some of it ended up on her sweater before she dropped back on the bed. “No whiskey, Brayden, please. As soon as I start feeling better, I just … want … to go home.”

Lashes sinking, she began to shiver. “I don’t know why, but I’m so cold and shaky,” she whispered, fighting the urge to go to sleep.

She heard his shoes drop before he slipped in the bed beside her, pulling the covers over them both and holding her in his arms. “Is this better?” he asked and she nodded because she could feel the warmth of his body seeping into her bones. “And how ’bout this?” His mouth gently caressed hers, his hands pressing against her back to draw her in close.

More heat swarmed her body and she smiled. “Nice,” she whispered.

Right before the room faded to black.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Beck could hear the music and noise from a half mile away, priming his anger as he parked down the block. He was already too hot under the collar, so he slung his coat in the car and sprinted to the house. He tore up a short flight of steps to a covered veranda where a porch light cast a yellow glow across worn wooden decking.

A trash heap of discarded paper cups, empty beer bottles, and cigarette butts littered both the deck and lawn in front, along with a forgotten jacket draped over a white-picket railing. At the far end, a couple necked in the shadows while two pie-eyed punks sat sprawled next to a wooden case of empty beer bottles, eyes closed as they snored against the wall. The door to the three-story Victorian was wide open, harboring anything, he was certain, but white-picket activity.

It was just past 3:00 a.m., so nobody stopped him at the door when he strode in, the stench of beer, whiskey, vomit, and stale cologne almost knocking him over. A phonograph record blared loudly despite the hour and the cigarette smoke was so thick, the remnant of frat boys talking and drinking seemed like ghosts, their laughter muted as if they were running out of gas.

Jaw tight, Beck scanned the room for any sign of Brayden before he approached a small gathering of frat rats lounging around an old couch. One or two of them were comatose, their chainsaw snoring obscuring the low buzz of conversation around them.

“Brayden McCarthy here?” he said, tone flat and hands in his pockets to deflect the temper he strove to keep in check.

For now.

“Slugger?” One of the more sober boys—which wasn’t saying much—glanced up, eyes in a squint. “Yeah, he’s here, why?”

Beck offered a listless shrug. “Got some smack he wanted.”

The guy’s slitted eyes widened as a low rumble of chuckles circled the group. “Holy Joe, smack?” He shook his head. “Didn’t think Slugger touched anything but booze.”

“And don’t forget dolls, Ace,” another added, prompting a second round of chortles, more suggestive than the first.

Ace scratched his head. “Haven’t seen him for a while, so he’s probably up in our room ’cause that’s where I’d be with a looker like he had.” He winked as he held up a half-empty beer bottle. “We don’t call him Slugger for nothing, you know. The guy hits it out of the park with the ladies every single time.”

A tic pulsed in Beck’s cheek as he shifted, fists clenched in his pocket. “Cute blond—petite, curly hair?”

“Yeah—a cute little thing. A real dish.”

“Mind telling me where his room is because I’m guessin’ he’s gonna want some of this.” Beck patted his back pocket with a stony smile.

“Oh, no doubt,” Ace said as he nodded up. “Third floor, last room on the left.”

“Thanks, pal.” Beck headed toward the stairs, mounting the steps two at a time with one purpose in mind.

To deliver plenty of “smack” … along with a busted jaw and two black eyes.