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She twisted her head toward him. “Why would it matter if I did?”
Why would it matter?
Why the fuck would it matter?
Because… It just would.
She arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Have you joined them in a threesome?”
He pursed his lips and turned his attention back to the road.
“I’ll take that as a yes since I know for a fact that you aren’t opposed to them. I’ve witnessed you doing one too many.”
In truth, there was no such thing as one too many threesomes. Even foursomes.
His rack in the bunkhouse might not be big enough for three women to join him, but there were other ways to make it work…
“Still waitin’ on your answer.”
“I’m not into other women,” was her non-answer.
“Most women don’t gotta be into women to have sex with them. Straight women don’t mind shovin’ their face in another woman’s cunt if they’re horny enough. Or drunk enough. Unlike men who got a problem with goin’ down on another man or lickin’ his asshole if they ain’t into givin’ or takin’ dick.”
“That’s because we have less hang-ups than men. And most women know how to please another woman better than a man does.”
His head spun toward her. “You speakin’ from experience?”
She gave him an exaggerated eye roll. “I went to college, remember?”
“What the fuck does that gotta do with anything?”
“If you went to college, you’d know.”
Maybe he should’ve made more of an effort and found a way to go to college if that was the kind of shit that went on. “College girls gone wild, huh?”
“Are you getting hard?” she accused, eyeing his lap.
“How the fuck can I not? You talkin’ about shovin’ your face between another chick’s thighs and lickin’—”
“I did not say those words. That’s just your horny imagination.”
“You never ate pussy?” Christ. He was getting hard.
“You just said this wasn’t going to be a Q and A session.”
He sighed. That he did. For fuck’s sake, he should’ve kept his damn mouth shut and let her just talk. He might have heard some great stories instead.
He frowned. “Fine.”
“Fine,” she huffed.
He needed to get his mind off Reilly and back to their destination. They were only about fifteen minutes away from the house he grew up in. He needed to prepare himself for what they’d be walking into.
It wouldn’t be a teary reunion full of hugs, kisses and claims of missing each other. It would be more of a “I’ll try not to smother your fuckin’ face with a pillow after I spit on you,” just to make sure his old man took his last damn breath.
He figured they’d head straight over there, check out the situation, see how long his asshole sire had to live and then find a motel. Because he certainly wasn’t planning on sitting at his father’s bedside to hold the fucker’s hand.
He also wasn’t planning on forgiving him, even if the man asked for it with his last dying breath. His father didn’t deserve even an ounce of forgiveness. Not one.
Closure. That was what he was going for.
Nothing but closure.
Once the man’s evil soul left his body, the man could be forgotten for good. Have a nice trip south, dearest Dad.
“Hey, why did the Harley fall over?”
Oh Christ, here she went again with lame jokes.
“Because it was two tired!” she shouted, then slapped her knee and laughed.
He groaned.
With her tracking device off, he could dump her body anywhere and she’d never be found again.
That might be for the best.
Chapter Four
Reilly sat in the passenger seat and studied the plain, two-story house in front of them. The white paint on the wood siding was faded and peeling. It needed a fresh coat at least ten years ago or to be updated with vinyl siding. The house wasn’t falling down or anything, it just needed a facelift.
The Bronco’s engine still rumbled since Rev had put the shifter into neutral as he also stared at the house. He hadn’t even engaged the parking brake yet, almost as if he was weighing his options.
His expression was unreadable but his stiff body and the fingers white-knuckling the steering wheel said it all. This was not a joyous homecoming.
He was dreading it.
That made her wonder, for the hundredth time since yesterday, why he wanted to come back here at all. He said he wanted to make sure his father was dead. Simply reading the obituary would give him that. So would getting another phone call from his uncle once his father passed.
He didn’t need to put himself through turmoil just to witness it.
She wanted to say something but didn’t know what. Whatever she said he probably wouldn’t appreciate right now. Instead, she sat quietly—a struggle in itself—and let him work out whatever he needed to work out in his head.
Most likely whether to stay or go.
The problem was, if he didn’t say something soon, words might simply explode from her like a drunk unable to contain his vomit. She dug her nails into her palms in a desperate attempt to keep herself quiet.
