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“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask, looking around the group and spreading out my arms.
“Get away from him, Alice.” Gunner’s voice is hard. Evan crosses his arms with an angry scowl on his face. Frankie is the only one who appears to register the way I’m standing, trying to protect Rone from another blow to his pretty face.
“He was trying to—”
I cut Gunner off. “We were about to have sex, Gunn, until you assholes walked in.”
Rone growls, standing next to me. “Not helping, babe,” he says, wiping the blood from his busted lip.
“We heard you scream.” Evan grunts out.
“I fell and he started tickling me.” I stamp my feet. “Can’t a girl get fucked once in a while!”
Frankie and Evan share a smile. Great, they’re talking again.
“Do not start with me, Frank. Not after what you did to Evan,” I say firmly.
“We’re good,” Evan grunts. Frankie nods in agreement.
“And you,” I say, pointing to Gunner. “Apologize.”
“Allie,” Navarone begins.
“Sorry, man,” Gunner says, holding out his hand. “You don’t want to have sex on this floor, trust me I’ve tried.” He grins.
I roll my eyes as the boys shake hands.
“Did you tell her about the house?” Gunner asks.
“What house?” I say, trying to hold my torn shirt together.
I see Rone’s cheeks flare. “Thanks a lot, asshole. Like Grandpa Charlie doesn’t scare the living shit out of me every time I talk to him.”
Gunner flashes us both evil grins. “We’ll be in the kitchen.” When they leave us alone, the only thing missing is the roadrunner sound and a dust cloud.
I turn around, my hands on my hips. “What about Grandpa?”
“Charlie is my sponsor.”
“What? Grandpa never said a thing.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, it’s anonymous for a reason.”
“Navarone,” I growl out. The torn shirt only just covers my nipples and I can see he has a difficult time tearing his eyes away from my breasts.
His phone goes off and he looks at the screen. “I need to go,” he says, typing on his phone. “Some problem at the distillery with the kettles. Can I use your truck?”
“Yeah, sure, but—”
He grabs the keys from the bowl before heading out the door.
I follow him out onto the porch. “This is bullshit. Last week, you let Nathan handle it. Stay,” I plead.
“We both know I can’t stay,” he says, pointing to my torn shirt.
“This is nothing.”
He turns around before he storms toward my truck. “I can’t do that to you again.”
