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Present day—The Dickxie Mansion, Nashville
“Fuck, Al, I’m sorry,” Gunner begins, while the memory of Navarone fades away.
I hold up my hands. “I get that he’s still part of all your lives, but it is easier for me to ignore that little piece of information. I haven’t been avoiding him all this time for no reason.” I brush away the moisture traveling down my cheek with the sleeve of my shirt.
Why the hell am I crying?I blame it on my period. I cried when I watched a dog-food commercial last night. Those puppies are evil, plain evil.
All the guys look at me with pity in their eyes, and I hate it. It’s one of the reasons I normally make sure I don’t cry in front of them.
Gunner sighs. “I still can’t believe you cut him out of your life.”
“Gunn,” Evan warns. My brother takes a deep breath, holding up his hands in defeat.
I straighten my spine. “Max texted me and he is coming here with Tommy to shoot his new movie, so zip it. I don’t say shit about your love lives,” I say, feeling my bitch-self take the front seat as I place my phone on the counter with force.
“Whoa, we aren’t the one with a—” Gunner looks at my hand where I’ve made sure not to wear his ring.
I hold up my middle finger. “Do not go there.”
“He’s got you Allie.” Frankie roars with laughter.
“True, babe. Admit it.” Austin smiles from his seat on the couch. Evan shakes his head in disapproval.
“Oh yeah, well let’s go then,” I say, raising my voice. “Austin, I never say shit about you bringing back hand-me-down groupies after your side gig to have the loudest sex known to mankind with.”
He smirks and gives me a wink, chuckling in response. “Guilty. One of the many reasons I love being a roadie.”
“And you.” I point to Frankie.
“Yes?” He smiles, leaning against the marble counter and putting his hands under his chin before batting his pretty eyelashes at me.
“I don’t mention the girls you have on rotation every day. I can’t handle all the crying at the front door when I have to tell them you’re eating out.”
He waggles his tongue at me. “More like who.”
“Man.” Gunner high fives Frankie. “Every day? I should tag along with you. I mean, we have the clubhouse, and I don’t get lucky every freaking night.”
Frankie looks proud. “What can I tell you, guys? They all come back wanting seconds from the Frankenator.”
“Please don’t say Frankenator ever again,” I tell him, stifling a laugh.
Frankie holds both his hands out as if taking a measurement, poking his tongue against his cheek. Evan gets another beer and slams the top off, his body language screaming he’s pissed and bored as hell with this whole conversation.
“And you,” Gunner says, turning to Evan.
“Yeah man, you.” Austin sits up.
“What about me?” Evan grunts, not meeting our eyes and scratching the side of his shaved head.
“When are you going to bring home someone. Hell, anyone?” Austin asks from his seat on the couch.
Color creeps up his neck. “I’ve been busy.”
“Sorry, man, but no one is too busy for pussy,” Gunner comments, eating his pizza with his mouth open. “The club whores can oblige you if you want. Tag along next Friday for the party. Dime got out of federal prison.”
His smile makes me groan. I know it when my brother has trouble on his mind.
“Don’t say ‘whores,’” I tell Gunner, and he sticks his tongue out.
