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“Not until you stop twisting like a blasted madman.”
“I’m not twisting.”
Weston stilled. Roe eased up slightly on his back.
In less than a blink, Weston kicked off the wall, trying to escape the hold.
Roe shoved into him with his whole body, knocking him back flat into the wall. “What the hell were you thinking?”
His face smashed against the wall, Weston’s words came out slurred. “The bloody bastard tipped the cup—”
“You don’t pull a damn knife for some spilt whisky.”
“The whoremonger did it on purpose—he sm—”
Roe bashed his head into the wall. “I don’t give a damn what he did or didn’t do on purpose. You know what happens on this crew to a mate that pulls a knife.”
“The fucking drink.” Weston’s words came out deflated, whatever brimstone that had taken over his control now sucked out of him.
“Yeah, the fucking drink.” Roe eased up on Weston’s back. “I’ve been trying to keep you alive, but it’s beginning to be a losing battle, Wes.”
Weston twisted his face to the wall, then clunked his forehead onto the wood. “Just fucking do it, then. Toss me over.”
“You don’t want that, or you’d already have been picked apart by the fish.” Roe dropped his hands and took a step back from Weston. “So don’t make me do it.”
“Cap—”
“No. I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses, Wes. If I hadn’t caught your damn hand before that knife went higher than your waist, you’d already have a rock tied about your leg and be sinking into the depths.” Roe leaned in on him. “Control yourself.”
A seething sigh and Weston nodded.
“Good.” He flicked his head backward over his shoulder to Torrie. “And apologize to Torrie for me having to bust in here and kick your sorry ass in front of her.”
A stubborn frown twisted his lips and he leaned out past Roe. “Sorry, my lady.”
Torrie gave him a weak smile.
“And for the swearing.”
“My apologies, my lady.”
She offered him a nod.
“Now go find George before you black out and make this right with him before he comes to me and demands your ass gets tossed overboard.”
Weston’s head dropped forward, from either the drunken stupor he was in or more likely the humiliation of having to apologize. A man like that didn’t apologize—not easily, if at all.
His movements jerking, Weston shuffled out of the room.
Roe closed the door behind him.
For a long moment, he stood with his back to her, his hands high on the door, his shoulders heaving in long breaths.
He looked at her over his shoulder. “Sorry about that mess. This was the closest place to drag him before he went so far off there’d be no choice but to send him to dine with Davy Jones.”
Without another glance at her, he moved from the door to his desk, bending down beneath it to pull free one of the bottles of brandy that stayed snug in a box attached to the wall under the wood. He grabbed a silver tankard that sat atop the desk and splashed into it a healthy amount of the deep amber liquid.
He snugged the bottle back into place beneath the desk and took a healthy swallow before turning to sit on the chair. Bending forward, he leaned his forearms on his thighs. His look lifted to her. “You can drop the sword now, Torrie.”
