And fuck this tween for throwing that in his face along with everything else. “Take me home, Justin. Now.”
“This is the address you gave me.”
“Is not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’m not paying for your broken GPS.”
“Look, I don’t have time for—”
“Don’t make me throw up in your car.”
“Dude.” That one word expressed so much horror that he almost apologized.
A hard knock on the glass startled them both into silence. Rory groaned, realizing for the first time where he was. “Shit.”
Trick Dunham smiled tightly as he took in Rory’s sprawled form in the backseat. “You’re not looking so hot tonight, pretty boy. Is the end nigh? Did someone finally turn you down?”
“You wish,” Rory muttered inanely, wondering if those bobble heads had sucked out a few brain cells in payment. How the hell had he ended up at Jennifer Finn’s house of ménage?
Trick opened the door and tossed a wad of cash at the driver before slipping an arm under Rory’s shoulders. He had on a wrinkled t-shirt and boxers, and his feet were bare. “What I wish is that I was still sleeping soundly after a late night of exhausting my insatiable woman. Or that I’d woken up to the feel of big, hard professor cock against my back instead of to Jen’s anxious texting because her distraught cousin needed a place to crash.”
Rory shook his heavy head, feeling fuzzy. “I didn’t text her and I’m not distraught. I’m pretty sure I’m not traught either. I mean how you can you be dis-something that doesn’t sound like a real word? You ask your smart professor’s cock while I take my driver back to my place. I’m sober enough to give him some pointers.” He pointed to his throat and waggled his eyebrows. “Gag reflex issues.”
The driver in question apparently heard him, because the next minute he took off down the street, tires squealing while Rory pushed ineffectually at Trick’s chest. “Shit, that kid is fast like a freak. And lay off the steroids, Detective. I can walk on my own.”
“Sure you can, but you might as well get full service. According to your buddy—the one who texted Jen—you aggressively shot down going to his place or contacting any of your five available brothers. He didn’t want to leave you alone and we’re the only ones you didn’t argue about spending the night with. I’m not sure how we got so lucky,” Trick muttered, practically dragging Rory’s rubbery legs over the threshold of the mall-sized Kelley mansion and toward the kitchen.
“Your sparkling personality?” He batted his eyelashes, ignoring the ache in his gut when he thought about his brothers. He couldn’t go to them. Not like this.
Younger Solomon would judge and James was usually MIA. Brady was wrapped up in love and rope and Noah was knee deep in diapers. Wyatt… Well, Wyatt wouldn’t understand anything that wasn’t about beer, porn or fighting fires. None of them really knew who Rory was. To them he was simply their pain in the ass, oversexed baby brother. The apathetic Peter Pan who’d never grow up, and always did the exact opposite of what he was supposed to do.
It was easier for everyone if they kept it that way.
Trick narrowed his eyes then shook his head. “Come on, numbskull. We made rocket fuel coffee and a hangover scramble with enough hot sauce to help burn some of the poison out.”
“That sounds horrible.” He didn’t have to fake his shudder and he was glad Trick was still holding onto him. His legs seemed to be doing their own thing tonight.
“They didn’t teach you about hot sauce during your EMT training? It’ll cure what ails you, at any rate. And if you don’t like our hospitality, the next time you get shitfaced you’ll want to go somewhere else. Either way, I call that a win.”
Chapter Two
“Is he okay?” Professor Declan Kelley had bedhead, his glasses were crooked and he was holding two wriggling dogs in his arms as if to intentionally frame his washboard abs with cuteness and—good God—he was wearing silk pajama bottoms like a boss.
Between the sleeved badass holding him up and this gorgeous specimen in front of him, Rory could think of a dozen, deliciously debauched activities that might help him forget his current dilemma. Rory snorted out a laugh. Another alliteration. Possibly a side effect of his cleanse mixed with alcohol. Fun with grammar aside, he was horny enough to give them both a rough workout.
Unfortunately, they only had eyes for each other and his redheaded relative, Jen. Yet another uniquely happy ending for someone whose name wasn’t Rory.
Want some cheese with that whine? Anyway, those aren’t the two you want. You remember them, don’t you? The ones who decided not to invite you to their sexy party?
“Hell.” He hated feeling this way. Bitter was Elder’s thing, not Rory’s. He’d spent a lifetime making sure he was nothing like his old man and now he was practically channeling the fucker.