He pushed off the wall, stood up straight.
“Come on, Jack. Last chance,” he firmly told the bottle of whiskey.
Yeah, he knew how stupid he sounded. He was talking to a bottle and the sad part was, he wasn’t even drunk yet. He took one step, then another. And then another until he was moving down the hall. He found himself counting as though he were walking to the guillotine and his life was about to end.
Three-oh-one. Three-oh-three. A few more steps. Three-oh-five. “Three-oh-seven,” he said aloud when he stopped in front of his destination.
He stood there, staring at the Do Not Disturb sign dangling from the door knob.
Huh. Was that a sign from above?
Do not disturb. Turn around and go the fuck home.
He didn’t do that, either. Instead, he stood there, having an internal debate with his dick. His cock wanted one thing, his heart another. And they certainly weren’t anywhere close to being on the same page. Never would be at this rate.
No telling how long he’d stood there when he realized his cell phone was ringing. He fished it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. Hitting the Talk button, he put the phone to his ear.
“Hey, man. You comin’ up?” Greyson asked, his voice low.
Sawyer looked at the doorknob one more time, but then he shook his head, although he knew Greyson couldn’t see him. “You know what, man, I just realized I left Buster at home.”
He was met with silence and he pictured Greyson standing on the other side of the door, with Blondie on her knees and his dick buried in her mouth while he talked on the phone.
When Greyson didn’t say anything, Sawyer added, “But you two have fun. And I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. Cool?”
More silence before Greyson’s disappointed voice sounded. “Sure, man. I get it.”
Sawyer doubted that Greyson really understood what this meant. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he understood what it meant. The only thing he knew with absolute certainty was that he couldn’t keep doing this. If he wanted a chance with Kennedy, and he really fucking did, it was time he put a little more effort into winning her and a lot less effort into pushing her away.
This might not do the trick, but it was a damn good start.
KENNEDY WALKED OUT of Moonshiners about forty-five minutes after Sawyer did. Before she’d talked herself into going home, she had spent most of her time sipping water after downing her last drink and watching those around her, namely the Walker twins getting drunk at the back of the bar, hustling the unsuspecting guys who’d happened upon their tiny town, looking for a watering hole to waste away a Thursday night. She had listened to the laughter and whistles mixed with the clack of the pool balls as Brendon Walker played some naive fool until the guy was walking out of the bar with probably fifty fewer dollars than he came in with. Knowing she would still have to get up in the morning for work, and that her house would still be empty no matter what time she went home, Kennedy finally gave in.
She said good night to Mack before walking out into the brisk evening air, wishing she’d thought to bring her jacket with her. Rather than race to her car, Kennedy stood there, looking up at the full moon, a brilliant white circle in the inky night sky. Even here, with the muted sounds of the jukebox and conversation on the other side of the bar’s front doors, it was still peaceful. Still perfect.
Stepping off the porch, she listened to the crunch of gravel beneath her boots and she thought about all the other nights she’d come to this very bar, hanging with her friends or her father, just wanting to spend time with the locals, the same people who loved their small town as much as she did.
“Hey, Kennedy!”
Recognizing the boisterous voice, and the undeniable slur of words, Kennedy turned around to see Brendon, or maybe it was Braydon—half the time she really wasn’t sure—standing there with the door open. She opted to believe it was Brendon because he’d been the one playing pool.
She lifted an eyebrow, not responding, hoping he was just drunk and wanted to say his good-byes. They’d been known to do it before. The Walker brothers—any one of them—were often known for getting in the last word.
“You got your car here?” Brendon asked.
“I do,” she said slowly. “Why?”
“You mind givin’ us a ride to the hospital?”
Oh, hell. What had they done now? “Is somethin’ wrong?” she asked, wishing she hadn’t decided to loiter in the parking lot because if she’d been halfway home, the Walker twins would’ve been someone else’s problem.
“Nope!” Brendon hollered. “Hold on.”
He was gone as fast as he’d arrived.