Page 47 of Hard to Love
Had Alex ever felt more like a jackass than he did right now, walking up to Cal Maddox’s house with a bottle of Milagro Silver under one arm and a six-pack of Budweiser under the other? Not in recent memory. Well, maybe when he’d stood in the snack aisle of the grocery store contemplating the better choice—tortilla chips paired with bean dip or jalapeño chips and cheese dip. In the end, he’d simply hit the beer cooler.
Booze was always in style.
Several vehicles, a couple of trucks and—Alex looked closer—a Shelby convertible were already parked in the crushed-rock driveway. Guy time. Why the hell had he let Greer talk him into this? He hadn’t participated in any pack activities since he shotgunned it out of San Antonio. Hanging with the wrong guys could be dangerous.
Deadly.
But this was Prophecy. It wasn’t as if one of these men would have a handgun shoved down the back of his ass-crack-revealing pants.
Then again, he couldn’t be sure about Cal because the last time Alex and Greer’s brother had been within shooting distance of each other, Alex’s hand had been nicely wedged in Greer’s bra.
Now she’d not only set him up on a bro-date, but she’dalso asked him to be Wild Card’s resident artist. He was an idiot to even consider it and should’ve told her no immediately.
But when she’d asked him, something inside him had flared with what felt like hope. Why would anyone from Tejanos Pintados have to know he was anywhere in the state? Maybe he really could start over right here. He still wouldn’t be living in the same town as his family, but Texas was a hell of a lot closer to Georgia than Montana was, and if this all worked out, it could fix everything.
Alex tapped his knuckles against the door frame and waited. The blond dude who answered the door looked like he might be a model for one of those twenty-bucks-a-pair underwear brands. “Hey, you must be Alex. Sawyer Gunn. C’mon in.”
White boy was wearing high-end jeans, some silky shirt that would’ve looked pansy-assed on a smaller guy, and a pair of cowboy boots that had to be custom made. Alex pointed at his feet. “Those Whit Maddox’s work?”
“Unfortunately, no. I missed the boat on that one, but I’m thinking about commissioning a pair with Delaney.” Sawyer waved him inside and led him through a modestly decorated living room. “Guys are on the deck.”
Sure enough, outside, two other men were already kicked back, beers and cigars in hand.
“Man—” Sawyer pointed at Greer’s brother, “—your woman is gonna shave your ass when she comes home and you smell like the inside of an ashtray.”
“That’s what showers are for,” Cal shot back. “And why the hell do you think I built this deck?” He gave Alex a hard look, slowly set aside his beer, and stood. “Villanueva.” The guy’s handshake wasn’t a pissing contest squeeze, but the way he stared at Alex with cool eyes wasdefinitely a warning. A warning that he’d better never again catch Alex messing around with his baby sister.
Alex didn’t have any sisters, much to his mamá’s disappointment, but he got it. He had girl cousins to spare. And although he hadn’t seen them in years, he’d give the same look to any guy who was thinking of messing around with them. He nodded his understanding. “Maddox.”
The other man—also dark-haired and wearing boots made for work—got to his feet. “Good to know you, Alex. Ty Metcalf.”
Jesus, it looked like Greer had at least two decent-looking guys to entertain her. Why the hell was she interested in him? Why hadn’t she gotten involved with a man who already lived in this little Mayberry town?
“You play 42?” Sawyer asked him.
“Been a while.”
He flashed a shit-eating grin. “Then you can be Cal’s partner.”
Great. If they lost, Greer’s brother would have one more reason to want to rip out his guts and make barbacoa out of them.
Alex spotted a cooler in the corner. He dropped in the beer and started to do the same with the tequila, but Sawyer swiped the bottle from Alex’s grip. “Let’s just put this on the table. I have a feeling we’re gonna need it. Take a load off.”
With the tequila sitting in the center of the table like a religious icon, Ty shuffled the dominoes, and each man grabbed seven.
Sawyer took one look at his hand, snorted, and grabbed the bottle to crack the top. “I see what kind of night this is going to be. Might as well fortify myself now.” He took a healthy slug of the alcohol, breathed through what had tobe a nice burn, and said, “Motherfucker.”
The whole table cracked up. Yeah, so Greer was right. Alex had missed the way guys hung out together. Hell, it was a miracle he even knew how to hold a conversation with anyone the way he’d avoided it.
Sawyer passed the bottle to Cal on his left. Two swallows later, and it was back to Alex. He looked it—a good quarter of it already sloshing in the three other stomachs around the table. What the fuck? He upended it and drank.
The hoots and hollers from the other men pierced the throat-scorching burn, and Alex swallowed and lowered the bottle.
Sawyer whacked him on the back. “Should’ve known you were a man who could hold his shit. Guess our plan to take you for all the money in your wallet after getting you refrigerator-pissing drunk is down the can.”
Alex sucked in a breath, which only reignited the trail of fire down his throat. “Refrigerator-pissing?”
“Yeah, knew this guy once who, after a wild night on the town, sleepwalked his way to the fridge, opened it, and let loose on the milk and eggs.”
