I'm in It (The Reed Brothers 10)

He pulls a bottle and two tumblers from a drawer in his desk. “Join me,” he says.

“Sure. Why not?”

Henry tosses back a shot and I do too. I slam the tumbler down on his desk. “Again?” he says.

“Sure.”

“The first thing you have to remember is that you can’t fight with a woman unless what you’re fighting about is worth it. You just can’t. You won’t win. Never. Ever.”

“Okay.”

“So, start there.”

“Now?”

He pours me another shot. “I’d wait until tomorrow.” He motions for me to sit on the nearby sofa. “Have a seat. I’ll tell you about my Nan.” He grabs the bottle and follows me. “Settle in. It’s a long story.”

Wren

My phone rings, jerking me out of the book I was reading. It’s late, so I grapple for the phone on the nightstand, worried it might be one of my sisters. “Hello,” I say.

“I have something that belongs to you down here,” Henry says on a heavy sigh. I sit up and drop my feet to the floor.

“What is it?”

“It’s Mick. The boy can’t hold his liquor worth a damn. I need for you to come and get him.”

“Did you get him drunk, Henry?” I ask.

I can hear Mick singing loudly through th

e phone. “Now is not the time to discuss how it happened,” Henry says.

“I’ll be right there.”

I get up and slip on a robe over my T-shirt and boy shorts and I slide my feet into a pair of sandals. I go downstairs and step into the lobby of the building. It’s two in the morning, so I don’t anticipate running into anyone but Henry. Well, Henry and Mick.

Henry looks up from where he’s sitting on a couch reading a magazine. “At least he’s a funny drunk,” he says. He nods toward where Mick is sprawled across the other sofa. He’s singing a dirty song about a guy named McSweeney who spilled some gin on his weenie.

“Oh, my God,” I say.

Mick opens his eyes and grins at me. “Hey Wren.”

“C’mon, Mick,” I say. “It’s time to go home.” I look at Henry. “Did you call a car for him?”

Henry shakes his head. “I tried. No one was available.”

“I find it hard to believe that there’s no car available in the city, Henry.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Henry puffs out his chest. But he also won’t look me in the eye.

“If the shoe fits.”

“You should take him home with you and let him sleep it off,” Henry says. He busies himself cleaning off the coffee table and organizing the magazines.

“You want me to take him home with me,” I say.

“Well, it’s the most logical choice. I can’t just let him keep lying here singing at the top of his lungs, can I?”