Fortunately, spoiled princesses rarely wanted for anything, especially someone to help them escape their cushy life of luxury.
Fuck, that dress alone probably cost more than he and Deke had made in a week their entire military careers.
He didn’t have a damn thing to feel guilty about, sending her starchy ass away. What the hell had she been thinking showing up there in the first place, strutting into an MC clubhouse like she belonged there, then turning up that prissy nose at what she found?
And he’d have had no choice but to kick his brothers’ assess if they’d pounced on her. He owed Deke that much and a million times more.
Don’t you owe it to him to have a civil conversation with his sister?
Probably. And it was just one more thing to add to the guilt pile. He couldn’t be around her without the weight of Deke’s death grinding him to dust. So, Olivia could sashay her Botoxed face and her thousand-dollar shoes right back to Daddy’s mansion.
“Another,” he said, tapping the bar. A pleasant buzz hummed through his veins, but not nearly enough to obliterate the sight of Olivia.
Did she have to be so fucking hot? Christ, he’d popped a boner for his best friend’s little sister. Sure, she was one hundred percent grown woman, but still. Too fucking messy.
“You sure?” JT, a hang-around hoping to prospect, asked. The kid couldn’t be more than twenty-three. Scott felt even more ancient than the aches and pains he had courtesy of the US Army.
“Yes, I’m fucking sure. I’m also sure you won’t make it as far as a prospect if you question shit I tell you to do.” Sure, he’d been lucky as an original member of the chapter to avoid the misery of prospecting, but he’d spent plenty of time licking boots and kissing asses in his years of military service. He’d paid his dues.
The kid lifted his scrawny arms in surrender. “Sorry, Spec. My bad. Here, just take the bottle.” He slid the bottle of whisky across the bartop. It stopped directly in front of Scott.
He’d swig right from the bottle if he were in his apartment, but Curly already had it in for him. Shouldn’t piss off the club by putting his mouth all over their booze.
He poured, then swallowed another shot. Damn, that burn was epic—one of his favorite feelings. Meant numbness wasn’t far behind.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the stupidest member of our club.” Tracker came up behind him, slapping a heavy hand on Scott’s shoulder before sitting next to him. “You gonna share that, or should I just get you a straw?”
A straw wasn’t the worst idea. With a grunt, he slid the bottle to Tracker as a chuckling JT delivered a shot glass.
“Who the fuck said you could laugh?” Tracker barked.
JT’s eyes flared wide. “Uh, sorry, man. I just… it was funny.”
“Eh, I’m bustin’ your balls,” Tracker said with a laugh. He filled the shot glass, sucked it back, then repeated the action. “Ahh, that’s much better.” He turned Scott’s way and pointed a tattooed finger at him. “As I was saying, you’re stupid.”
“Assuming you’re gonna tell me why.” Scott poured another shot. Seventh, maybe? He didn’t know why he was counting. Maybe the fact he could still count meant he hadn’t had enough to drink.
“Oh, I sure am. You had one fine piece of expensive ass strut in here looking for you, and you didn’t even give her a chance to turn down a fucking before you tossed her out on said ass. And in case you were too dumb to notice, it was a very fine ass, brother.”
Of course, he’d noticed. He wasn’t blind. Or dickless. But it didn’t matter how hot her ass was. Or how lush those tits had been. Or how she wasn’t a stick figure but had some mouthwatering curves. None of that mattered. She was his best friend’s little sister, therefore off-limits no matter how many plastic surgeons had made her look that damn tasty. Except despite her millions of dollars, he suspected every one of those curves was natural.
“More to life than ass, brother.” He poured another shot.
“Well, duh, there’s tits and pussy.” Tracker laughed. “Don’t worry, I noticed those too. Well, the tits, at least. Mmm.” He kissed his fingers. “Chef’s kiss.”
Scott ground his molars together. “Stop fucking talking about her like that. She was my goddamn best friend’s little sister. And I meant there’s more to life than fucking.”
With a snort, Tracker grabbed the bottle and poured himself another shot. “Eh, not sure I agree with you there, brother. That’s the kinda thing a guy says when he hasn’t gotten laid in so long, he forgets what to do with his dick.”
After polishing off another shot, Scott glared at his friend. Tracker’s smirking face swam before his eyes. He was a cool guy—animated, pierced, inked, personable—the kind of guy who let shit roll off his back. Someone Scott could see becoming a damn good friend if he was in the market for that kind of thing.