He took them to a dark corner of the room. Beckett delivered a beer without asking, while Sloan eyed Rylan as if he were an Enforcer who’d come to make a dirty bargain.
After they’d lowered themselves on opposite ends of a small, tattered couch, Rylan got right to the point. He figured a no-nonsense man like Sloan would appreciate it. “I’m sorry I was an ass last night.”
Sloan shrugged.
“That’s it? No I accept your apology? No it’s all good, bro?”
Another shrug.
“Look, I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of men lose their heads over Reese before.” Frustration jammed in his throat, so he tried to loosen it with a deep swig of beer. “One taste of her wasn’t enough. I . . .” He trailed off, because he wasn’t sure what in the hell he wanted from Sloan.
Did he want Sloan to talk Reese into fucking him . . . or to talk her into fucking them both?
“I’m sure she appreciates your persistence,” was all Sloan said.
“Really,” he drawled.
Sloan’s lips curved in a reluctant smile. “Okay, maybe I exaggerated a little.”
He had to laugh. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Watching me chase her around with my tongue hanging out and my dick in hand. The entire town must be entertained.”
“I don’t think anyone’s concerned about who’s screwing Reese except you.”
“And you.” He’d be damned if he let Sloan off the hook.
“You want me to acknowledge I’m as miserable as you?” the other man asked.
He nodded. Because, well, knowing that someone else had Reese-induced blue balls would make him feel better.
Sloan snorted. “We’re going to need a lot more liquor before I do that.”
“I’m down with that.” Rylan waved a hand at Beckett. “Beck! Bring over some whiskey. We need to get drunk.” He pointed to the big, bearded man beside him. “It’s on Sloan.”
Beckett laughed, but disengaged himself from his conversation and sauntered over with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “What, I’m your fucking servant now?”
“Says the guy who’s serving us drinks,” Rylan cracked.
“Good point.” Grinning, the tattooed man dropped the bottle in Rylan’s hand and then headed back to the small group of chatting, laughing men across the room.
“What’s your game here?” Sloan asked slowly, his dark eyes tracking Rylan’s hands as he poured each of them a shot.
“No game.” He shoved a glass in Sloan’s hand. “Figured it’d be nice to get to know each other. We’ve already got one major thing in common.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Neither of us is getting laid.”
The joke got him the desired laugh. It also succeeded in relaxing the tense set of Sloan’s shoulders. “Cheers,” Sloan said gruffly, before downing his whiskey.
Rylan drank, then poured two more shots. “So, where you from?” he asked in a conversational tone.
Sloan rolled his eyes.
“I’m serious. Where were you born? City or free land?”
“Free land. Grew up in a camp on the coast.”
“You have family?”
“Had some. Lost ’em.”
When Sloan tipped his head back to swallow another shot, Rylan couldn’t look away from the bobbing Adam’s apple in Sloan’s strong throat. Sloan was big and tough and mean as a son of a bitch. And undeniably attractive. He had a nice mouth.
Knew how to use it too . . .
Fuck. Rylan pushed the memory aside. He hadn’t come here to seduce the man—he’d come to win him over.
Then again, who said those were mutually exclusive goals?
“What happened to them?” Rylan asked quietly.
Sloan’s expression took on a faraway look. Then he cleared his throat and poured some more whiskey. “Earthquake,” he muttered. “Our camp was as close as we could get to the flooded cities. My ma liked the shore, liked the smell of the ocean. But when the quake hit, the whole area went under. Ever seen a building standing there one second and underwater the next?”
Rylan shook his head and drank some more.
“Yeah, me neither. It was kind of beautiful, in a grim sorta way.” Sloan didn’t even use a glass for his next shot, just wrapped his lips around the bottle and sucked. “There were twenty people in our camp, including my parents. Sixteen drowned. Me and a few other boys managed to swim to safety.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight.”
Aw shit. Rylan had heard plenty of depressing stories over the years, gruesome tales of violence and hardship. Hell, his own childhood had been—what was the word Sloan had used? Grim. Yeah, it’d been grim and dark and shitty. But something about Sloan’s tale tugged at him. The thought of a little boy swimming for his life while everyone he loved was drowning all around him . . . fucking brutal.
“I’m sorry, brother,” Rylan murmured.
Sloan’s chuckle was low and harsh. “Nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t cause that quake.”