I look over my shoulder. Without removing his gaze, he takes another drink from the bottle of whiskey. He swallows heartedly, and a few drops remain on his lips. My tongue sneaks out and licks my lips before I realize what I’ve done, the invitation I’ve given. He mimics my motion with his own tongue. A warm blush rises on my cheeks, and I look down at my feet as my hands resume working at the braid.
“You really are just a little girl, aren’t you?”
As I loop a loose strand around the end of my braid and secure my work in place, a new kind of heat rises to my cheeks. A mixture of frustration and exhaustion overtake me as I shoot him one of my best angry looks.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I snap. Now that my hair is secure, I have nothing else to distract me from his presence. I toss my braid over my shoulder and turn to face him. I’m really over being called a little girl and being treated like I’m going to break at any moment.
“I know more about you than you know.” He takes another gulp and rests the half-empty bottle on his knee. I move my arms across my chest before correcting my position and place them on my hips. I refuse to wither under his criticism.
“Do enlighten me,” I say, trying for my best smirk. I have absolutely no practice at being snarky, so I’m sure the effect isn’t what I intend. He raises his brows.
“You’re sheltered. You know nothing about the way the world really works. You’ve never actually done anything worth mentioning, even though you think you have.” His words hit me straight in the gut. It doesn’t matter that he’s hit the nail on the head. It still feels like a dull butter knife is being shoved in between my ribs. I don’t want to be that girl anymore. I just don’t know how not to be.
With my fingers digging into my sides, I eye the whiskey bottle. It only takes a second for me to make my decision. Dropping my hands to my sides, I walk toward him slowly. He remains silent as I sit on the edge of the bed before him, our knees touching, and take the bottle from his grasp. I bring the bottle to my lips, close my eyes, and take a small sip. The burning tang of the alcohol is brutal going down. But I force it down anyway. Opening my eyes, I shake my head free of the buzzing that’s already begun.
“Again,” Ryan says. His voice is hard and commanding. I’m trying so hard to prove to him that I’m not a baby and that I can hold my own—maybe even that I can make it here with this leather-clad bunch of roughians. I close my eyes and toss back some more whiskey, barely keeping it from coming back up.
“Again.” And once more I follow his orders, but it’s the last time. I set the bottle down on my lap, barely keeping it in hand and use my other hand to keep myself from falling backward. It’s not my first time trying whiskey; it’s just the first time with cheap whiskey. I force myself to breathe steadily in order to control the impending nausea.
When I dare open my eyes, Ryan’s cold expression looks foreign. It’s like there’s a part of him that’s actively working on killing the part of him that can actually feel things.
“I may be a spoiled mob brat who’s never had the chance to do anything worth noting, but what the hell have you done?” As the words leave my lips, I start shaking with fear. I’ve never spoken to anyone but my brother like that before.
I’m rewarded for my boldness with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Leaning forward in the chair, he places his left elbow on his knee and grabs the bottle of whiskey with the other hand. He’s so close now, he has to angle the bottle to the side to avoid hitting my face. My breathing becomes ragged as I imagine what it would be like to have those lips on mine. He lowers the bottle, but says nothing. I won’t be getting an answer, so I try another question.
“What’s with the nickname?”
“Everybody’s got ‘em,” he says without elaborating.
“And they have meaning, right? So why Trigger?”
“I was fourteen the first time I shot a gun,” he begins. Both of his elbows now rest on his knees with the bottle hanging from his right hand. Feeling a little more stabilized and brave from the liquor, I take the bottle back and down some more. The more I drink this crap the less it stings going down, so I try for another two gulps before I decide that drinking myself stupid is probably not the best idea.
“Okay,” I say, encouraging him to keep talking.
“I accidentally shot Rage in the foot.”
Unable to control myself, I bark out laugh that dissolves into a fit of giggles.
“He said I shot before I was supposed to.”
I peek up at him through my lashes, still shaking with laughter. “Is that a problem for you, shooting early?”