Rev by Jeanne St. James

Chapter Six

After splashingwater on her face, running a brush through her snarled hair, and tugging a few strands forward to cover the scar along her temple, she glanced down at what she was wearing. Without a bra, her breasts hung a little lower but they were still damn perky for their size. Her nipples were punching through the thin, silky royal blue fabric, but it wasn’t like Rev hadn’t seen nipples before.

He’d seen plenty. He just hadn’t seen hers yet.

Yet, being the key point.

She went back to the doors connecting their rooms, opened hers and saw his was still closed. She put her ear against it to hear voices and music droning on his side.

Instead of knocking, she tried the little knob and blinked in surprised when it turned easily within her fingers.

He’d unlocked his, but he hadn’t opened hers? Had he checked on her while she was sleeping?

Huh.

Or maybe he had come in with the intent to ravish her, found her asleep and decided otherwise. Damn. Did she cock-block herself? That would be her luck.

She nudged the door open and tentatively peeked into his room. It was dark except for the ebb and flow of colorful light and shadows caused by the television.

She immediately glanced at the bed. He was sitting up against the headboard with a half-empty whiskey bottle in his hand.

Damn. He’d hit that hard. How he was still sitting upright, she had no idea. The room also smelled like pot. She hadn’t checked to see if their rooms allowed smoking or not. Most likely not. Not that Rev would give a shit.

But it wasn’t only the amount of liquor and the lingering smell of quality bud that caught her attention, it was the fact he wore nothing but jeans.

His denim-clad legs were stretched out with the ankles crossed and his feet bare. The waistband of his jeans was unbuttoned right at the bottom of a dark blond happy trail—she would have to inspect it closer to make sure she wasn’t seeing things in the funky light. That meant he was completely shirtless.

The light of the TV flickered off something reflective on his chest.

Something reflective on his chest.

Much smaller barbells than what were in his ears divided each nipple.

Holy shit.

Holy… fucking… shit.

He had pierced nipples just like Deacon. Not that she ever saw Deacon’s—she hadn’t—but she knew he had them because Reese had mentioned it a couple of times. And it wasn’t a secret.

No one ever mentioned Rev’s. And if they had, that information had never been spilled around her. This was important information she should’ve known! Who the hell was holding out?

Because… Daaaaamn.

Even in the uneven light of the TV, she could see his upper chest was covered with a huge tattoo, too, that blended into both inked sleeves covering his arms. Of course, she’d seen him wear short-sleeved shirts plenty of times, but she wasn’t kidding when she said she’d seen his ass and cock more times than his torso. Which was a big, fat zero.

“Problem, buttercup?”

Yes! He had been hiding some very important information. “I don’t get the whole buttercup thing.”

“Not for you to get.” His voice was low, slow and held a touch of a slur. The whiskey and pot must be doing their job.

“I’d have to argue that point since you’re calling me by that name.”

“Ain’t a bad name. Fits you.” Oh yeah, his words were a bit fuzzy around the edges. She bet his vision was, too.

“It does?” She didn’t think so.

She stepped farther into his room as he lifted the bottle to his lips and she focused on his Adam’s apple smoothly sliding up and down as he took a long swig of whiskey.

“I have so many questions,” came out on a breath.

“Nothin’ new.” She waited for a drunken hiccup to be the exclamation point on that statement.

It didn’t come.

“Did you check on me?”

He swiped his hand over his mouth before answering. “Yeah. You were droolin’ and snorin’.”

She gasped. “I was not!”

“The fuck you weren’t, buttercup.” The alcohol in his system made the word butter sound like budder.

“I was exhausted,” seemed like a valid excuse.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

“I won’t be able to sleep now.” Especially, now that I want to touch those nipple piercings!

“So, don’t.” He lifted the bottle in her direction. An offering.

She’d like to think it was more than just an offer to get drunk with him but a peace offering of sorts.

She wrinkled her nose and glanced around the room. She spotted an unopened bottle and one of those flimsy plastic cups sealed in plastic provided by the motel. She rushed back to her room to grab the soda and returned before he could close the connecting door and lock her out.

He was up and out of the bed in an instant and pushing her away from the tiny counter where she planned on mixing her drink. She wasn’t going to fist a bottle like he did. Plus, she preferred to keep the lining of her stomach intact. Drinking whiskey straight from the bottle tended to make her insides burn. A lot. She didn’t care if she seemed like a wimp and needed to mix it with soda.

She stopped him from pouring the whiskey from his bottle and handed him one still sealed.

His lips might have actually twitched the slightest bit. That was a good sign that he wasn’t so angry anymore. “Afraid of a little backwash?” he murmured close to her ear, causing her to shiver and her nipples to peak painfully.

His own nipples were now right within reach. Her fingers wrapped tighter around the six-pack of soda to avoid reaching out and giving them a twist. “I have a feeling there’s more than a little in that bottle.”

“No worse than swallowin’ a man’s cum. You done that, right?”

She took a step back and stared at him. “Is that a way of asking me if I spit or swallow?”

He turned away from her and unwrapped the plastic cup, poured it half full of whiskey from the fresh bottle, cracked open a soda and finished filling it to the brim.

He stuck his finger into the drink and swirled it around, then inserted that finger between his lips and sucked it clean.

Holy shit.

Her nipples were not only aching now, but her breasts suddenly became a lot fuller.

He handed her the overfull cup and she was careful not to squeeze the easily crushable plastic too tightly. She hissed at the strength of the drink after taking a sip.

Turning toward her, his eyes took a slow stroll over her from top to toe.

Well now, add a pussy twinge to the reaction of her breasts. Especially after he topped that heated look with a lick of his lips.

What the fuck? Was he trying to make her self-combust right there in a motel in Coatesville, Pennsylvania?

Her heart skipped a beat when he suddenly moved. Not toward her like she hoped. He went directly to where his backpack sat on the floor, dug inside it and pulled out a T-shirt. He threw it at her.

She caught it but not without spilling a little of her drink on her hand. She licked the drops of Jack and Coke off her skin and when she looked up, he was watching her way too intently.

Well, that caused another intense pussy clench. Damn it.

“You gonna be in here, put that on.”

She glanced down at the shirt in her hand. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“My trip. My rules.”

She was about to shove that response down his damn throat.

She took another sip of her drink to prevent it from spilling again, put it down and tugged his shirt over her head. The worn, soft cotton fell just past her crotch and smelled like Rev. She resisted fisting the fabric, pressing it to her nose and inhaling. She might sneak a sniff when he wasn’t watching.

As he moved around the small room back to his side of the bed, her eyes were glued to the flex of his back muscles under the club’s colors inked onto his back.

It was rare she saw any of the Fury members without shirts. Occasionally she would on the farm when the weather was warm, either around the bunkhouse or during one of the parties. She knew most of them, if not all, had shown their dedication and loyalty to Trip and the club by having the rockers and insignia permanently tattooed onto their back, so it didn’t surprise her that Rev had it done, too.

She took another long sip of her Jack and Coke and watched his perfection climb back onto his side of the bed and get comfortable. He paused while lifting the whiskey bottle to his lips and jerked his head toward the other side of the bed.

She smothered the hiss that would’ve relieved some of the heat starting to gather in her center. He wanted her to climb into bed with him and just chill?

Okay, then. She put her drink down and did so until their shoulders were close but not touching.

He tossed the remote onto the bed between them. “Change it if you want.”

She glanced at the TV, then him. “Does the TV have Netflix?” She rolled her lips under.

He snorted and took a long pull on the bottle, then twisted his head to face her. His normally vivid blue eyes were now glassy and bloodshot between the mix of booze, dope and most likely mental exhaustion.

“Why? Wanna Netflix and chill? Think that’s smart? Got enough fuckin’ problems right now without addin’ fuckin’ you into the mix.”

“I’m not a problem.”

He threw his head back and laughed so loudly, she winced. When he was done, she was good and annoyed.

“Fuckin’ you would be a problem, buddercup,” he said seriously.

“You might have a problem fucking anyone tonight with the amount you’re drinking.” She leaned toward him and glanced at the open tin on the nightstand. “And also with whatever you smoked. Little Rev might not be revving to go after all that.”

He grabbed his crotch over his jeans and shook it. “Got no problem gettin’ it up.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen you hard plenty of times. But not after putting away so much whiskey. Did you do anything else?”

One of his eyebrows lifted but it listed like it was drunk, too. “Whadya mean?”

“Like any hard shit. The shit Trip doesn’t like to see around the farm.”

He shook his crotch again. “Got somethin’ hard.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. And don’t offer something you aren’t willing to give. That’s just being a tease. Now light one of those fatties and puff, puff, pass.”

He grinned at her, shook his head and put the bottle down to remove an already rolled joint from the Altoids tin he carried. Most of the guys carried some kind of small container for their dope unless they preferred to smoke a pot pipe. But the guys who smoked tobacco found it more convenient to carry both types of hand-rolleds in a tin.

He lit a joint, took two puffs and passed it over to her.

“We probably shouldn’t be smoking in here,” she murmured.

“Shouldn’t be in my bed, either.”

“You or me?”

“Both. Same bed. You wearin’ that shit. Temptin’ me.”

“I’m wearing your shirt.”

“Meant what you got on under that.”

“PJs.”

“That ain’t no PJs. That shit’s whack-off material.”

His speech was getting thicker and his S’s were getting drawn out. Soon they’d turn to Sh’s and spit might accompany them.

Say it, don’t spray it.

She snorted and took another long hit off the joint before passing it back to him.

“Whasho funny, buddercup?”

Bingo.

Watching the Fury members get totally smashed during pig roasts was entertaining. Usually, the sisterhood got a little tipsy, too. However, they had more fun sitting around watching the guys party. Then they’d round up their ol’ men, drag them home and put them to bed.

Unfortunately, Reilly always went to bed alone. The club’s “do not touch” rule extended to even the damn hang-arounds. And it wasn’t like Manning Grove had a hopping singles scene. In fact, it had a completely dead dating scene. Unless you liked rednecks who still lived in their momma’s basements, or married men.

Occasionally a cute tourist would come into town. But it was hard to tell who was truly single and who was lying about it.

She was lucky to find that one guy she humped in the back of his car behind Crazy Pete’s. Maybe not so lucky, since he sucked at it.

Being a part of the club had both its positives and negatives. The biggest negative being that her sex life was pretty much non-existent due to being “property” of the club.

Maybe she needed to set up an online dating profile and do some distance dating. After Billy Warren tried to put her six-feet-under—twice—she was in no rush to get back into the dating scene. It wasn’t like dating and sex always went hand in hand. Sometimes a woman wanted a good sweaty sex session without any bullshit afterward. The same reason the guys used the sweet butts.

They got their rocks off and didn’t have to worry about being tied down. At least when they weren’t hooking up with Billie—the sweet butt Billie, not her burnt-to-a-crisp ex—then they got tied down, tied up and wrung out. She had seen a few of the guys have trouble walking after a night with that sadist.

She glanced over at Rev and let her gaze slide down to his nipple piercings. She pursed her lips, wondering what damage Billie could do with those.

Rev was staring straight ahead, not concentrating on the TV, not concentrating on anything. Probably deep in his head. Maybe even reliving what happened earlier at his parents’ house. Possibly even reliving his youth.

She glanced at the lit joint in her fingers and took another small hit before once again offering it to him. She nudged his arm with hers. “Here.”

His eyes did a slow roll down to her hand and he took the joint, took another hit then pinched out the end.

“You look thoroughly baked,” she told him. His face was relaxed, his body appeared boneless and his eyes unfocused.

“Feel baked,” was his delayed response.

She smiled. She was not into guys who liked to get falling down, sloppy drunk or who turned into abusive monsters, like Billy Warren had. But Rev was pretty chill when he drank. She also understood his need to calm the turmoil deep inside him.

She wanted to ask him about the cause of that turmoil, but tonight was not the night. She had a feeling they’d be in town at least a few more days. Especially if he kept to his word about wanting to be at his father’s side when he passed.

She didn’t understand it but it wasn’t for her to understand. They had both had shitty parents. It was true, having shitty parents deeply affected their lives. But how they dealt with it might not be the same.

She assumed he had just forgotten them, put that life behind him, just like she had hers, until he got that damn phone call. If she had only known, she would’ve thrown the message away and spared him all of this.

She grabbed her drink off the nightstand next to her. “Rev?”

“Yeah?”

“For tonight, let’s just say ‘fuck the rules.’” She lifted her plastic cup between them and tapped it lightly against the bottle he was drinking from.

She took a long swig of her Jack and Coke and smiled. No, that wasn’t quite right. She took a long swig, hiccuped when the strong whiskey hit her gut, then smiled.

“Yeah, buddercup, lesh juss get fucked up in… shtead.”

He was already standing on that precipice. It wouldn’t take much more for him to tumble head first to the bottom. But she’d stick around and help cushion that fall for as long as he needed her. Whether he’d admit he needed her or not.

During that time, if he wanted to talk about anything, she’d be there to listen.

The guys complained she talked too much but she was pretty damn good at listening, too.

They’d taken her in like she was family. Well, after some strong-arming on her part. But even before she was deeply entrenched in the club, whenever she needed help, they stepped in. Like when it came to the whole dangerous mess with Billy Warren.

So, it was only right she help Rev, or any of them, when they needed it.

Rev being shit-faced after dealing with his family was proof this was the time he needed that help the most.