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“If we’re done swooning over my girl, can one of you blokes make up a pitcher of margaritas for her?” I ask with my attention primarily on Liam and Finn, who know their way around behind the bar. “I’d prefer not so much tequila that she’s fecked after one glass, either.”
“So, Kiska?” Liam asks, slicing limes.
“We made a stop to let them know we aren’t exactly receptive to the message they were trying to send.” Declan continues to twirl his glass between his cut and bruised hands as he begins to give details of our delay.
“It just so happens that the guys from last night, the ones that hurt Quinn, were there,” I share.
Conor grabs a glass, pours it full of whiskey, and offers it to me. “Well, that fucking explains your appearance when you got back.”
Turning to the others, he says, “Head to fucking toe in blood.”
“The two dead guys at the club and the one from Layla’s apartment should send a pretty strong message of our own,” I add.
There’s a knock at the door, and Layla walks from the hallway leading to the club, “I’ve got it,” Layla chimes.
“Don’t,” I bark as Liam wraps his fingers around the shotgun behind the bar.
“What?!” she exclaims and pulls the door open. “It’s just Jorge.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
LAYLA
“It’s just Jorge,” he mocks as I let him in. “Isn’t that a fucking greeting?”
Stretching onto my toes, I wrap my arms around his neck and give him a tight hug. This has been the longest I’ve gone without seeing him in years. “Sulk and I won’t introduce you to all of his brothers,” I whisper as he squeezes me back.
“Don’t play with me.” He grips me a little tighter, lifts me from my feet, and carries me inside.
“Guys, this is Jorge.” I slip my arm into the crook of his and pull him toward the buffet of men he has so eagerly been waiting to meet. “Jorge, this is Liam, Connor, Declan, Finnigan?—”
“Finn,” he sternly corrects me. “Even if she refuses and continues to call me Finnigan, it’s Finn.”
“And Tristan.” I slip my arm from Jorge’s and into Tristan’s.
The door to the lounge pulls open, and Tristan quickly wraps his arm around my waist and yanks me tightly to him. A young guy with a couple of plastic bags crosses through the threshold, and Tristan softens his near-painful hold.
Conor grabs the food from the delivery guy and locks the door when he leaves. I climb onto the barstool beside Tristan as he exchanges pleasantries with Jorge.
“You two enjoy your lunch.” Tristan rubs his hand over my back as his brothers disappear into the club. “And go easy on the margaritas.”
I nod in agreement, and he murmurs, “Good girl,” before leaving us to the buffet of Mexican food he ordered.
“Good girl?” Jorge prompts.
“Don’t knock it.” I pour us both a margarita. “At least not until you’ve had some guy whisper in your ear what a good little boy you are as he makes you come.”
“I want that.” Jorge playfully pouts.
“Exactly.” I dive into the chips and salsa.
“How in all of our conversations did you not tell me you are literally sitting on a harem of GQ men?” He pauses to take a drink. “Are all of them…” He begins to measure imaginary dicks with his hands.
“I don’t know.” I slap his arm. “It’s not like I’m fucking all of them.”
“So you aren’t totally God’s favorite then?” he chuckles.
After giving me shit and gushing over Tristan’s brothers for a bit, I break the news to Jorge. “I’m moving into his place.”
