Oh wow.

“Okay. Who is Isaiah?” I asked, determining that was the most important thing. “And why is the word shit included with his name a lot?”

Reece’s lips formed a half smile. “He’s a bit of a problem around here. Usually runs in circles in Philly, but his stink has traveled far and wide.”

“Drugs,” Jax added, voice low.

I thought about the heroin. Oh shit.

“I’ll have some boys pay him a visit,” Reece said, turning his gaze to Jax. “Make sure he understands that Mona is not Calla’s problem.”

“I’d appreciate that,” he replied, relaxing a fraction of an inch.

So did I. “Thanks . . . I think.”

Reece chuckled.

Raising an arm, Jax rubbed his fingers through his messy hair. “Roxy, you good closing the bar down tonight?”

She nodded. “Sure.”

“I’m going to be here,” I tossed at him, but Jax shook his head. “What? I’ve got hours left on my shift.”

“Not anymore.” He took my hand and started walking, leaving me no option but to follow. On the way across the bar, he grabbed a bottle of brown liquor. “We’re going to scratch out one of those ‘never done before’ things tonight.”

“What?” I shrieked.

Roxy’s grin spread into a full smile. “Right on.”

Twelve

One would think that Isaiah, who may or may not be a drug kingpin, sending his minions to the bar would be the most pressing problem at hand, but because I specialized in dumb, it wasn’t.

Standing in the kitchen of the house, my gaze shifted from the bottle of José and the two shot glasses Jax had also taken from the bar, to the current huge pain in my ass.

Half of his full lips were tilted up in a lazy grin that matched the lazy look to his brown eyes. He was leaning against the counter, well-defined arms folded across his chest.

An attractive pain in my ass, but still, a pain in my ass.

“No.” I said again, for probably the tenth time. We’d been back at the house for about forty minutes, and every minute had been spent with him telling me to take a shot and me telling him various reasons as to why I couldn’t.

Not once did he lose his patience.

Not once did he get angry.

Not once did he make fun of me for not wanting to drink.

Not once did I not have to stop myself from telling him the truth to why I didn’t drink.

I was running out of excuses, and my gaze shifted back to the full shot glasses. I swallowed, frustrated and . . . just really frustrated. It wasn’t like I never wanted to drink. I wanted to. I wanted to experience what everyone and their mother apparently liked to indulge in. Being drunk was a great unknown to me.

A lot of things were the great unknown to me.

I wanted to throw myself on the floor and roll around like a toddler, like my brother used—I cut that thought off, shaking my head.