I nodded, then pushed my way through the crowd. “Where is she?”

“With Mia.” Sam glared up at me and jabbed her finger in my chest. “One thing first. I really need you to stop fucking with her, Jax. She hasn’t had a drink since I can’t even remember when, and after one conversation with you, the girl is three martinis down and sitting on the damn bar like she’s holding court.”

Shit. How bad was she?

“I had no clue Claire was going to show up like that, and when she did, Morgan wasn’t speaking to me. What did you want me to do? Write it in a note and slip it under the door?” I shot back.

“You could have hired a skywriter for all I care. I don’t give a shit how you relay the information, just that you do, because honestly, you’re not my priority—she is. You let her walk straight into another shitstorm you created, after I’d spent all damned week trying to clean up your last one.”

Sawyer slid to my side and grinned at Sam. “I think I’m in love. Did you hear the way she just ripped into Montgomery?” he asked Garrett.

“Yes, because we’re both standing right here, you moron.” Garrett shook his head.

Sam arched an eyebrow at Sawyer. “Let me guess. Cocky, good-looking, and hanging out with this guy…you’re another pilot, too, right?”

“Yep.” Sawyer’s grin got even bigger.

“And you?” She turned her gaze on Garrett.

“Rescue swimmer. Flying is for the boys too scared to get wet.”

“And you are?” Sawyer asked.

“Married,” she replied, flashing her ring. “Now if you’re done?”

“My bad.” Sawyer’s hands went up as the jukebox changed to “Sweet Home Alabama.”

A flash of red caught my eye, and I leaned around the corner enough to see Morgan swaying with Mia, sitting on the bar in the middle of a horde of guys.

I sucked in a breath. It was no wonder she was surrounded. Damn, she was gorgeous. Her sleeveless, red top was cut low and tied just above the waist of an impossibly short jean skirt. I wasn’t even sure I’d call the thing a skirt, honestly, since it revealed so much of those long legs. Her cowboy boots swung slightly as she sang along to Lynyrd Skynyrd, her arms loose in the air as she and Mia belted out the chorus.

She wasn’t drinking—she was drunk.

“She’s had three martinis?” I asked Sam as I planned my best route for attack.

“Yeah…” She cringed.

That was a good amount of alcohol, but it wouldn’t explain her sloppy motions as she brushed her hair out of her face.

I glanced from Sam to Morgan and back again before it hit me. “Oh fuck, is she on anti-anxiety meds?”