I suck in my cheek and give a little nod behind me. “Jeremy’s a good guy.”

Will frowns, and I give him a tight smile.

Not waiting for a response, I pull out my smokes, slapping the pack against my palm. “Later, man.”

Walking away, I nearly miss his parting whisper. “Later.”

I can’t decide if my cousin is some kind of evil genius, or if she really is the worst bartender on Earth. It’s pushing midnight on a Saturday, and we’re already locking the doors because some people—and by some people, I mean everyone—can’t hold their liquor tonight.

Yet, we’ve made more than what we normally would on nights we aren’t playing, all thanks to Ivy’s Kool-Aid of Death.

I’d have hugged her if I didn’t think it’d earn me a punch to the solar plexus.

“You sure you don’t wanna move him to the couch?” Mason asks from the doorway as I ease Will’s dead weight to the floor. He tosses Shawn a pillow.

We’re in my en-suite bathroom. Will’s curled up on the tile next to the toilet, out cold.

I help Shawn tuck the pillow under Will’s floppy head. “No point. He’d probably puke just as soon as we moved him.”

“True.”

“It’s fine. Let Jeremy have the couch when he’s done throwing his guts up. Will can just crash here,” I say, using the edge of the sink to stand up. Flushing the toilet, I grimace at the splatter of blue spinning down the drain. “He’ll probably regret it come morning, but that’s what he gets for giving into Ivy.”

“Nice change of pace for you, huh?” Mason says dryly.

I flip him off. “Funny.”

The two of them exchange a look I can’t decipher.

“Look, I kind of owe him one,” I tell them, worried they might be reading more into this than there is. “It’s really no sweat.”

Not that there really is more. It’s not like Will and I are going to be getting down and dirty while he’s heaving his guts up into a toilet.

Or ever.

You sure about that?

I shove away the thought.

But the truth is, the longer Shawn and Mason linger, the less I trust myself not to give...something away, somehow. And the less I trust Will to stay unconscious. Who the fuck knows what will come out of Drunk Will’s mouth? The guy’s barely got a filter as it is.

“You sure? We can take shifts or something,” Mason offers.

“He’s drunk, not dying,” Shawn says.

Mason rolls his eyes.

“He’ll be fine,” I say, pushing them toward the bedroom. “We’ve all been where he’s at, and we’ve all survived to drink another day.”