Page 132 of Resurgent

Hunter gives me a sharp, questioning look, but Matt’s already moving—pulling three glasses from the cupboard and dropping ice into two of them without saying a word.

Walking to the table, I pour Hunter a glass of the bourbon he loves, then cascade the tequila over ice for Matt and me.

I slide their drinks across the table, Matt giving me that knowing grin while Hunter's eyes never stop assessing.

As my fingers curl around my glass, they each lift theirs, but it's not the cup that meets my lips, it's the bottle.

Both of them go still as I tip it back, taking a long, slow pull straight from the neck. The tequila hits my tongue hard before burning it's way down my throat and settling in the best possible way.

By the time I lower it, both men are staring.

Wiping my chin with the back of my hand, I set the bottle down with a solid thunk, and finally feel the ghost of a smile tug at my lips.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “That helped. Now, what are we eating?"

"We've got burgers, mozzarella sticks, fried pickles, fries…" Hunter begins to list out, causing my stomach to grumble as my eyes shoot up to meet Matt's already too pleased with himself smile.

"You already planned on kidnapping me, didn't you?"

"Of course not," he tries to say innocently. "We were just really hungry and couldn't pick what we wanted to eat so we got it all."

"All of my favorite things to order there? And what's with the third burger?"

"Hunter's a hungry boy!" he laughs.

"Hunter?" I ask, at the same time he says, "Don't call me that."

"And since when do you two even hang out? You hate each other!"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, we've been dating since you were in a coma. I thought we were going to take things slow, but his need to put a label on it almost immediately really sucked me in," Matt jokes.

Hunter's eyes roll harder than I've ever seen them—an impressive feat considering how hard he is always rolling them at me.

"He came over just after you left for the bar, whining about not being invited. I've had to practically cuff him to the chair all night so he wouldn't go down and get you right then. He finally convinced me to let him go pickup dinner, but promised not to interrupt your night."

Matt's full, mischievous smile at Korr is unsettling.

Nope. It's not the smile.

Jumping up from my chair, I sprint to the closest bathroom, hand covering my mouth in hopes that'll keep the contents of my stomach from spraying around the room before I can reach the toilet.

The toilet seat is barely up before the first round of puke meets the toilet.

“Let it all out,” Hunter says, immediately behind me, gathering my hair in one hand and pulling it away from my face with surprising gentleness. “Your body’s coming down from a fight. This is a completely normal reaction.”

"I'm sure the tequila on an empty stomach didn't help either," Matt jokes, though the concern is clear in his voice.

"Out," Hunter commands.

I’m about to argue that if someone’s going to hold my hair while I violently empty my stomach, I’d much prefer it be Matt—

—but another brutal wave crashes through me, drowning out the sound of his retreating steps as my puke splashes in the bowl.

Unfortunately, it does not cover Hunter's gagging over my shoulder.

I pause mid-heave, blinking through watering eyes.

Another gag, then a muttered, “Gods, fuck…”