Rogue Devil (The Rourkes #11) - Kylie Gilmore Page 0,14

As in slam, bam, thank you, ma’am? Not a compliment to you that you’re an early finisher.”

I straighten at the insult. “I’m not, trust me. Anyway, what’s up?”

“Sara forced me out of my room.”

“Did she drag you over by the hair?”

“She’s very persistent.”

“Okay, well, you’re here. So are ya into poker?”

“Not really. I can play. Sara’s awesome at it and we’ve played together lots of times. I just don’t find it fun.”

“Slots? There’s roulette downstairs, craps, and—”

“I know, Brendan. I’ve been here many times.”

I cock my head. “Right. So what do you like to do?”

“Mostly I hang here long enough to get Sara off my back and then go back to my room to study.”

“Is that really what you want to do?” I lift my palms. “I mean, you’ve got a charming friend ready and willing to play with you.”

She giggles and slaps a hand over her mouth again.

I pull her hand down. “Why do you hide a laugh, party girl?”

“I surprised myself with it. You’re funny.”

My chest puffs out. “Yeah, I know. So…what’ll it be?”

She puts her hands on her hips, drops them, and then crosses her arms. “I don’t know.”

She looks so uncomfortable in the noisy space it occurs to me that someone who spends most of their time studying is used to library quiet. She’d never have survived growing up in the Rourke household—six rambunctious boys in a three-bedroom rowhouse. Luckily, my parents finished the basement into a rec room/extra bedroom to give us more room to spread out.

“You wanna go somewhere quieter?” I ask.

Her green eyes light up. “Yes.”

“Let’s go downstairs to the bar. It’s not crowded. Adrian says more people visit the casino over New Year’s Eve than Christmas. You could get something nonalcoholic.”

“Sure, okay.”

I lead the way. “Was it pretty quiet growing up with just one sister? I ask because I have five brothers and it was never, ever quiet.”

“Actually, yes, but also because my parents died when I was six. I don’t remember much of the time when it was the four of us.”

No wonder she’s so serious. Six is really young to lose your parents. “That must’ve been tough.”

She walks a little faster. “Yeah. After that we lived with my uncle in Brooklyn, but then when I was nine, he left to make it big in Nashville as a country singer, so it’s just been me and Sara ever since. She’s seven years older and worked a lot to support us. Anyway, that’s why I’m used to a lot of quiet time alone.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a painful subject.”

She shrugs. “It’s my life. No sense trying to rewrite history and wish for something different. I just had to make the best with what I was given.”

True. I just feel so bad for her. No wonder Sara fusses over her. She practically raised her like a single mom. I feel bad for Sara too. The two of them got a bum deal.

“Let’s talk about something else,” she says as the bar comes into view. “Your family is very noisy. The Brooklyn Rourkes and the Villroy Rourkes. Is that genetic, or do you think it’s a matter of survival, trying to be heard over the crowd so you get your fair share of resources?”

I bark out a laugh just as we enter the bar area. It’s past nine p.m. and the place is practically empty, like I predicted, just the bartender and two young guys at the end of the bar. The guys check Chloe out, take in my glare, and go back to the boxing match on TV.

“Genetic,” I say in answer to her noisy Rourke question. “But you snooze, you lose on food resources. The moment a tub of ice cream entered the house, it was gone within five minutes.” I take a seat at the bar and she takes the one next to me. “I never felt like I had to fight to get anything else. I got my parents’ fair share of attention easily just by being myself. They called me a mischievous little devil.” I wink at her.

She gives me side-eye. “I could see that about you.”

I grin and pound my chest with a fist. “Yup.”

“What can I get you?” the bartender, an older man with thinning brown hair, asks.

I glance over at the selections on tap and order a Belgian ale.

“Do you have anything fruity?” Chloe asks.

“Sure do.” The bartender hands her a drink menu.

I lean over to read it with her. There’s a