Because something always happens when Ingrid gets like this.
Some guy who thinks she's easy because she acts like she doesn't care.
Some situation that spirals because she's too drunk to see danger coming.
I've pulled her out of three bad situations in the last six months alone.
Each time she thanked me, then went right back to the same self-destructive bullshit.
Each time I told myself to stop caring, stop watching, stop waiting for her to see me as anything but the friend who shows up when she's spiraling.
But here I am.
Again.
Always.
The ride downtown is a blur of highway lights and humid darkness.
I take the exit for Tallahassee, navigate the grid of streets until I find Riverside Tavern wedged between a pawn shop and a tattoo parlor.
Civilian bar, but not a dive.
Music thumps through the walls, bass rattling the windows.
Friday night crowds spilling onto the sidewalk, smoking and laughing and living their normal lives.
I park the bike and kill the engine.
Through the front window I can see her.
Red hair like a beacon in the crowd, impossible to miss.
She's at the bar with her friends, another drink in her hand, and she's leaning into some guy in a polo shirt who looks likehe's never seen the inside of a gym but thinks his dad's money makes him tough.
His hand is on her lower back.
She's not pulling away.
Something dark and possessive twists in my chest.
Mine.
The thought comes unbidden and unwelcome.
She's not mine.
She's never been mine.
But watching another man touch her makes me want to break things.
I push through the door.
The bar is loud, crowded, reeking of cheap beer and cheaper cologne.
I cut through the crowd like a knife, ignoring the looks, the double-takes, the way people step aside when they see the cut.
Ingrid doesn't notice me until I'm right behind her.
