"Having fun?" I ask.
She spins, eyes wide, and for a second, she looks terrified.
Then recognition hits and her face shifts—annoyance, embarrassment, defiance all at once.
"Gunnar." She says my name like an accusation. "What are you doing here?"
"Saw your posts."
"So?"
"So you're drunk in a civilian bar posting your location for anyone to see."
"I'm fine."
"You're anything but fine, girl."
Polo Shirt steps closer, puffing up like he's suddenly ten feet tall. "She said she's fine, man."
I don't even look at him. "Ingrid. Let's go."
"I don't want to go."
"I don't care what you want. You're drunk, you're being stupid, and I'm taking you home."
"Who the fuck are you?" Polo Shirt demands.
This time, I do look at him.
He's maybe twenty-five, clean-cut, probably got a trust fund and a degree from FSU that daddy paid for.
The kind of guy who thinks he's dangerous because he can buy bottle service.
"I'm the guy telling you to walk away," I say quietly.
"She's with me."
"No." Ingrid's voice cuts through. "I'm not with him. I'm not with anyone."
"Then come with me," I tell her.
"Why? So you can lecture me? Tell me I'm being reckless?" Her words slur slightly. "Tell me I should make better choices?"
"No. So I can make sure you don't get hurt."
"Maybe I want to get hurt. Maybe that's the point."
Fuck.
Trisha appears at Ingrid's elbow, all bleached hair and too-tight dress. "Ingrid, who is this?"
"Nobody," Ingrid says.
The word lands like a punch.
"Nobody," I repeat.
"You know what I mean."
