Every time she laughs too loud or throws an arm around someone, I feel this weird heat climb up the back of my neck. The kind of heat that makes you clench your jaw and grind yourteeth, looking around the room for confirmation someone else sees this mess too.
But no. Everyone’s used to her.
Everyone except me.
I don't know what pisses me off more: the way she keeps violating my unspoken rules about cleanliness and public decency, or the way one look from her has my body forgetting I ever knew what self-control meant. Several times, I considered takingmyselfto the back and punching myself in the semi-hard dick.
I don’t want to think she’s hot. I don’t want to notice the way her dress clings to thick hips. Or how her smile lights up the room. Or how her laugh, even when it’s entirely too loud, somehow sticks to the inside of my ribs.
But I do. And I hate every inch of myself for it.
I’ve been keeping an eye on her all night. Not because I care, but because someone has to stop her from setting something on fire or offering JT a lap dance for the third time. Hex won’t say anything. JT thinks it’s hilarious. So it’s me, standing here in the back, arms crossed, stomach sour, watching her swirl another one of Sable’s mom’s mystery-colored cocktails she absolutely does not need.
Hex walks up beside me without warning. Doesn’t say anything right away, just leans on the wall and watches the madness unfold.
“Man,” he says eventually, “I need a favor.”
My head snaps toward him. “Absolutely not.”
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“I don’t need to. If it involves her”—I jerk my chin toward Demi, who’s currently trying to climb back onto her barstool with all the grace of someone mounting a horse after three margaritas—“it’s a no.”
Hex lifts a brow, the kind of slow, knowing arch that says he’s already won. “She needs a ride home.”
“Call her a fucking Uber.”
“She’s banned from the app.”
“Then call her a Lyft. Or a helicopter. Or a garbage truck. I’m not letting that woman into my car, Hex. She’ll leave fingerprints on the dash and glitter on the seats and probably touch things just to fucking piss me off.”
Hex doesn’t even bother arguing. He just gives me that slow, infuriating smirk that saysyou’re my best friend, and you’re gonna do this whether you like it or not.
“Take her home,” he says it so casually, as if he’s asking me to pick up milk instead of gamble my upholstery and mental stability in one go.
I stare at him. Hard. Then sigh with the solemn resolve of a man heading into something he knows won’t end well. “Fine.”
I round the bar, push through the crowd, and grab Demi by the waist, pulling her off the stool, before she can attempt another drunk gymnastics routine.
“Ooooh,” she purrs, swinging an arm around my neck like we’re lovers. “You finally giving in to your dark, twisted feelings for me?”
“I’m giving in to nothing except social obligation and mild peer pressure.”
“Mmm,” she says, pressing her body against mine far too eagerly. “Say it slower.”
“I will drop you.” I threaten.
“You’d better not. I’m not wearing underwear.”
I lift her up and toss her over my shoulder, making sure her skirt is covering her ass just in case she wasn’t lying. She squeals, laughing, legs kicking while I head for the back door.
“You’re officially kicked out again,” I grunt, gripping her tighter as she squirms.
Halfway across the room, she goes quiet. Too quiet.
Then she mutters, “I think I might puke.”
My entire body stiffens and through gritted teeth, I growl:
“You better fucking not.”
