“So we're getting drunk,” she mutters, lifting the glass to her mouth. Her nose wrinkles, lips pursing as she swallows. A small shudder ripples through her.
My chest warms, mouth curving upward before I can stop it.
Bishop's hand shoots between us, fingers closing around the bottom of her glass. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” he growls. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it.” He downs the whiskey in one fluid motion, throat working once.
Bellamy freezes.
Her gaze locks on the smudge of pink lipstick now pressed against Bishop's mouth. “My mouth was on that.”
I lean in close enough to feel her warmth. “Very astute, baby.”
She blinks slowly, shoulders dropping an inch. “Your brother, who actively hates me, just willingly put his mouth where mine was.” She pivots toward him, spine straightening until she's at her full height, arms locked across her chest. “I'm not kissing you, Bishop.”
Bishop's eyebrows shoot up. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Something bubbles up from my chest—a sound I barely recognize as my own. My brother's face freezes in that half-second of genuine bewilderment, like someone just rewrote the laws of physics in front of him.
Bishop—the man who keeps a gun in the bathroom tank, who memorizes exit routes before sitting down to dinner, who sleeps with one eye cracked open—stands there with his mouth hanging open like he's forgotten how to use it.
My boot finds his stool leg with a sharp crack that makes the couple at the next table jump. Bishop's eyes snap to mine, that familiar muscle twitching at his jaw. “Something you want to share with the class, brother?”
The mask slides back into place—jaw unclenched, eyes half-lidded. He leans back, one finger tracing the rim of his empty glass, gaze sliding to Bellamy like she's a particularly uninteresting wall fixture. “In your dreams, Hale.”
Bellamy's fingernail taps against the wooden tabletop, three precise clicks. She props her chin on her palm, lipstick smudged at one corner, eyes glittering with something dangerous. “Funny. Didn’t you once say?—”
My brother's arm shoots across the table, palm clamping over her mouth mid-sentence. “Stop talking, Hale,” he says, leaning so close I can see the muscle twitching beneath his left eye. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”
Her nostrils flare. Something dangerous flickers behind her eyes—a match struck in a dark room. She wrenches his hand away, leaving a smudge of pink lipstick across his palm. The wooden stool scrapes against the floor as she stands. She turns to me, bending until her lips brush the shell of my ear. Her breath comes hot and quick, carrying the sweet burn of whiskey. “I'm getting a snack,” she whispers, fingers digging into my shoulder. “If I don't walk away right now, I'm going to break something he needs.”
My jeans suddenly feel too tight. I shift in my seat, grateful for the dim lighting.
My eyes follow her between the tables, tracking the sway of her dress against the backs of chairs. A thick-fingered hand shoots out from a corner table—latches around her waist. Her spine goes rigid as the man's other hand slides lower, his wedding ring catching the light as he yanks her sideways onto his thighs. Her mouth parts in surprise.
The room blurs. I don’t remember deciding to move. One second I’m sitting, and the next, my brother is wrestling me outside.
“She's fine, man. Chill the fuck out,” he grunts, the tendons in his neck straining as he shoves me against the brick outside.
My hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles crack. “That piece of shit touched her.”
Bishop's forearm presses harder against my chest, pinning me to the brick wall. “She cracked him across the face.”
“Then where the hell is?—”
The door swings open. Bellamy steps out, chin high, shoulders squared. Her lipstick is perfect again, but her eyes—Christ, her eyes are winter-gray and arctic. The muscle in her jaw ticks once, twice. My own rage ebbs like a tide pulling back from the shore.
I exhale. Bishop's arm drops away.
She walks right up to me.
“You okay, baby?” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She lifts one shoulder, lets it fall. “Yeah. I'm alright.” Her fingers pinch at the fabric where that bastard touched her. “Might have to burn this dress now.”
“I'll buy you a new one.” I curve my arm around her shoulders, drawing her against me. Her arms slide around my waist, head finding the hollow beneath my collarbone like it was carved for her. Something clicks into place—a lock finding its key after years of jamming the wrong metal into the wrong slot.
“Let's eat,” she murmurs against my shirt. “That whiskey went to my head.”
“Go grab us a table. I’ll be right behind you.”
