I dropped my hand to the small of her back and steered us into a darker room. It was the same as when I’d been here years ago. The bar was tiny. Only two barstools sat empty in the corner.
Before I could stop myself, I had both hands on her waist and practically lifted her onto the stool. They had a mind of their own– my hands. Just like my cock.
I should have just cancelled.
“What do you want to drink?” I grumbled.
She grimaced a little. “Diet Coke? After last night I just can’t…” She laughed a little nervously. “Did you have a good day? What did you do today?”
Ah, the interview begins. I’d have thought a reporter would come up with better questions than those. Maybe she was just getting warmed up… lulling me into a sense of complacency. “Is that the best that you can do?”
“Excuse me?” Thick lashes blinked at me in confusion. She seemed so sincere. I clenched my jaw. I should just leave. Call an Uber for her and walk away.
The bartender caught my eye. “Diet Coke and a local IPA, if you have one.”
He nodded. I turned back to her. “Nothing.”
I wanted to see how far she’d go with this.
I twisted my mouth into something I hoped looked like a smile and answered her question. “Hell, what did I do? Jacked off in the shower… called my bookie to place a few bets, and then lit up a joint. So, I’m doing fine, just fine. What about you?”
Her expression immediately warned me that I’d gone too far. Daggers shot at me from sparkling eyes. Tears? Damn, she was good. Unless…
I hated when I doubted myself.
“I don’t know what kind of joke this is.” She shook her head and slid forward on the barstool. She wanted to get off but my legs, which were turned in her direction, blocked her affectively. “I thought you were a nice guy.” She turned her stool and slipped her legs passed mine. She covered her mouth with one hand to stifle what I could only guess was a sob.
I noticed that she’d painted her nails a soft pink. They’d been plain last night.
She slid off the stool but instead of landing softly and stomping away, she jerked, tried to grab a hold of something, and went sprawling onto the floor.
Fuck.
As pissed as I was, I never, never wanted to see her hurt.
I dropped to the floor beside her. God damn but I wanted nothing more than to comfort her. I didn’t’ care if she was a fucking reporter. I slipped one arm around her shoulders but she shrugged it off.
My sweet little Andretti was sprawled on the concrete floor looking all in. I’m an ass. A total ass. Even if she wasn’t who she said she was, she didn’t deserve this.
One of her shoes had somehow caught on the stool.
“I’m fine. Just leave me alone.” I wouldn’t blame her if she elbowed me in the gut. She squirmed onto her bottom and began trying to untangle her sandal from the stool. “Let go!” She muttered. The skirt of her dress rode up to the top of her thighs as she twisted and reached. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” She seemed to be talking more to herself than to me.
Feeling torn, I pushed her hands away and released the strap. I didn’t want her to leave but I did need to talk to her.
Which I should have done right off. As soon as I found out who she worked for.
“Fuck, Holly, I’m sorry.” I’d be lucky if she didn’t walk out on me though.
The bartender had come around from the other side of the bar and the other patrons were watching us curiously. “Is she okay?” Glancing at me like I was a total bastard, He squatted on her other side. “Are you all right sweetheart?”
“I’m fine.” She gave him a fake smile. “My shoe got caught.” Rather than make more of a scene, she allowed me to pull her to her feet this time.
“Don’t go,” I grumbled my plea by her ear. “Let’s talk.”
Her face had turned red. Shit. And her dress had a tear by the hem.
Blood oozed out where she’d scraped the skin off her knee.
