I didn’t say a word. I just walked up, placed my hand on his shoulder, and gave her a look that could have burned a hole through drywall. She went pale and vanished without protest.
He looked up, bleary-eyed, that crooked grin trying to save him. “Malibu,” he said, all slow vowels and whiskey breath. “You came.”
“Yeah,” I said, voice flat. “Guess I did.”
He tried to stand. His barstool wobbled. He caught himself on my arm, muttered something about driving, and I almost laughed. Almost. I hooked his arm over my shoulder and half dragged him toward the door, ignoring the bartender’s look.
Outside, the night air hit him, and the last bit of strength he had went out like a bad lightbulb. He slumped against me, heavy and useless.
Sally sat a few spaces away. Her custom leather interior that was cleaner than sin. My girl. My one constant. I stared at her and muttered, “If you throw up in my car, I might leave you on the side of the highway.”
He mumbled something unintelligible, leaning heavier into me. I caught a whiff of whiskey and cheap perfume. My stomach turned.
Then my gaze flicked to the trunk.
No.
Absolutely not.
I shouldn’t.
The bar door swung open. The bimbo from earlier leaned out, waving her phone like a drunk lighthouse keeper. “Call me!” she yelled, all fake giggles and audacity.
My jaw flexed. “Yeah,” I said under my breath. “Trunk it is.”
I popped the latch. The trunk opened with a satisfying click. I stepped aside and let gravity do its job. He slid right in, a deadweight tangle of limbs and regret. One solid thud. I didn’t even flinch.
“Stay,” I told him, like he was a misbehaving dog.
He made a noise—half protest, half snore. Good enough. I shut the trunk.
By the time the sky went from black to gray, I was sitting on my balcony with a mug of coffee. The world was quiet except for the sound of a far-off truck and the hum of my neighbor’s AC unit. From here, I could see Sally parked below. Pretty and patient as ever.
Headlights swung into the lot. Dalton’s truck. Right on time.
He climbed out, stretched, and started walking toward Sally. He slowed when he heard it. Thuds, muffled curses, a very familiar voice shouting something that sounded a lot like my name. Dalton froze. Looked up. I met his eyes over the balcony rail.
I didn’t say a word. Just picked up the keys from the table beside my coffee and pressed the button. The trunk popped open.
Jackson sat up like a devil resurrected, wild-eyed and furious. “What the hell—”
He stopped when he saw Dalton. When it dawned on him where he was and why. The fight drained out of him in one slow exhale.
Dalton blinked, rubbed a hand over his face. His voice carried up to me. “Dude, you’ve fucked up bad this time.” I didn’t hear Jackson’s muttered response but they both glanced up at me.
“Take him back to the clubhouse,” I said, standing and speaking loudly enough they could both hear me. “Keep him there until he sobers up. I don’t want to see him tonight.”
Dalton didn’t argue. He just nodded, grabbed Jackson by the shoulder, and steered him toward the truck. Jackson glanced back at me. I held my chin high, pretending he wasn’t wrecking me as I watched him walk away. I raised my mug in a mock toast and went inside before I could second-guess it.
The next time I walked into that bar, the air tasted like damp wood and bad decisions. The bartender recognized me by my posture, standing up too straight to look small. He opened his mouth to say whatever they said to women who come looking for their men. I set my palms on the bar and leaned in.
“If he comes in here again,” I said, “don’t serve him.”
“We can’t—”
“You can,” I said, and the calm in my voice surprised both of us. “You will. Tell your boss the same thing. Tell your night shift the Saints asked nicely.”
He stared at my face long enough to realize I wasn’t bluffing. The nod he gave me was quick.
