When I make my way back to our table, Blaire isn't there.
The club is packed — bodies between the bars and the dance floor, noise everywhere. I lean over the railing and scan the room below until I find her at the downstairs bar. There's a man leaning into her ear saying something that makes her laugh, and his hand is resting on her hip like it belongs there.
"The fuck?"
The rational side of my brain saystake a seat, wait for her to come back upstairs; she's a grown woman, and this is a public place, and none of this is real, anyway.
The other side — the side that apparently had a jealous bomb detonated in it somewhere between the car and the men's room — saysfuck that. She's mine tonight and he's touching what's mine, which is completely irrational and I am fully aware of that, and my body has already made the decision for me because in seconds, I've made my way downstairs and across the floor to the bar.
Blaire's back is to me, but that motherfucker with his hand on her hip sees me coming. Sees that I have at least fifty pounds and six inches on him. Sees whatever it is in my expression that must communicate exactly how willing I am to use every bit of that advantage, because he backs away with both hands raised before I've said a word.
Looking confused at his sudden retreat, Blaire turns and sees me walking up. She doesn't even have the decency to look guilty. Like she isn't here with me, like some man's hand wasn't just on her hip not five minutes after we walked through the door.
"What the fuck were you doing?" I lean into her ear, keeping my voice low enough for the noise of the club to swallow it, and guide her by the elbow back toward the stairs. She snatches her arm away immediately and starts walking ahead of me, chin up, shoulders back — but instead of heading to our table, she veers toward the ladies' room.
As if I won't follow her in there.
Which is exactly what I do.
"What the hell?" She spins around the moment the door swings shut behind me, two women at the mirror doing a double take and deciding very quickly to finish up and leave. "You cannot be in here, Bennet. What is your problem?"
She crosses her arms over her chest, which does things to the neckline of that dress that I am choosing not to acknowledge.
"You're my problem. What were you doing letting that man put his hands on you?"
"That's your problem?" Her eyes go wide. "Wow. You can fuck completely off with that."
She moves to walk past me, and I step into her path, backing her gently but firmly against the wall. Not touching her. Just close enough that she has nowhere to go.
"Why were you letting him touch you?"
Stand down. Abort mission. What are you doing?
The blush starts at her chest, creeps up her neck, and floods her cheeks. Her breathing has shifted. Her nipples are visible against the silk of her dress, and I am having an extremely difficult time locating the part of my brain responsible for rational thought.
"I know him from Houston." Her voice is even despite the blush, which is impressive and irritating in equal measure. "His name is James. He's here on vacation with hishusband. He's gay, Bennet. I wasn't flirting. I wouldn't blow the story like that and cause you or me more problems."
Right.
The story.
The fake girlfriend story that I agreed to and apparently forgot entirely the moment I saw another man's hand on her hip.
I step back and put distance between us. The air comes back into the room, and I become aware that we have an audience — three women who have been watching this entire interaction like dinner theater.
"I'll meet you at the table," I say, and walk out before I do something else that I can't explain.
The door swings shut behind me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
***
"Oh my GOD, I love this song!" Blaire grabs the railing and starts whipping her hair back and forth, watching the dance floor below with the unguarded enthusiasm of someone who has stopped performing for anyone.
I've done a decent job of keeping my distance since the bathroom incident a couple of hours ago. Decent being relative. I've been nursing the same glass of whiskey for the better part of an hour, watching her from the edge of the VIP couch like a man trying to talk himself off a ledge.
Blaire is on her third or fourth Long Island and just as many shots, and the professional composure she walked in with has been progressively replaced.
