"Cool. I told her to meet us here, and she can drive your G-Wagon home." He pockets his phone, satisfied with himself. "See? I care about people.”
"That's … great, Rook."
Spinner orders another round. Mayhem closes whatever he's reading and folds his hands on the table. I have another beer. This is a mistake. I know it's a bad idea while I'm drinking it, but the alternative is sitting here sober while Ella walks through that door and pretending she's just my roommate's sister, and I don't have the playbook for that right now.
* * *
Eventually, the door opens, and cold air sweeps in, and there she is.
She's in jeans and a sweater, hair down, and she looks soft and happy and so beautiful that the sight of her hits me like a stick to the jaw. My head snaps back just as hard. She scans the room, finds our table, and smiles, a polite, public expression, one that isn't for me.
Except it is for me. It's always for me now. I see the real thing underneath, the private warmth, the way her eyes linger on my face for a half second longer than they should.
"Hey guys," she says, dropping into the chair Spinner pulls out for her. "Jason said you need a designated driver."
“Just us roomies,” Rookie says, playfully punching her shoulder. “These other fuckers can get themselves home.”
"Hi, Ella." Spinner raises his glass. "How's circus school?"
"Still not a circus. Hi, Mayhem."
Mayhem nods. Watches.
Gianna brings a plate of food to Ella without being asked, and Ella thanks her. I watch her eat a meatball, and I remember Tuesday on the couch and her victory shimmy in socks and the sound she makes when I'm inside her and her clothes in my drawer, and I am six beers deep, and my chest is too full, and my brain is too slow, and she's RIGHT THERE.
She reaches across me for a napkin. Her sweater brushes my arm. I smell her body wash — the fruity one, the one that lives on my pillow now — and something in my drunk, demolished brain just … stops working.
I catch her wrist. Pull her toward me. Cup the back of her neck with my other hand and kiss her.
Not a peck. Not a friendly thing. I kiss her the way I kiss her in the dark in our bedroom, deep and slow and sure, and for approximately two seconds the world is perfect because her mouth is on mine and her hand grabs my shirt and I feel her soften against me before?—
She pulls back. Fast. Laughing.
"Okay, big guy." She pats my chest and gives me a push, her voice pitched for the table. "Someone's had enough." She turns to her brother, still laughing, steady as a trauma nurse. "How many has he had?"
"Too damn many," Rookie says, white-knuckling his grip on a beer bottle. "Dude, did you just kiss my sister?"
"He kissed Spinner on the Fourth of July,” Gianna offers from behind the bar.
"That's true," Spinner confirms, eyeing Gianna in a familiar way. "I have very soft lips."
The table laughs. Rookie rolls his eyes. The moment passes, absorbed into the noise of Saturday night at Gianna's, filed under "Howie got drunk and sloppy," which is a category with extensive precedent.
Ella settles in on the bench and eats another meatball and doesn't look at me. Her hand, beneath the table, finds my thigh and squeezes once. Hard. A message: you absolute idiot.
Fair.
Gianna comes by to collect keys, and Rookie waves her off. "Ella's driving.”
The night winds down. Spinner tells two more stories. Rookie arm-wrestles Cappy and loses. Ella chats with Banksy and Cam, who apparently know about some charity event they want her involved with. She's charming and easy, and nobody watching her would ever guess that she spent the week with my cock inside her while I said things about her body that would make a priest faint.
I'm gathering myself to stand when I feel the weight of a stare. Mayhem.
His arms are crossed, and his face is neutral, but his eyes say everything. This isn't the "be careful" from the bar two weeks ago. This is past careful. This is: I know.
I hold his gaze. He holds mine. The noise of the restaurant fades to static.
He shakes his head.
