My phone’s going crazy. Probably the team checking in, possibly even Juliette who got my last ominous text about Garrett before I had to focus on this shit. I need to get out of here before I do something stupid. But Garrett’s still talking.
“She’s texting you, isn’t she?” Garrett sees my phone lighting up through my pocket. “She always needs constant reassurance. Always needs to know where you are. It’s exhausting. Good luck with that. Because she’s just using you to make me jealous anyway. Once this wedding is over?—”
I don’t remember deciding to move.
One second I’m standing there. The next I’ve grabbed Garrett by his shirt and shoved him backward.
He stumbles, catches himself on a table. Glasses rattle.
“Say one more word about her,” I say quietly. “One more fucking word.”
“Or what?” He pushes off the table, gets in my face. “You going to hit me?”
I pull back and swing.
My fist connects with his face. There’s a crunch and then blood. Pain explodes across my knuckles, sharp and immediate, but the satisfaction of finally shutting him up makes it worth it.
He gets me back, catches me in the jaw, and my head snaps to the side.
Then we’re on the ground. I get another hit in before he lands one on my ribs.
Someone’s yelling. The bartender, other guests, the sounds blur together.
“Stop! Both of you!”
Hands pull me off. Two of the groomsmen dragging me backward. Owen’s trying to get Garrett up, talking fast.
“What the fuck!” Owen is yelling. “What the fuck!”
I’m breathing hard. My hand is throbbing. There’s blood on my shirt, his or mine, I don’t know.
Hotel security appears. Two guys in suits.
“What’s going on here?”
“Nothing,” Owen tries. “Just a misunderstanding?—”
“Sir, we have witnesses. Someone called us.” The security guard looks at me and Garrett. “You two. Come with us.”
“It’s my friend’s wedding,” Garrett says, blood running from his nose. “I can’t?—”
“Should have thought of that before.”
They separate us. One guard takes Garrett. The other takes me.
“Wait here.”
I sit in a chair in the lobby. People are staring.
I pull my phone out with my good hand. My right hand is swelling already, knuckles split and bleeding.
Thirty-two new messages in the group chat.
And three texts from Juliette that make my stomach drop.
Juliette
Rodriguez?
