“What the fuck are you doing here anyway?” I nearly shout. He punched with that sprained hand many times, driving straight through the pain like none of it matters.
The four guys are already backing off. Staff have stepped between us, one of them with a hand out, telling them to sit down and stay put. The big one is breathing hard, rubbing his jaw, while his friends mutter and glance toward the door like they are looking for an exit before the cops show up. None of them look eager to keep going now that the whole place is staring.
George turns toward Elliot, who sits frozen in his chair, eyes huge, mouth slightly open like his brain hasn’t caught up to the last few minutes.
“He goes home with me,” George growls, the words coming out hard, aimed straight at him.
My chest locks up, ribs pulled in too tight. There’s no room left for air. Everything stalls. Breath. Thought. Even the instinct to move. It just…cuts out.
George is standing here bleeding, his fucked-up hand even worse now, all because he showed up tonight when he had no business being anywhere near this date. And now he’s deciding where I go like it’s his call to make.
“You absolute idiot.” Some words finally slip out of me soft, almost helpless.
I reach into his pocket and take the keys. He doesn’t argue. He just lets me have them, his breathing still heavy as he works to settle himself. That subtle surrender tells me everything. The hand is hurting him a lot more than he’s letting on, but his eyes stay on me instead of the guys still being herded back by the staff. It’s like he’s making damn sure I’m still okay.
When we start toward the door, Elliot finally finds his voice behind us.
“Wait—”
George stops beside our table. He leans down close to Elliot’s ear, one hand braced on the back of his chair, and mutters something low, barely more than breath. I catch only the tone, enough to make the air shift. Whatever he says makes Elliot’s shoulders stiffen. The guy nods fast, eyes dropping straight to the floor like he suddenly cannot bear to look at either of us. George lingers there a second longer, then straightens and keeps walking without another glance.
Elliot tries to speak when I move to leave.
“Hey—” he starts.
I stop just long enough to look at him. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” he says quickly, then more subdued, “I think so.”
“Good,” I say. “What a first date, huh.”
It lands wrong and right at the same time. I don’t push it further. I place some cash on the table to cover for the food and the damage.
“Goodbye, Elliot.”
He blinks like it takes him a second to understand it. “Right. Yeah. Bye.” He hesitates, then adds, a little awkwardly, “Sorry.”
I shake my head, tapping his shoulder once. “Don’t be.”
Then I turn and follow George out.
14
George
“Can’t believe you drove all the way to Point Loma, which is nowhere near anything you ever need to be, and showed up at my date, which I had handled, by the way, completely handled, and then decided the best move was to start swinging with the hand that’s been in a splint for three weeks, George. Three. Weeks. Do you have any idea what that means for soft tissue healing, or do I need to spell it out for you—”
Lance keeps fucking going.
I lose track of what he’s actually saying somewhere around the second minute. It turns into background noise. I end up watching his mouth instead, the way his lips move when he gets worked up like this, full, pink, the occasional flash of teeth when he really leans into a point.
He hasn’t stopped since we left the bar. Drove us back, dropped his keys on the counter, still talking. Moving around my place, grabbing supplies, running water, back with the kit, then down in front of me on the couch. Still talking.
His hands don’t match the rant at all.
They’re steady and gentle. He cleans the cut on my cheek with careful passes, turning my face toward the lamp with two fingersunder my jaw, firm enough to hold me in place, not rough about it.
He’s pissed. I can hear it in every word. Still handling me like I’m something he doesn’t want to break.
