Page 5 of The Backup Plan

She takes another sip of wine, but she almost knocks it over when she sets it down. His hand slides around her waist and he leans in, his lips whispering something in her ear. Her reflex—revulsion—seems to reflect the words her mouth is having trouble forming.

Something is definitely not right.

I drain my beer, set the bottle down harder than necessary, push a twenty spot across the bar, and against my better judgment slide off the stool.

Still at odds with right and wrong and if I should intervene, I take a few steps closer to them to make sure I’m not seeing shit. Worst-case scenario, I help her. Best-case, nothing’s going on and she thanks me for looking out for her.

But I don’t go charging into the situation, and I don’t make a scene. I move even closer, casual as anything, and stop on the side of her opposite of him.

“Hey.” I take the now-empty seat beside her. “You okay?” I ask quietly, hoping the Polo Prick doesn’t notice.

Her eyes flick up to mine. They’re definitely glassy and wage a war of confusion like I’ve never seen before. She studies me with a lax jaw and parted lips as if she’s trying to place me but can’t quite manage it.

“Mm-hmm,” she says. The sound—the one that felt like she was fighting to get it out—and the nod of her head are not in sync.

The guy bristles immediately. “We’re good, man,” he bites out.

We both look at him, but she’s way more unsteady than I am—and she’s sitting down.

“She doesn’t look good,” I say casually.

“She’s fine,” he snaps.

His nostrils flare as the woman starts to stand up but struggles to get her foot off the bottom rung of the barstool she’s seated on. “I . . . I was just about to leave.”

But her body slumps.

“I said she’s fine,” he says, closing his hand over her shoulder. “Right, babe?”

“Babe?” I ask. “But the bartender said you just met.”

The guy stiffens. “What the hell—”

“I think she needs some air,” I say. My voice remains even, but the undertone of don’t fuck with me is unmistakable. “You mind?”

He laughs, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. I do mind.”

Her head tips toward me as her body sways, her shoulder brushing my arm. She struggles to sit up straight.

That’s all it takes for me to know this fucker did something to her—slipped something into her drink. She’s not lucid enough to protest, and she’s definitely not demonstrating her want to go with him.

I can’t just let this go.

“Hey,” I say to her, ignoring him now. “Let’s step outside for a minute, okay?”

She nods immediately. The action is innocent and vulnerable. There’s no way I’m leaving her here with him. Not when it feels like she’s relieved that someone else made the decision for her.

The guy’s fingers curl around her wrist, and every muscle in my body goes tight.

“Don’t,” I warn, tone lethal.

The bartender’s watching now. So are a few other patrons. The guy looks around, calculates how much attention we’ve now attracted, then scoffs. “Whatever. She’s your problem now.”

He releases his hold on her wrist and she sways violently.

I pull her against my side before she can fall, and her head drops against my chest like it belongs there. Like she has no strength or wherewithal to hold it up herself.

Shit.