Wyatt #2
She froze mid-sway. Hand flew to her mouth. Eyes went wide—panicked, glassy, unfocused. "I—I don't feel so—"
And then she vomited.
Right there. Center of the dance floor. Splattered across the sticky wood and someone's boots.
The crowd recoiled like she'd detonated a grenade. Shouting. Gagging. A chorus of disgusted groans rippling outward in waves.
Behind me, my teammates howled with laughter. Logan nearly choked on his beer. Rowan doubled over, wheezing.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Exhaled slowly through clenched teeth. "Unbelievable."
Chastity swayed on her feet, face pale except for two bright spots of color high on her cheeks. Her eyes filled with tears—mortified, horrified, completely wrecked.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. Voice small and broken. "I'm so—"
I didn't let her finish. Wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her against my chest. Anchored her before she collapsed face-first into her own mess.
"Come on." My voice came out rougher than intended. "Let's get you out of here."
She mumbled something incoherent into my shirt. Warm breath seeping through fabric.
"I'm sorrrryyy…"
The word stretched long and slurred. Pitiful. Adorable in a way that made my chest do something complicated.
"Stop talking."
I shifted my grip. Slid one arm beneath her knees and lifted. Actually lifted her.
She made a small sound of surprise—half gasp, half whimper—and her arms wrapped instinctively around my neck. Head dropped onto my shoulder like she belonged there.
The bar erupted in whistles and catcalls.
"GET IT, GARRISON!"
"TAKE HER HOME, OLD MAN!"
I ignored them. Shouldered through the crowd toward the exit. Chastity's weight settled against me—soft, trusting, completely vulnerable. Her fingers curled into my collar. Breath evened out against my throat.
By the time I kicked the door open and stepped into the cold night air, she was already half-asleep.
Mumbling apologies I couldn't quite make out.
I carried her to the car. Didn't put her down until I absolutely had to. And hated myself for not wanting to let her go.
I half-dragged, half-carried her through the front door. She stumbled on the threshold, knees buckling, and I caught her before she face-planted on my hardwood.
"Lightweight." The word came out rough. Irritated.
She made a small noise—half protest, half whimper—and I adjusted my grip on her waist.
"I knew this would happen." I maneuvered us toward the couch, her weight sagging heavier against my side with each step. "Why did I say yes?"
Her head lolled onto my shoulder. Breath warm through my shirt.
"Unbelievable."
But my hands stayed gentle. Careful. One palm spread across her ribs, steadying her. The other gripped her elbow, keeping her upright.
I lowered her onto the couch. She slumped immediately, head dropping back against the cushions. Eyes half-closed and glassy.
"Stay." I pointed at her like she was a disobedient dog. "Don't move."
She nodded. Barely.
I grabbed water from the kitchen. Tylenol from the bathroom. Set both on the coffee table within reach and crouched in front of her.
"Drink."
She blinked at the glass like it was a puzzle she couldn't solve.
I sighed. Lifted it to her lips. Tilted it slowly while she took small, uncertain sips.
"Good." The word came out softer than I meant. "More."
She drank. Some of it dribbled down her chin. I caught it with my thumb before thinking better of it.
Her hair had come loose—falling across her face in messy waves. I grabbed the spare hair tie from my wrist, the one I kept for exactly this kind of situation with drunk teammates. Gathered her hair back with more care than I'd admit to anyone.
She made a soft sound. Almost content.
I finished tying it off just as she lurched forward.
"Oh, God—"
I moved on instinct. Grabbed her shoulders, steered her toward the bathroom. Got her there just in time.
She retched. Miserable and shaking.
I held her hair back with one hand. Steadied her with the other. Kept my voice low and even.
"You're fine. Get it out."
She sobbed between heaves. Embarrassed and sick and completely wrecked.
When she finally stopped, I wet a washcloth. Ran it gently over her face—forehead, cheeks, mouth. She leaned into the touch like she was desperate for something soft.
"Better?"
She nodded. Eyes red and streaming.
I helped her stand. Guided her back to her room. Grabbed pajamas from her dresser—soft pants, oversized shirt—and set them in her lap.
"Change."
She stared at them blankly.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Can you do it yourself?"
A tiny nod.
"Then I'll be right outside."
I turned my back. Heard fabric rustling. Tried very hard not to imagine what was happening behind me. Failed miserably.
"Done," she whispered.
I looked. She'd gotten the shirt on backward. Pants twisted around one leg.
"Christ." I fixed the shirt. Untangled the pants. Kept my gaze locked firmly on the wall above her head. "You're a disaster."
She hummed. Almost laughed.
I wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and led her back to the couch. She collapsed immediately, curling into the cushions like a child.
I grabbed another blanket. Tucked it around her carefully. Made sure her head was elevated. Water within reach.
She blinked up at me. Hazy and unfocused but wearing the softest expression I'd ever seen.
"You're really nice sometimes."
Every muscle in my body locked. Froze. Stopped working entirely.
Nice.
No one called me nice. Ever. For good reason.
I wasn't nice. I was calculated. Strategic. Using her to destroy her father. Nothing about that was nice.
"Go to sleep."
The words came out harder than necessary. Defensive.
She smiled anyway. Soft and sloppy and so trusting it carved something out of my chest. "Okay, Wyatt."
Her eyes closed. Breathing evened out almost immediately.
I stood there watching her. The defenselessness. The innocence. The way she'd curled toward me even unconscious—like her body knew I'd keep her safe even when her mind couldn't process why that was the worst possible instinct.
I swallowed hard. Pulled a chair close. Sat down. Watched her sleep. Stood guard like I had any right to. And finally admitted the truth I'd been running from since the moment she'd defended me to Barbara. This is bad. This is so, so bad.
I covered her with another blanket. Adjusted the water glass. Made sure she was breathing evenly.
Then sat back and stared at the ceiling.
I'm in deeper than I ever should've let myself go.
I'd wanted revenge. Wanted to hurt her father through the one thing he valued most.
But somewhere between fake dates and forced proximity and her goddamn smile—I'd stopped pretending.
And she had no idea.