Chapter 3 - Carrie #2
I freeze halfway to my car. The voice is deep, rough around the edges, carrying easily in the quiet outside the clubhouse. I don’t have to turn to know it’s Blade.
I take another step toward the driver’s side door, but his footsteps follow, steady and unhurried.
“Carrie, wait,” he says again, closer this time.
I turn, my hand already on the door handle. He’s only a few feet away now, the porch light behind him throwing his tattoos into stark relief. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and there’s something unreadable in his face—something between concern and calculation.
Before I can say anything, he reaches for my hand. His palm is warm, calloused, the contact grounding and startling all at once.
“What?” My voice comes out flat, brittle.
“You’re shaking,” he says, his thumb brushing across my knuckles without him seeming to notice. His eyes search mine, sharp and assessing, but not unkind. “What happened in there?”
I glance toward the clubhouse, the music still thumping faintly from inside, then back to him. My throat works, but the words don’t come. If I say it out loud, it’ll be real.
“I just need to leave,” I murmur, pulling my hand slightly, but he doesn’t let go.
“Not like this,” he says, voice low. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
I don’t answer him.
The light from the clubhouse door spills over his shoulders, catching on the ink winding up his forearms.
Before I can move, his hand closes over mine. Warm, rough, solid. “You planned this party. Where do you think you’re going?” His eyes narrow slightly, scanning my face like he’s reading more than I want him to. “You don’t look done. You look like someone who could use a drink.”
“I’m not—”
“Come on.” His tone is softer now, coaxing. “Just one. Sit with me for a bit, then you can go if you still want to.”
I glance back toward the open door. The bass from the music is steady, laughter spilling into the night. Part of me wants to run far from it, but Blade’s hand is still around mine, and for some reason I don’t pull away.
“I don’t think—”
“It’s just a drink, Carrie.” He tilts his head, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “And maybe the company of someone who isn’t an asshole.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips despite myself. “That’s a low bar.”
“Lucky for you, I clear it.”
I sigh, the fight in me faltering. “Fine. One drink.”
He releases my hand only to guide me back toward the doorway, his palm warm against the small of my back. As we step inside, the noise swells again, and I let him lead me through the crowd toward the bar.
I tell myself it’s nothing—just a drink, just a moment. But part of me knows that sitting down with Blade is the first choice I’ve made all night that wasn’t about Jinn.
Blade gets the bartender’s attention with a nod, and two short glasses of amber whiskey land in front of us. I wrap my hands around mine, letting the warmth seep into my fingers before taking a cautious sip.
We haven’t been sitting long when JC appears, his expression as steady as ever, though there’s a question in his eyes. Wrecker follows behind him, broad-shouldered and silent, leaning a hip against the bar like he’s there by accident.
“You okay?” JC asks, his voice low, almost lost under the noise around us. He’s always been the practical one, the one who cuts through drama instead of feeding it.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to make it sound believable.
“You don’t look fine,” he replies, but there’s no judgment in it.
“I don’t need you to fix me, JC,” I say, lifting my glass again. “I can handle myself.”
Blade’s gaze flicks between us but he stays quiet, nursing his drink. Wrecker, on the other hand, studies me openly, his brows drawing together. “You disappear upstairs, then come back looking like that. Now you’re drinking with Blade.”
I keep my chin up. “Maybe I just felt like having a drink.”
They exchange a look, one of those wordless conversations men seem to have mastered. I’m about to tell them to mind their business when the room shifts. The sound, the air—everything changes.
Jinn is coming down the stairs. Marcy is right behind him, her hair mussed, her cheeks flushed, that smug smile tugging at her lips.
The sight knocks the breath from my lungs all over again.
“When did that happen?” Wrecker asks, his brows lifting in surprise.
I stare down into my glass, forcing my voice not to break. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” I tip back the rest of the whiskey in one swallow.
The next whiskey disappears before I even taste it. Blade signals for another, and I don’t protest. The warmth settles low in my stomach, heavy and distracting. I cling to it like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
JC leans in slightly. “You might want to pace yourself.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, though the words feel thicker than they should.
I stand up too fast. The room tilts, colors blurring at the edges. JC’s hand catches my elbow, steady and warm, but the humiliation of it—the pity in his eyes—burns straight through me.
“I just… I need a minute.”
“Carrie…” Blade starts, but I wave him off and reach for the fresh glass the bartender slides over.
The room hums around me, the voices and laughter weaving into a dull noise I can almost get lost in. I tip the glass again, letting the burn roll down my throat, chasing away the image of Jinn and Marcy just a few feet away.
“You’re not fine,” JC says, his tone still calm but more insistent now.
“I am,” I repeat, even though I know they can all see right through me. I lift the glass again, but Wrecker steps forward, his hand closing over mine.
“That’s enough,” he says.
I try to pull back, but his grip is steady, unyielding. He takes the glass from my fingers and sets it on the bar out of reach.
“Give it back,” I say, my voice tight.
“No,” Wrecker replies. His eyes hold mine, unblinking. “You’ll regret it tomorrow. You already will.”
I want to argue, to tell him it’s none of his business, but the truth is I’m not sure my voice will come out right if I try. My throat aches, and my hands feel empty without the glass.
The heat from the whiskey lingers in my chest, making my head feel light, my skin a little too warm. So I just sit there, staring at the bar top, listening to the muffled thump of the music and the faint sound of Marcy’s laugh somewhere behind me.
That sound pushes something reckless to the surface.
I look up at Wrecker. He’s still standing close, broad and steady, his eyes on me like he’s waiting for me to do something stupid. Maybe that’s why I do it.
“Thank you,” I murmur, though I’m not sure if I mean it. My gaze drifts over his face—the cut of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow—and before I can stop myself, I lean in, closing the space between us.
His eyes widen just slightly, but he doesn’t move until I’m almost there. Then he steps back, breaking the moment like it never happened.
“Carrie,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.
JC is beside me in an instant, his hand on my arm. “You’re not thinking straight. Come on.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, though the words sound flimsy even to my own ears.
“No, you’re not,” JC says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Let’s get you out of here before you do something you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
I glance between the three of them. Wrecker, still watching me with that unreadable look. Blade, strong and silent. And JC, steady and immovable. The urge to fight them on it fades just a little under the weight of their stares.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe I don’t want to be here anymore.