Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
Rocky
THE MELON DROP (CONTINUED)
The mark’s bachelor party hasn’t migrated away from the bar. I’m waiting on a water for Phoebe and talking Shane’s ear off about bull riding.
“Man, you’ve gotta come out and see the Stampede. It’s worth another trip here.” I clasp a friendly hand on his shoulder and block out the violent urge to wring his neck.
He’s bobbing his head but losing interest. His attention swerves over to the dance floor.
To Phoebe, as she stands off to the side in her Daisy Dukes and claps to the gasoline-fueled beat of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” She hollers, cheering on a few girls who tear up the floor with a complicated line dance.
“Huh?” Shane asks me.
I force myself not to stake him with a glare. It’s only easy because I fixate on Phoebe for a long beat. She’s cupping her hands to her mouth and cheering even louder for the talent on the floor and stage.
A smile almost crawls across my mouth. I almost push away from the bar and pull her back into the line of bodies just to dance with her again. It’s a craving—being beside her. It’d be an addiction if I didn’t have this much fucking self-control.
Seeing Phoebe having a good time is actually making me have one, but she’s also making tonight harder. Because Shane is practically busting a nut in his fucking pants, and there are about three, four, six other salivating fucks checking her out like she’s a prize.
Phoebe is so captivating that she’s catastrophic. A siren who’ll drown men as they try to board her ship, but I can’t even stand watching them try to climb.
She doesn’t want these guys around her.
And I can’t pretend that it’d be different if she did. I’d still want to shove them into eight-foot swells and hope they choke on salt water as a riptide wrenches them under.
“Penelope can really hold her liquor,” Shane says to me. “A girl that size, I would’ve thought she’d be on the floor by now.”
Then why the hell have you been feeding her more shots, you fucking dipshit? I post my elbows back on the bar and chew on the toothpick. I remember what Phoebe said about me gnawing on the thing. Yeah, sure, I like taking my aggression out on it when I can’t deck him in the face.
“You should’ve seen her freshman year.” I let out a long whistle. “Girl drank half a keg and could’ve walked a perfect line. Penelope never gets drunk.”
“She puts out though?” Heath, the groom’s younger brother, pipes in with a laugh. “I’d fuck her.”
“After me,” Shane laughs, then he catches the raging heat barreling out of my body and eyes. “We’re joking, Rhett. Lighten up, man.” He pats my tensed shoulder now, but he’s still drooling over Phoebe while she jumps to the tail end of the song.
“You can’t be talking about my friend like that,” I warn.
“Yeah, yeah.” He’s fixated on her bouncing tits.
My ribs are on fire, and my knuckles throb as the desire to punch his lights out overwhelms me.
I laugh hard and block his line of sight, then pat his chest. “We should get another round.” I draw him closer to the bar, farther away from Phoebe, and I scan the bachelor party to find her brother.
“Oakley!” I call out to Oliver, who’s currently entertaining the groom with alcohol.
“You like J?ger bombs, don’t you?” It’s the code for tonight to pull the rope.
Let’s screw them over now.
“What was that?” He feigns confusion and swoops over to me with a bottle of Koning Lite. He wraps an arm around my shoulders, drawing me away from Shane.
I whisper, “You ready?”
He angles his head to me, lifting his cowboy hat up some.
“We could try now, but it’d be better at the next bar.
” He looks ahead at the groom, who talks animatedly about wintering in Monaco like it’s out of fashion.
He’ll be in the Maldives this year. Oliver has no facial inflections, no noticeable reaction, but under his breath, he murmurs, “No one should have that much.”
“Then let’s take it from them,” I whisper back.
Oliver contemplates.
“I’m getting her a double,” Shane says loudly from the bar. He’s flagging down a bartender who still hasn’t handed me a water.
“Getting who a double?” Oliver asks me.
“Who do you think?” I whisper back with a dark look. I can’t exactly say, Your sister, out loud, but we’ve been doing this shit long enough that all it takes is one serious glance.
Oliver’s brows jump and freeze, his lips in a flat line of concern. He sees Shane is trying to get Phoebe drunk. To get laid. “J?ger bombs, now.” He dips his cowboy hat, and mirth replaces his concern—a grin breaking over his face. He hollers and slips back to the groom.
I convince the bartender to give me a water before Shane catches anyone’s attention. “Rhett!” he calls out, but I pretend not to hear him or notice his plight.
Water in hand, I join Bradley’s cluster, and the groom motions me over. “Rhett, did you know Oakley is a savant?” He laughs, touching Oliver’s shoulder like he’s an aww shucks hillbilly windup toy he found on his trip.
Oliver pretends to be oblivious as Bradley makes him the punch line, but let’s be clear, Oliver is very aware they’re a bunch of pricks.
“A savant of what?” Heath chuckles into a swig of beer.
“Time and tech,” Oliver says, very seriously.
They snicker.
I couldn’t stand them an hour ago when they mimicked Oliver like he was a hick.
Now I wish this were a job that’d end with them believing they’re getting arrested.
Something that’d make them piss their pants at the very least. I swig the water, do a quick check on Phoebe, who’s still on the dance floor.
She’s okay. Then back to Bradley, the groom.
“His daddy is also a tech whiz,” I say plainly. “He lives in Belle Meade.”
“Belle what?” Shane laughs.
“No, I’ve heard of it.” Bradley grows more interested. “Famous people live there, don’t they? Country singers?”
“Politicians, too.” I jerk my head toward Oliver. “If you’re lucky, Oak might show you the prototype his daddy’s been working on for years. The tech is worth more than you’ve ever seen.”
“Doubt that,” Bradley laughs, but his intrigue flits over Oliver. “You have the prototype on you?”
“Just for today.” Oliver shrugs like it’s no big deal, and before long, the groom and his closest friends gather around as Oliver shows off a watch with phone technology.
It doesn’t really work, but the tech industry is already projecting that watches will have the ability to make phone calls. It’ll likely be a staple in years to come.
Right now, the prototype is just a flashy tech advancement that we pretend to have thanks to my little brother.
Trevor made this dupe. It can’t do anything but show the time.
It looks fancy as fuck though, so when Oliver passes the watch to Bradley, I can’t let him actually play around with the thing.
I shove into Heath as I rotate to the bar.
Heath falls forward into Bradley.
“You all right, man?!” I shout, trying to help them up, but I trip over their legs, spilling water—adding to the confusion. I bring them down to the floor. Oliver has already dropped the watch. I hear the crunch. Because I step on it.
“Fuck, fuck!” Oliver shouts, shoving Bradley and Heath off the pile, and I stand and slide backward. “You broke it!” He accuses Bradley.
“I…what? No…” He’s slightly drunk, his glazed eyes drooping to the busted watch screen.
Oliver taps it. “It won’t even turn on anymore. Fuuuck. Fuck. Do you know how much this costs? Do you?”
“Man, man, shhh.” He puts his hands on Oliver’s shoulders. “I can pay for it. Don’t worry.”
“You don’t have it,” I cut in, shaking my head, then I scan my surroundings. Where the fuck is Shane?
“I have it. I have it,” Bradley assures, pulling out his wallet. “How much?”
My pulse is in my ears as soon as I see Shane chatting with Phoebe against the brick wall. He’s in her space with two more of Bradley’s friends. Her job is to distract the groom’s party, which she’s doing well.
I know this isn’t a task she loves tonight, despite being great at it, and I’ve been keeping most of them out of her reach. She’s holding the double shot of tequila he bought her, and every time they look our way, she skillfully draws their eyes back to her.
Go to her.
The instinct slams into me.
Don’t leave her.
“You don’t have a quarter mil,” Oliver retorts.
Bradley pales. “Uh, not on me, but I can get you enough.” He’s either afraid of looking poor or what he offers next is chump change to him. “I’ll write you a check for three hundred.”
“Grand?” Oliver clarifies.
“Of course.”
“That’ll bounce,” I say angrily, accusing him of scamming us.
He glares. “Where’s the closest ATM?”
And there we go. Oliver and the mark depart with the promise that they’ll be right back, and then I rush over to Phoebe. One of Bradley’s friends—Pete—cuts off my path.
“Rhett! Man.” Pete swigs his beer, and his shit-eating grin sets every shrill alarm off in my head.
I sidestep.
He follows.
“Move,” I sneer.
He’s taken aback. “Chill. We’re cool.”
I see through him. I know why he’s separating me from Phoebe, and I don’t hide the fact that I know exactly what he’s fucking doing. My gaze is a hacksaw of lethal judgment.
Fear flickers in his eyes. “We’re cool?” His breath is uneven. “We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Yeah?” I get in his space. Bump up against his chest. He stiffens as I growl against his ear, “You drug her, you piece of shit, and you won’t walk out of here on two fucking feet.” Then I thrust him out of my way, and he’s too startled to fight back.
His reaction sends me into overdrive. It’s the dread of someone who’s already committed the crime.
I’m not slow to reach her. Shane and some other ugly fuck are crowding Phoebe. She’s careened as far back as she can. Her shoulders are mashed against the brick wall.
I tear through the guys, sloshing their glasses of whiskey.
“Hey!” Shane yells.