Chapter 8 #2
By the time Liam made his way back into JT’s, Frankie was no longer in the cluster of dancers. Secure in the knowledge there was no way she could have left because he would have seen her, he scanned the room and came up with nothing.
Bathrooms. That was the only place she could have gone. He began to make his way to the hallway when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of red hair. He looked, and sure enough, she was at the bar with a guy who had the aura of frat-boy entitlement he could smell from across the room.
Frat Boy grabbed a round of shots he’d ordered and then tried to press one into Frankie’s hand.
She shook her head, tucking her arm behind her back with a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
At her refusal the shithead leaned in and tried again, and this time she accepted just long enough to set the drink on the bar untouched with him watching to prove her point.
Liam had a feeling this was going to go south quickly, and he was quite a distance away from her.
His height gave him an aerial advantage, but his size didn’t make it easy for him to get through crowded spaces without making a lot of people pissed.
Anger was not great when combined with alcohol and a fragile-male-ego trying to impress women.
It was almost always a recipe for disaster.
He moved as quickly as possible without causing a World War III of dick-swinging contests.
As he did, Liam could see the douche bag’s moves with surgical clarity.
He was working his way through every trick in the Me Too Starter Handbook: the lean-in, the hand on the small of the back, and the “accidentally” brushing his arm against her boobs.
Each time Frankie countered with a sidestep, a raised eyebrow, or a block followed by a pointed glance at her phone.
Her reactions only turned him on, which was exactly how these jackasses operated.
It was all a game to them. Frat Boy edged closer, his hand now resting possessively on her lower back.
Frankie attempted to move away without making a scene, but the guy just grinned and doubled down, saying something into her ear that made her entire body stiffen.
That’s when Liam’s vision narrowed with blind rage.
All he could see was that jackass’s head which he planned to put through the wall.
His pulse jumped, and he didn’t give a shit who he pissed off.
He shouldered his way through the crowd, quickly closing the gap with the kind of purposeful gait that made people instinctively step aside.
He was two body lengths away when the guy’s hand slid down and squeezed Frankie’s ass like it belonged to him.
Liam’s fists balled of their own accord.
He was ready to separate the man’s teeth from his mouth, but Frankie beat him to the punch.
Literally. It happened in one crisp, beautiful motion—she spun on her heel and drilled the guy in the solar plexus with the point of her elbow first and then followed up with a right jab.
Frat Boy doubled over, and Liam watched all the air whoosh from his lungs.
Frankie wasn’t done. She reached up, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and yanked his head down so their faces were level.
Liam arrived just in time to hear her say, “If you ever touch another woman without her consent,” every word clear and sharp even though she was slurring, “I will break every bone in your fucking body.” She let him go with a flick of her wrist, wiping her hand on her jeans as if she’d handled raw chicken.
Then, as if nothing at all had happened, she spun back to the bar, signaling for a drink as Frat Boy gasped for air.
He was just about to tap Frankie on the shoulder and tell her, It was probably time to go, Rocky, when one of the bartenders appeared.
Liam had heard some people calling her Shelby.
He couldn’t hear Frankie’s side of the exchange since her back was to him, but Shelby clearly suggested that she have water.
Frankie replied, and then Shelby made it clear all she would be serving her was water.
When he heard Shelby saying she’d be calling her a ride when she was ready to go, he stepped in.
“Don’t worry about it.” He leaned past Frankie. “I’ve got her.”
Shelby eyed him suspiciously, and rightfully so, then looked back at Frankie. “Do you know him?”
Frankie looked up at Liam. Her eyes widened, and she blinked. She reached up and touched his face, as if she thought he wasn’t real. When her palm barely brushed his cheek she pulled her hand back like she’d touched a hot stove and gasped.
“Frankie?” Shelby leaned over the bar. “Are you okay?!”
"Huh?” Frankie turned back to her.
“He says he’s going to take you home.” Shelby shouted over the music, and talking and pointed to Liam. “Is that okay? Do you know him?”
Frankie sighed dramatically as she said loudly, “I don’t know. Do I know you, Liam? Or are you going to pretend you don’t know me again?”
Liam wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but he didn’t have time for this. He had to be at work at midnight. He pulled out his phone and opened his photos app. He turned it around to Shelby. “We know each other. We grew up together. I’m the new doctor in town.”
“What are you showing her?” Frankie snatched his phone and looked at the photos he had. The digital copies of the pictures in his cigar box. When she saw the screen, she gasped and put her hand on her chest. “Liam, that’s us!”
Shelby grinned and moved down the bar.
“Come on, we’re going home.” He took his phone and put it in his back pocket.
“No!” She crossed her arms like she was one of his nieces or nephews pouting. “I don’t want to go home! Give me that back. I want to look at those!”
Liam knew how stubborn Frankie was sober. He’d never experienced drunk Frankie, but he imagined that was even worse.
He leaned down, speaking loudly as he bargained. “I’ll let you look at them if you let me take you home now.”
She considered his offer, then countered. “One more dance. And you have to dance with me. Then you can take me home. Deal.” She held out her right hand to shake.
“I don’t dance,” he lied as the last chorus of Bruno Mars’ Uptown Funk played and the first few notes of the next song started.
“Liar. I’ve danced with you.”
Shit. That was true.
“One dance. Deal?” Her left hand crossed her right, making an X with her forearms, the way that they used to double shake when they were kids. Just seeing it brought back a sense of nostalgia he didn’t want to be feeling right now.
Fuck. Being that close to her would be his own personal hell. He just had to remember she was going to mar… He looked at her hand and saw that she wasn’t wearing her ring. Why wasn’t she wearing her ring?
Dance with her and find out, dumbass, he told himself.
He crossed his arms and double shook. “Deal.”
His arm snaked around her, partly to guide her, partly to keep her from falling down, and they made their way onto the dance floor. He stopped at the far end in a fairly private corner. She looked up at him. “Permission to step on your feet.”
He couldn’t help but smile. They’d danced at dozens of events as kids, and she’d always used his feet so that she could reach his shoulders.
“Permission granted.”
She bent down and took her heels off, hooking the straps on her fingers before stepping onto his feet. Then she lifted her arms, wrapped them around his neck, and sighed with her entire body as she melted into him. “This feels so good.”
He closed his eyes and tried—with limited success—not think about how much he agreed with her.
Frankie was so tiny in his arms that his hands settled on her back and spanned the entire width of her body.
He wanted to move those hands, to shift them up and down, to memorize every inch of her, to put one on the back of her head and run his fingers through her wild, wavy hair.
He wanted more than anything to just stand there and breathe her in, because she smelled exactly like he remembered—vanilla, a hint of coconut, something floral and bright, and unmistakably her.
He caught himself and tried to keep his expression neutral, worried his face might betray something he shouldn’t.
Frankie snuggled in closer, as if she could sense his hesitation and was determined to break him down.
Her arms slipped up higher around his neck, the tops of her bare feet barely grazing his shoes as she balanced.
The warmth of her breath fanned across skin as her lips brushed his throat.
“This feels so good,” she murmured again, quieter this time, almost a whisper.
He tried to think of something to say to distract himself, but his brain misfired.
Instead, he found himself focused on the way her hair tickled his jaw and the way her hands fit behind his neck, her fingers laced so tightly as if she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go.
He angled his head down, searching her face—her eyes were closed, her lips parted in a soft, contented smile, the kind he hadn’t seen on her since he’d left her in his bed.
He realized, in a jolting moment of clarity, that he’d missed this, the time-stopping comfort of being with someone who knew you as well, or better, than you knew yourself and knowing them the same way.
He might not know everything, or anything that had happened the past ten years of her life, and vice versa, but he knew her on a cellular level, and she knew him.