Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Hollie
Annie has found us a pair of stools by the bar and already has two gigantic cocktails lined up for us with tiny colorful umbrellas and a garnish of fruit.
“You have to try these,” she says. “Travis is really talented. They taste amazing.”
I nod, realizing just how much of a goner my friend is for the barman. She’s always scoffed at pretentious drinks in the past. I take a long suck on my straw.
“Whoa, Annie,” I say. “How much alcohol is in that thing?”
“Tonnes,” Annie says with a grin, sucking on her own straw. “We’re gonna get wasted, Hollie. It’s the start of the holidays, no work for freaking ages, and I haven’t seen you in even longer.”
“Your dad said–“
“My dad always says that. Don’t worry about him.”
She takes another long draw on her straw, downing the whole cocktail, pushing it to one side, and waving frantically at Travis, who is more than willing to come striding back over to us both.
“Another two, ladies?”
“You bet!” Annie says, and I suck even harder on my straw, attempting to keep up with her.
By the end of our third cocktail, I’m pretty sure all that snow outside has melted and now the bar is floating on a body of water, or else I’m just swaying on my seat.
Everything’s a little blurry around the edges and I’m finding it hard to keep up with Annie as she gives me the lowdown on everyone in the bar.
“And that’s Johnny,” she says. “He’s the one who rode his horse right inside this bar one time. And over there, that girl, see her, she got caught scratching penises into the paintwork of her ex-boyfriend’s prize Cadillac.”
I nod along, and Annie’s just pointing out someone else in the crowd when she freezes, bouncing up and down on her chair and clapping her hands.
“Oh my goodness, Hollie, do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” I say.
“The song,” she says.
I listen carefully. It’s a Christmas classic, “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”
It’s our all-time favorite.
The first Christmas we were in college, we played it non-stop, back to back, singing it as loudly as we could at every opportunity, while clutching hairbrushes and chugging eggnog that came pre-made in cans. It was like our own mini theme song for the holidays.
Annie yanks me off the stool, and then, before I know what she’s doing, she’s jumping up onto the bar, pushing away the empty glasses with her boot and signaling me to follow.
“What are you doing?” I shriek.
“It’s our favorite song, Hollie, get your ass up here.”
Maybe if I hadn’t had so many drinks I’d think twice about clambering up onto the bar in my miniskirt in a town where I’m already an outsider and there’s a good chance I’ll fall off the bar and break my head.
But the drink and the alcohol are making everything seem like a fantastic idea tonight, so I don’t even hesitate.
I scrabble up after my best friend, and soon we both stand together on the bar, arms wrapped around each other, singing our hearts out at the top of our voices.
Probably everyone is looking at us. Then again, I think most of the rest of the bar is singing along to the song too.
There’s definitely lots of people swaying beneath us.
We’re just getting to the climax of the song where it gets really high and neither of us can quite make the notes, both of us dissolving into fits of giggles as our voices crack.
When I glance down, there’s an angry Alpha standing below us, hands on hips, scowl on his ridiculously handsome face. Clay Jackson. Again. Of course.
He’s glaring up at us so fiercely that if I wasn’t so drunk I’d be a shaking, blubbering mess.
As usual, he looks mightily unimpressed.
I hope that isn’t because, from this angle, he’s peering right up my skirt.
I am, after all, wearing my best pair of panties and I had a wax before I left Rockview.
“What the hell are you doing?” he booms above all the music.
“Singing,” his little sister says, following it up with a middle finger.
“Get down,” he says.
“Nope,” she says, shaking her head, clearly delighting in antagonizing her brother.
“You could break your neck,” he calls back.
She grins even wider and does a little shuffle along the bar.
Clay’s furious gaze finds me next, and, despite the alcohol-soaked state of my blood, I can’t help but freeze under the force of it.
“Get down,” he barks at me.
He’s not my big brother. I’m not his little sister.
But I am an Omega and he is an Alpha, and a command like that is instinctively difficult to disobey.
My body wants to take a flying jump right off the bar in response to those words – preferably into his waiting arms. But I dig the heels of Mrs. Jackson’s lucky cowboy boots into the bar and adopt Annie’s brattish persona, mirroring the Alpha with my hands on my hips and shaking my head.
“Do you own this bar?” I ask him.
“No,” he says.
“Then I don’t think I will.”
“You could hurt yourself,” he says.
I roll my eyes. He obviously doesn’t know that I’m always hurting myself. I’ve broken my right arm twice, the fingers of my left hand once, and I fractured my cheekbone one time as well. I’m accident prone and nothing is ever going to change that. I’ve given up trying.
“Fine,” the Alpha says, and I expect him to turn around and stomp away in a sulk, leaving Annie and me to our singing.
He does the exact opposite. And what he does is so quick – lightning quick – or maybe that’s just the drinks again – I don’t see it coming.
He leaps forward, wraps his arms around my thighs, and then I’m tipping forward and, before I know it, I’m slung over his shoulder and he’s marching me straight out of the bar.
It’s so quick I don’t even have time to protest or struggle or wriggle away.
The cold air outside hits me and then my boots are landing in the snow.
“What the hell?” I say. Or perhaps I slur it.
“You’re drunk,” he says, “and dancing on top of bars is dangerous.”
“Flipping people over your shoulder like that is pretty dangerous too, mister,” I say, absolutely scandalized.
He snorts. “You weigh half that of a new-born calf!”
Which is most definitely not true. I may be small in height but I’m not one of those slim omegas with model-like figures. I’m all curves and big curves at that.
“Why are you carrying me out of the bar and not your sister?”
“Because,” he says, and then falters.
I’m not sure he has a response to that. I tip my head to one side, focusing with all my might on his face because there might now be two of him, two Clay Jacksons standing in front of me. And frankly, one Clay Jackson is more than enough for this world.
A world that spins manically.
I’m wondering if an Alpha really did just sling me over his shoulder and march me out of the bar, or whether this is some crazy drunk-ass dream and I’m gonna wake up back in Rockview any second now.
But unfortunately, it’s not a dream, because in the next second, out of nowhere, I feel a strong rumbling in my stomach and I try my best to force it down, but it’s no good.
And then I’m hurling right by Clay Jackson’s smart black cowboy boots, littering chunks of creamy pasta onto the virgin white snow.
He doesn’t even jump backwards in alarm. He just stands there watching me with disapproval written all over his face as I vomit into the snow.
When I’m done, I wipe my hand over my mouth and peer up at him.
“Better?” he asks me.
And actually, maybe I am. There’s only one of him again now. The world is no longer tipping backwards and forwards on its axis, and it’s definitely no longer spinning as quickly as it was a minute ago.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble. “I’ll clean your boots for you.”
“It’s not your fault,” he mumbles. “It’s Annie’s.”
“Oh no, it’s not,” I say. “She just wanted me to have a good time. I haven’t had a good time …”
I trail off, and he looks at me. And then this time it definitely isn’t the alcohol, because all of a sudden there are three Alphas standing in front of me. Only this time they aren’t duplicates of Clay Jackson. They’re his packmates, Nash and Tucker.
“You don’t need to get wasted to have a good time,” Clay says.
“Gee, Dad,” I say. “I know.”
Tucker chuckles, his pale green eyes twinkling with mischief. “I don’t think he meant it that way, Hollie,” he says.
I quirk an eyebrow, because how did he mean it, then?
“I’ll get you some water,” Clay says, spinning on his heels and marching back toward the bar.
Tucker kicks snow over the lovely pile of vomit I’ve made and then pulls me to one side, Nash following us.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Cocktails,” I say. “Cocktails are what happened.”
“Ah,” Tucker says with a lopsided smile. “Travis’s cocktails are pretty lethal. I’m surprised Annie didn’t warn you.”
“I think that’s what Annie was going for,” I say. “Tonight was all about letting my hair down.”
“It’s been a rough year for you,” Nash says sympathetically, as Tucker tucks what is probably a vomit-coated lock of hair behind my ear, and I don’t know why or what’s happening or if it’s the alcohol all over again, but I feel another rumbling inside me and this time it’s not creamy pasta vomit, it’s a sob.
It comes bubbling up into my throat and I can’t hold it back, and all of a sudden I’m sobbing into my hands – full-on sobbing, my whole body shaking with it.
“Yes,” I splutter. “It’s been a really really really tough year.”
I’m cold, I’m drunk, I’m far from home. It’s Christmas and I really miss my mom.
Really really really miss her. An aching gnawing missing her that burrows right down to my bones.
All I want is a hug from my mom, but she’s not here anymore.
She’s not here to wrap her arms around me and tell me everything’s okay.
And that seems truly and brutally unfair.
Except, before I know it, a pair of arms are wrapping themselves around me and I’m being pulled into a hug. A great big warm hug that smells of pine forests, cedar, and the open countryside. I’m enveloped in a strong pair of arms and held against a hard, muscular chest.
“Hey,” a voice says tenderly, rough stubble grazing my ear. It’s Tucker’s. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I say as I continue to blubber into his shirt, making a nice wet stain that’s probably black from my mascara.
“It’s alright,” he says. “You go ahead. You go ahead and cry. Let it all out, sweetheart.”
I do just that. Mostly because I can’t help it. Mostly because I haven’t had many hugs since my mom died, and not many chances to cry about it either.
Above my sobbing I hear footsteps crunch in the snow and then Clay’s voice.
“What’s wrong?” he says, with alarm. “What happened?”
“She’s sad,” Nash explains. “She’s had a sad year.”
“More likely to be the alcohol,” Clay mutters. “I think we ought to take her home.”
I tip back my head. All that time and effort I spent on my makeup and my hair, and I’m pretty sure I must look a complete wreck right now. Plus I must smell of vom.
“But what about Annie,” I say, “and Mr. J?”
“I expect Annie will be more than happy to get a ride home with Travis,” Tucker tells me. Clay snorts somewhere behind him. “And Mr. J will appreciate not having to drive out here in the middle of the night.”
I nod. That does sound true. “I’d better check that’s okay with Annie first, though,” I say. I’m not about to disappear on my best friend, even if she is in the process of hooking up with one seriously hot barman.
Tucker goes to argue, but I shake my head. “It’s girl code,” I explain.
“Okay,” he says. “Can’t go against girl code.”
“It’s absolutely forbidden.”
“Totally.”
All four of us squeeze our way back into the bar. It’s much later now and, although the bar is heaving, it’s not quite as busy as it was a couple of hours ago. We find Annie still sitting by the bar, deep in conversation with Travis.
“We’re taking Hollie home,” Clay tells his sister.
Annie immediately jumps off her seat. “We’re going already?” she says.
I take her hands in mine. “No, I’m going,” I say. “I’m not feeling so hot. I guess I can’t drink like I used to. You stay here.” I do the eyes thing that lets her know I’m more than happy for her to stay with the hot barman.
She grins at me and then wraps me in a hug, immediately jumping straight back. “Geez, Hollie, you smell revolting.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Like I said, the alcohol may not have agreed with me.”
“Definitely didn’t,” Clay mutters.
Annie focuses in on her big brother. “Take good care of her,” she says. “No funny business.”
“Funny business?” he repeats with disgust.
“She’s my friend.”
Clay takes a step forward and glares at the barman sitting beside Annie. “Yeah, and she’s my little sister,” he warns him.
Travis nods. “You know I’ll always treat her like a lady.”
“Ugh,” Annie says. “Please don’t. That’s the last thing I want.”
Clay looks like he might erupt, so it’s probably lucky that his pack mate Nash grips his arm and leads him out of the bar, Tucker taking my hand and leading me out too.
Soon I’m tucked up in the back of their truck, a blanket wrapped around my lap.
And even sooner, I think I’m drifting off asleep, because the next moment I’m being carried out of the truck and up to the house.
“Oh!” I squeal, finding myself tucked up against Tucker’s chest once again. “I can walk.”
“You looked so cozy. Didn’t want to wake you,” he tells me.
“Yeah, but it’s not a good look, being carried in, is it?” I tell him. “I don’t want Mr. and Mrs. Jackson to know how drunk I was. Please don’t tell them.”
He smiles, places me back on my feet, and pushes open the door. “Sure,” he says. “My lips are sealed. You think you can make it up to your room?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “I’m feeling so much better.” I hesitate. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Hollie Bright,” he tells me.
And I have a feeling that if I hadn’t nearly fallen on my ass, embarrassed myself dancing on the bar and vomited in the snow, he would have kissed me.