Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
JUNE
I squint at the man. He seems unsteady on his feet, the poor guy. Sure, he had a gun in his hand, but I mean, that’s not that unusual. During hunting season. Something about the gun didn’t match hunting season, though.
I slam into a dude in a frat shirt.
“Whoops,” I tell him. He laughs, catching me around the waist, and I wriggle from his grip. “No, thank you,” I say sternly.
The blond man’s looking around, still wobbling a little. I bite my lip. Maybe I’m the unsteady one. The shot glass full of shitty tequila sloshes in my hand as I push my way through the celebrating college students to where the man stands.
His mouth is pinched in pain, and guilt stabs me.
Or maybe that’s tequila. Can’t be too sure of these things.
“Lisen, I am so sorry ‘bout what happened. Can I get you a drink—” I start.
“Can you get me a fucking drink?” The man’s face turns red, his accent so thick I can barely understand him. Or maaaaaybe my ears have stopped working right. “No, but I’ll tell you what you can fucking get me.”
“There’s literally, lit-er-ally no reason to yell at me. Maybe a figuraaaative reason, but not a literal one. Wait… did I ge’ thooosse missed up? Messed up? Missed up.” My lips twist to the side as I tilt my head. What the heck was I talking about? Face tingling, I twitch my nose, trying to recover some semblance of sensation.
“What the hell are you doing?”
My nose twitches again. “You’ve seen Bewitched ? You know. That old show?” A sudden laugh surprises me. “Just tell me what it is you want and I’ll twitch my nose at it.”
Someone laughs at my joke. I blink. Wait, I’m the one laughing.
The man levels a furious look at me, opening his mouth to speak, but my finger goes up to stop him. I blink in confusion when it disappears, a massive hand closing around it.
Dean.
“Hiiiizaiiir.” I smile up at him, narrowing my eyes. “Hi. Zair. There.” There it is. I got it right.
Dean’s other hand presses into my lower back, sending an excited thrill through me, and my eyes squeeze shut.
“She’s with me,” the Russian says, and I blink my eyes open. His face is still scuffed up, and it looks like it hurts.
“No, I’m not,” I tell him. I glance back up at Dean. “I’m not with him, am I?”
I don’t think I am.
“I want him to go away,” I say plaintively. Dean can’t know Charlie ran him over. Even my tipsy—okay, drunk—brain knows that’s a bad idea.
“Is there a problem here?” Dean’s voice is low, a deep, threatening rasp.
“Is there a fucking problem here?” he repeats, his temple throbbing.
“There’s no problem, no problem. Seeeeeee.” I spread my hands wide. “Charlie kind of had a little accident.”
“Charlie, huh? Charlie?” the man nearly shouts, his furious eyes lock on me. “I don’t give a fuck about this Charlie.”
“You are very rude,” I say on a gasp, clutching at my imaginary pearls. My hand misses, though, and I manage to grab my own boob instead. Embarrassed, I immediately drop the boob.
Man-handling myself. Maybe I should have listened to Charlie.
“I want the fucking shipment.” The man’s ranting now, slipping in and out of another language. Russian, my brain reminds me.
“The shipment?” I repeat, slurring. “Poor thing. I bet you have a consuchion. Concunshion. Consuncion. Concushion. Close enough.” I sigh.
Dean’s knuckles crack.
“Calm down, tiger,” I manage.
He gives me a look that’s full of reproach.
The Russian grabs at my arm, and I slap his hand.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss at him. The effect is slightly minimized by the fact I can’t see straight. “You know you’re bleeding?” I frown at the offending trickle, closing my right eye, then left, trying to focus on it. “Head wounds bleed a lot. A lot, a lot.” I glance back at Dean. “Did you know a lot is two words? A lot of people don’t know that. Anyyyywayyyy.”
Trying to focus, I look back at the man, swatting away his hands again.
Dean’s tucked me up against his chest, and it’s nice. Really warm.
“What was I saying? Oh yeah. You realllllly shouln’t be out and about. Not like this, anyway, with blood. It’s kinda not a good look, you know? Honestly, it’s gross. It’s realllllllly gross. People are trying to eat. This is a family establishment.” I’m not quite sure what I’m talking about. It’s getting harder and hard to think straight. It’s fine, though. I have to fix this. I need to help this poor, grumpy man.
Alcohol!
I know how to fix this. The man reaches for me again, and this time, I let him grab me. Alcohol’s a good sanitizer. Everyone knows that.
Dean makes it harder to get to him though, his hand fisting the back of my blouse.
“Heeeere, here, lemme clean it.”
The man reaches for something behind his back, and Dean stiffens beside me as I splash a little of my drink onto the man’s gashed forehead.
“You dumb bitch .” He howls, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes.
“Oh goshdarnit, your eyes, I’m so sooorry, okay, just let me help.” I reach for his eyes, splashing the remnants of my drink onto his face.
The world shifts and I’m suddenly airborne, hefted over Dean’s shoulder, being rushed out of the bar.
Blowing the hair out of my face, I poke Dean in the side. “I wasn’t done with my queso.”
“Fuck the queso,” Dean growls.
“Why do you hate queso? Are you lactose tolerant? Intolerant. Tolerating lactose badly. Does it make your tummy hurt?”
An alarm blares.
Someone falls into my feet, panicked people fleeing out the front door in a tidal wave of humanity.
“What happened?” I ask, confused. “Where are Pierce and Charlie? Pierson? Person? What was his name?”
Dean just grunts, moving efficiently through the crowd and to the huge Jeep out front.
“Heeeyyyyy. Wait, where are you taking me?” My head bounces as Dean runs. “Ugh, that makes my stomach hurt.”
“Don’t puke on me.”
I snort. “I’m not going to…”
Well, maybe I am. “Listen, we just met, and this is all moving a lil’ bit fast for me.”
He’s too fast. The palm trees outside blur as my brain pounds against my head.
Oh my god, drunk. So drunk.
Tequila on an empty stomach was a superbly poor choice rounding out a day full of poor choices.
“Queso would have been a great choice,” I lament.
My nose scrunches up. Maybe Dean did have a point about the margarita, although he’s gone a step too far.
“You owe me another maragrita. Maragarita. Margarita. And queso.”
“Hmmph.” Dean plops me into the Jeep, reaching over to buckle me in before vaulting over the hood to slide into the driver’s side. “You’re done with tequila for tonight, babe.”
“I’m not your babe,” I counter. “Don’t call me babe.”
“Okay, babe.”
Tires squeal as we peel out of the parking lot, his eyes moving from the rearview mirror to me and back. The force squishes me against his shoulder, my internal balance failing miserably as we round the corner onto the highway.
I take a breath, breathing in his rock-hard shoulder. “You smell really good.”
“You smell like tequila.”
“Well, that’s logical, I sppooooose.” I close one eye, then the other. Dang.
“That was tequila, not water. I threw tequila in his face.” I rub my eyes, trying to find some semblance of sobriety. “You know. That guy. Charlie ran him over. That’s why he’s mad. And consunshed. Conchussed. Concussed? Concussed.”
Dean casts a sideways glance at me.
Crap. So much for not telling him that. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
He grunts, turning back to the road. He doesn’t even seem fazed at all by Charlie’s, ah, hit-and-run.
“Did you hear what I said?” My head rolls a little, and I press the back of my hand to my forehead, rubbing my numb face. “The man I threw my drink at, at the bar, was bleeding everywhere because Charlie hit him with my truck. He had a gun,” I say, smacking my lips. Ugh. I feel like shit. “Why did he have a gun?”
Air whips through the car and I gulp it down, trying again to sober up. Leaning out the open window, my stomach grumbles.
“I need food.”
“We need to get somewhere safe,” Dean says. “Fuck.” He smashes his hand into the steering wheel. The violence acts as a shock to my senses, sobering me up a little.
“Take me home,” I manage, stomach churning more now. “I’m safe at home.”
Dean shoots a surprised look my way, his eyebrows furrowing together.
“Your face is going to get stuck like that,” I say, mirroring my face to his. “I can’t feel my face. Ugh.” Leaning back out the window, I gulp fresh air. Like that’ll help.
“Here.” He reaches down, across the center console, his bicep brushing against the top of my thigh, and my lower half tightens. Drunk or sober, I can’t say I mind it at all. The feel of his strong —really freaking strong—arm against the bare skin of my leg has me closing my eyes, imaging what else those strong hands can do.
The sound of a water bottle crinkling reaches my ears and I blink, coming back to reality, staring at the open bottle in front of me.
“Drink.” He thrusts the bottle into my face, some of the water splashing across my chest, soaking my white shirt.
“Scuse you. This is not a wet t-shirt contest, those are on the Padre Islands, sir.”
Dean arches an eyebrow, tugging his eyes from the road to meet mine, then drifts south, to my now clinging, sodden, see-through blouse.
Heat floods me, and I guzzle from the bottle.
I’m never drinking again.
“Don’t call me sir.”
I want to say it again, just to see what he’ll do .
“Here.” He tosses a protein bar into my lap, “Eat. Sober up.”
I take another drink, hydration being key to any situation, then set the bottle aside. Unwrapping the bar, I grimace at the waxy brown exterior. “This looks gross.”
“So does vomit.”
I scrunch my nose up and take a bite. “Tastes like chocolate chalk.”
“Just eat it.” His focus stays on the road, laser tight.
The chalk helps a little, the water and food settling my stomach as I chew. And chew. And chew. Ok, maybe it’s more like cement.
Taking another drink, I watch the sun’s spectacular orange and hot pink bleed into the purple sky as it sinks below the horizon.
“It’s so beautiful out here.”
Dean grunts, eyes darting to the rearview mirror and back. His shoulders bunch together, the muscles in his arms twitching as his hands flex, fingers drumming the steering wheel.
A tattoo peeks out from his tight sleeve, and I extend my finger, curiosity getting the better of me. Almost of its own accord, my index finger nudges the sleeve up, revealing more glorious golden skin, and the bottom of…
His hand grips my wrist, not so tight that it hurts, but enough to get my attention. To get me to stop.
“Phew,” I exhale. “Okay, okay, I get it.”
“Keep your hands to yourself.” The words are mean, but his voice is almost gentle.
I should be embarrassed. But I can’t help the maniacal giggles threatening to turn into tears at any moment.
Thanks, tequila.
Here I am, in a stranger’s car, drunk off my ass, after Charlie hits a guy with my truck.
“You need food. Eat.” He plucks the protein bar out of my hand, holding it in front of my mouth as he drives.
“ You need food,” I say before taking a reluctant bite. “I need queso.”
He chuckles, a low rasp that makes my skin tingle. I grab the nasty bar back from him. At lease I’m regaining feeling in my extremities.
My gaze wanders to his extremities, cataloguing their many fine qualities.
“Why can’t I look at your tattoo? Do you have more on other body parts?” If I lick my lips, it’s because they’re dry. No other reason.
A hint of amusement curls his lips.
“You want to look at my tattoos, huh?” His eyes slide from the windshield, taking me in, trailing over my body, leaving more heat in their wake. “I have more than that one.”
He raises an eyebrow. Is that an invitation?
“You said not to touch you.”
“Now you have permission. I’m ready for it, now.”
Ready for it? The thought jogs me further from my drunken state, and I wrinkle my nose. Oh. God. He probably has PTSD. Or something where he doesn’t like to be touched. I’m an asshole.
“Sorry I touched you before,” I say quietly, slightly stricken. I have a feeling I’d be more stricken were it not for my blood alcohol level. More protein bar it is.
“It’s okay. Look if you want to.” He glances sidelong at me. “If it will keep you from puking in the Jeep, even better.”
I reach out, watching his eyes, but his gaze shifts back to the road. The pad of my finger touches the bottom of the tattoo, the cloth of his black shirt inching up. The muscle tenses as I tug on it. I glance up at his face. His dark eyes stay focused on the road, tight lines forming around his mouth.
He’s tense.
“What happened to you?” I murmur, shaking my head.
He doesn’t answer, and I look my fill at the ink on his skin.
It’s a skull tattoo, a knife in its mouth, a simple grayscale. A flag of text curves around the top of the skull, so I nudge the sleeve higher.
I’ve seen this before, but my brain can’t quite connect it.
“That’s enough.” Dean shrugs his massive shoulders. Startled, I remove my hand, letting it fall to my lap.
“Sorry.”
So, he’s taking me home, and he doesn’t want me touching him? Maybe he is a gentleman, after all.
Sticking a finger out, my lips screw up as I try to tick off what I know about Dean.
Dean…
“What’s your last name anyway?”
“Evans.”
“Dean Evans.”
Okay. I tap my index finger against my thigh.
One, his name is Dean Evans.
Two—I stare at the number two my fingers make, closing one eye, trying to remember.
Facts.
Facts always ground me. So does food. I force down another bite of the protein bar and refocus.
Two, he’s military. Or ex-military. That tattoo is familiar enough. My dad had a similar one, after all. And then there’s his massive bulk that seems purely made up of muscles…
Nope.
Thinking about muscles is a bad idea. A real bad one. I stare at my fingers, willing more facts to appear.
Three, he seems, for all intents and purposes, to be a gentleman. Despite the accidental wet t-shirt contest, he isn’t giving off any serial killer vibes. In fact, he seems nice.
Well, he’s at least not triggering fight or flight. Hopefully the tequila hasn’t broken that brain functionality. I table the thought. For now.
Four, he’s taking care of me, despite the fact I’ve been nothing but weird since we met.
“We’re nearly there,” he interrupts my thoughts and belabored counting.
“What?”
“We’re nearly to your house,” he repeats. “And I don’t think we’ve been followed.”
“Followed?” My mouth twists to the side, and I tear off another chunk of protein bar. “Why would we be followed?”
My paranoia rears its ugly head again, and adrenaline burns off more of the alcohol.
His eyes leave the road, something feral in them, making me sit up straighter.
“You don’t have any idea why we might have been followed?”
I shake my head, strands of hair lashing around my face.
“You sure about that?”
“I might be a lot of things, Dean Evans. Like right now, I am a little drunk, and a lot nauseous, and grossed out at this protein bar you had lying around for who knows how long, but I’m not a liar.” I glare at him.
He grunts at me.
“Dean, Dean, the ex-Marine, doesn’t like to be touched or wear sunscreen.”
I cringe at myself. I sound like an idiot. I hate sounding like an idiot. Even worse, now I sound like a drunk idiot. Well, embarrassment is a good sign, right? Maybe I’m a little more sober.
“I like wearing sunscreen just fine.” He shoots me an amused look, the half-smile curving his lips, making him look younger. That dimple flickering into being, along with the oddest compulsion to reach out and touch it.
“I couldn’t think of another rhyme,” I babble.
My stomach growls, and my brain finally catches up with what he said.
“Wait, hold on. Why would we be followed?” I guzzle more water, hoping it will wash away the nasty chalky feeling and maybe the drunkenness, too. “You didn’t answer me.”
“We’re here.” Dean tugs at the wheel, ignoring my question.
I look out the window, anxiety taking hold as we pull into my driveway.
Fear ripples through me as I reassess the situation.
I’m alone in a Jeep with a man I don’t know, a huge, hot man. With no phone. And ? —
Adrenaline floods my system completely, and my breath starts coming in great big gasps.
I might not be at the top of my intellectual game at the moment, but I know one thing for sure.
I never told him where I live.