Chapter 12
TWELVE
RIDGE
M y kid’s been gone three hours, and exactly as predicted, I peeled out of my clothes, threw on some basketball shorts, ordered pizza, and cracked open a beer. Then I put on reruns of last season’s baking show and sat my ass on the couch. My goal would be not to move until Sunday afternoon, in just enough time to clean my mess up before Lou gets dropped back off. That’s the good stuff right there.
Though, as the minutes have ticked by and the pizza has disappeared, I’m feeling more restless than usual. Most of the time, I sink into my precious forty hours of alone time without so much as a second thought. This time, though, something definitely feels different.
Of course, I know what the issue is. It’s Darcy. Darcy and her delicious cookies. Okay, that came out wrong. I’d blame it on the beer, but I’ve only had one and a half. Because, you know, I’m a badass.
That woman’s presence has both righted my life and spun it out of control. She brings order to my home and chaos to my heart. Oh my god, what am I even saying? I suppose it was only a matter of time before a woman came along and woke something up in me. Too bad no matter how attracted I am to her, I absolutely cannot go for it. Doesn’t mean a man can’t wish he could.
But I can promise you that if I was a younger man—maybe before Lou—and if she wasn’t my employee—maybe if she wasn’t the glue holding my life together right now—I would definitely be shooting my shot.
She mentioned an ex from more than a year ago, and I was immediately curious about what he’s like. I wanted to ask more than a few questions, starting with why they broke up. But I couldn’t tell if she’d have felt comfortable with that.
I check my watch. Eleven on a Friday night and I’m sitting here in ratty shorts, what appear to be two different socks, and I can literally feel my hair standing up on its own like a whacky inflatable tube man or whatever they call that thing. That’s pretty pathetic, right?
Maybe I should get back out there. In the dating pool, I mean. You know, back on the saddle. Though I never understood how dating and horse riding were comparable. Whatever. It doesn’t matter what you want to call it; it’s probably what I should do.
Waylon mentioned a dating app called Buzz once, so I pull up my app store and hit download before I can give it a second thought. I hit “Create Account” and start filling in my basic information. They all start the same. Name, age, what you’re looking for. Instead of writing “I wish I fucking knew” in the last box, I opt for “Anything is possible” to make me seem a little less pathetic.
I’m on the second page of creating a profile when my phone buzzes, and a text pops up at the top of my screen. It’s from Darcy. What the hell is she doing texting me this late? I exit the screen and pull up her message.
DARCY
Help?
A jolt of panic rattles in my chest. I’m suddenly thrust into protective mode and flying back to my room to get dressed as I text her back.
Address?
I don’t think to ask what’s wrong. It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t alter my course. She asked for help and I’m going to help.
My phone buzzes and I read off the address of a bar. It’s not too far away, maybe a six-minute drive, which gives me a small sense of relief. It would have driven me crazy if she were all the way on the other side of town and it was going to take me half an hour to reach her.
A highlight reel of the scenarios I could be walking into flood me. Is she hurt? Is she abandoned? Is there a guy messing with her? I’m pulling on my shoe as I lock my front door and then jog to my truck.
Hopefully the neighbors don’t complain about how fast I peel out of my driveway. Not that I give a shit. I rake my fingers through my hair, doing my best to not look totally unkempt.
The seconds tick by, and I curse every red light to hell and back. I whip my car into the parking lot of the midsized bar called Taps. It’s a popular choice for locals, as it’s just far enough off the main strip that the tourists haven’t overtaken it.
There’s a large man with his back to me at the door. The parts of his arms I can see are covered in tattoos. I’m not a small man or short, by any means. But this guy makes me look like a toddler. He turns as I approach, and his expression goes from stone to recognition in a flash.
“Ridge, right? At Bird’s Eye?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say, still trying to place him.
“Dude, you did some work on my buddy last month. I came in with him,” he says, pointing at himself.
My mind conjures up a single image of him in the shop. I nod, playing along that I remember him much better than I actually do.
“Hey, yeah. How’s it going?” I ask.
“Good, man. I was actually hoping to make an appointment with you soon for some work.”
“Sounds good,” I say. “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve gotta cut this short. My friend is in there. She needs me.”
“Say no more.” He moves away from the door.
“Thanks, man. Call the shop. We’ll get it set up.” I walk past him in a hurry, practically yelling the words back to him as I make my way inside.
The place is crowded. It’s practically wall to wall. The DJ is playing some mix of country pop, and there’s a group of women at the bar celebrating a bachelorette party. They’re dressed in white, and the bride-to-be is wearing a small veil and sash. They’re so loud I can barely hear the awful music.
I block out everything and scan the crowd for Darcy. My eyes brush over every face, searching for those familiar freckles over the bridge of her nose. I push farther into the room, into the crowd. I must say “Excuse me” twenty times, bumping shoulders with one after another, my eyes never abandoning their search.
And there she is. Her back is to me, but I know it’s her beyond a shadow of a doubt. Let’s just say her freckles aren’t the only thing about her that is familiar to me. The curve of her hips, for example. I could probably pick them out of a lineup.
She’s facing a man, which annoys me. He’s standing over her in a smothering way. In a way that makes me think she doesn’t want to be that close to him. From the look of his bloodshot eyes, he’s been drinking a fair amount.
Darcy tries to take a step backward, and the guy grips her waist, his fingers curling around her flesh. And I don’t like anything about it. She wobbles on her feet, and I know in an instant that she’s been drinking too much.
I squeeze past the last couple of people in my path to her and place my hand on her elbow for two reasons. One, to get her attention. Two, to steady her baby-deer legs.
“Ridge,” she says, hiccuping. “You’re here.”
I’m twisted in knots seeing how overserved she is. It’s much worse than my view from afar let on. With my hand on her now, I can feel just how off-balance she is.
“Yeah, let’s go,” I say.
“Hey, man,” the guy in front of her says. “She’s with me.”
“No, I’m not,” Darcy says, her words slurred.
The guy looks at her like he’s wounded and begins to step toward her. I put her behind me, staring at the guy as I block his path to her.
“You heard her,” I say firmly. “She’s not with you. So you should probably go home and sober up.”
“I know her, dude,” he says, gravel in his mouth. “It’s okay. I’ll get her home.”
“No,” I say, not breaking eye contact. “You won’t.”
He steps back, looking me up and down, and I know he’s trying to decide if he can take me. He’s assessing me with a bit more care than I expected him capable of at this stage of drunkenness.
“Whatever,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He takes a swig of his beer and eyes Darcy just past my shoulder. “I’ll text you later, Darcy.”
He walks toward the pool tables in the back, stumbling as he goes. Once I’m satisfied that he’s not waiting to surprise attack me, I turn and place a guiding hand on the small of Darcy’s back. She trips, nearly spilling onto the floor, but I catch her. My guiding hands are quickly replaced with an arm around her to help hold her up.
“Just a couple more steps to my truck,” I say. “I got ya.”
“You came,” she says, head bobbing back.
“You called for help.”
I pull open my passenger-side door and lift her into the seat, then pull the seat belt over her and click it in. Then I round the truck and climb into the driver’s seat.
The engine comes to life as I look over at Darcy. She’s slumped over, her right cheek pressed against the window. It’s probably cold and feels good. I remember that exact scenario from my drinking days.
“Darcy, can you tell me where you live?”
“Ummmm. My house is white and—” She hiccups. “And it’s got blue shutters.”
“Do you know the address?”
Her head lobs back, mouth gaped open a little, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Darcy?” I put my hand on her shoulder, gently nudging, but I get no response.
Great. Where is her friend? Wasn’t she supposed to be out with Lyric? Not that I could ask her about it. If I can’t get her address out of her, I doubt I can pry anything else out. For now, I’ll have to hope Lyric is both safe and also not the kind of friend who would abandon Darcy at a bar when she’s in a vulnerable state.
I pop the truck into reverse and back out, realization hitting me. There’s no other option than to bring her back to my house.
As I pull out onto the road, I make a mental note to ask for her address later. For emergencies—hopefully not like this—in the future.
She’s slumped over in her seat, hair all down in her face. I’m tempted to reach over and tuck it back behind her ear, but I keep my hand to myself. She’s wearing sexy ripped jeans with a short black top that exposes the most teasing little strip of skin. She’s put some soft curls into her hair, and I imagine at the beginning of the night, she felt cute and excited.
Hopefully she had some fun before it went to shit. I still don’t know why she asked for help or who that guy was, but he seemed to know her at least on some level. He said he’d text her, after all. Yeah, I didn’t love that part. Okay, I hated that part. Actually, I loathed the whole fucking interaction and the fact that he exists. But whatever.
I pull into my driveway and cut the truck, putting my hand on her shoulder again to see if she will come to. Nothing, again. I get out and shut my door behind me as quietly as I can. Then I pull her door open and gently balance her against my shoulder as I unclip her seat belt.
I scoop my arm under her bottom, deciding it will be easier to carry her in if she’s over my shoulder. It’s almost a fireman’s carry, but not quite. Her center of gravity is a little lower, like she’s perched on my arm instead. But it does the trick. I’m careful not to grab anywhere I shouldn’t. Any halfway decent dude can help a woman without groping her if they try hard enough. I’ve just found that there are too many who don’t try at all.
Without hesitation, I carry her back to my bed and deposit her onto the mattress. Her body curls up into a fetal position almost immediately. The only thing I remove are her shoes, then I flip the blanket over her and tuck it around her.
Her hair is still a mess all over her face. My fingers twitch at my side. I breathe out, reaching before I can change my mind. This internal turmoil is getting on my nerves.
My index finger grazes the supple skin of her cheek. It’s flushed pink and a little splotchy from the alcohol. But she’s not any less beautiful. We’ve all been where she is right now. No judgment here.
I tuck the loose strands back out of her face one at a time, until the curtain of hair is gone and I can see her whole face. I pull her glasses off and place them onto the bedside table. Thinking ahead, I retrieve a glass of water and a bottle of acetaminophen from my bathroom and place them next to her glasses. And for good measure, I put a small trash can right next to the bed, too. Vomiting is synonymous with nights like this. I wouldn’t judge her.
I pause at the door, taking one last look at her as I breathe a little easier, the panic I first felt while reading her text dissipating. She’s safe. I retreat to the living room and pick up my mess of pizza boxes and beer bottles. Luckily for me, my couch is pretty comfortable. This won’t be the first time I’ve slept on it. Of course, most of the time I fall asleep here it’s just because Lou isn’t here and I’m lazy as fuck. I fall asleep watching trash TV late into the night.
There are several questions I have for Darcy in the morning. But for now, I change into a clean pair of shorts, pull the blanket from the back of the couch, and settle onto my bed for the night.
I would tell you that I don’t spend the minutes before falling asleep replaying the night. I would tell you that I don’t rub my thumb and index finger together, still feeling the strands of her hair between them. I would tell you that I’m not wishing I was lying back there in that bed beside her.
But I won’t. Because I’d be lying. And that’s some scary shit.