Chapter 16 #2
"We got this," Tony says. He cracks his knuckles, looking way too intense for a Tuesday night. "I brushed up on 80s hair bands. I'm locked and loaded."
I take a sip of my cider. This is a lot.
The Paddock Brewery smells like spilled beer and fryer grease, and every single person in here is shouting over every other single person. It's sensory chaos. Just the kind of place I used to love. Exactly the kind of place Bethany keeps dragging me to. It's not my scene anymore.
But I'm wedged between Reid and Tony, and honestly? I don't hate it.
Partly because these two are genuinely funny. Partly because this is the first time I've ever walked into a bar and had a table already waiting for me. A spot. My spot.
Not my spot. Theirs. But still.
"You guys know there are categories other than music, right?
" Angie asks. She's sitting across from me, four months pregnant with dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and a smile that makes it clear why Tony lights up every time he talks about her.
Her hand rests on the gentle curve of her bump, and she's currently eyeing Reid's pretzel basket with intense focus.
Tony's got his arm draped protectively along the back of her chair.
"Music is the soul of trivia, Ang," Reid says. He slides the basket toward her without asking, and she doesn't hesitate to dive in. "But yes. We also have Blake for the boring stuff."
I look toward the end of the booth. Blake's nursing a dark stout, flannel sleeves rolled up, forearms braced on the table like he's holding it down. He looks like he'd rather be literally anywhere else on the planet.
He's in the corner seat. The exposed one.
The one where every drunk idiot stumbling past clips your shoulder.
I watched him pick it when we sat down — just walked straight to the worst spot without a second of hesitation.
Didn't even glance at the other options.
Like putting himself between the room and the rest of us was something his body decided before his brain caught up.
This is only the second time I've really been around him, so who knows. Maybe that's just his face. Maybe he always looks like he's enduring something. I have a feeling Reid was pretty insistent he come tonight. And Reid is a very hard man to say no to.
"I don't do boring," Blake says, voice low. He's scanning the room — watching the people moving around us instead of the TV screens. "I do accuracy."
"Same thing," Reid grins.
I watch Blake for another second. He hasn't looked at the menu, hasn't touched the pretzels. He's just watching the door. Reid served in the military too, but he's currently trying to balance a pretzel on his nose while arguing with Tony about onion rings.
So the hyper-vigilance? Blake thing.
"Alright, listen up!" the MC yells over the speakers. "Round one is 'History of Fast Food.' Pencils up!"
Reid gasps. Actually gasps. Hand to chest. "I was born for this."
For the next twenty minutes, I mostly just try to keep up.
Reid and Tony are a force of nature — they shout answers, high-five over correct guesses about the Big Mac, and argue passionately about whether Taco Bell counts as Mexican food.
Tony says yes. Reid says it's its own food group. This goes on for four minutes.
Angie eats her growing pile of wings and shakes her head. "You get used to it," she tells me. "Eventually, the ringing in your ears stops."
Blake stays quiet in his corner. He answers two questions — one about the founder of Wendy's and one about the year the drive-thru was invented — without looking up from his beer. Right both times.
"Okay, settle down," the MC says. "Round three. Geography. Double points."
Reid groans. "Geography. My nemesis."
"Question one. Which South American country has English as its official language?"
The table goes quiet.
"Brazil," Tony says immediately. "It's huge. Everyone speaks English there."
"No, idiot, they speak Portuguese," Reid says. "It's Argentina. My cousin went there. Said it was basically Europe."
"It's not Argentina," Tony argues. "It's gotta be Brazil."
They're both writing 'Brazil' on the answer sheet.
"It's Guyana," I say.
Reid stops writing. Looks at me. Back at the paper. Back at me. "Guyana? Is that even a country? I thought that was a fruit."
Angie drops her forehead into her hand. "That's guava, Reid."
"It's Guyana," I say again. "I did a clinic there two years ago. It's the only one."
Reid hesitates. He looks at Tony, who shrugs. Then he looks at Blake.
Blake finally looks away from the crowd. His eyes find mine across the table, and he holds there for a beat. Then he gives a single, sharp nod.
"She's right," he says. His voice is gravel compared to Reid's shouting. "Write it down."
Reid scribbles Guyana on the sheet just as the timer runs out. When the answers are read a minute later and we get the points, Reid lets out a whoop that turns heads three tables over.
"That is my girl!" He wraps an arm around my neck and kisses my temple loud and wet. "The brain on this woman! We are never losing again!"
I smile, heat crawling up my neck. It feels good. Not just getting it right, but being part of the win. Being part of something. Having the one weird thing nobody else at this table could pull out of their brain.
The obnoxious kiss was pretty great too.
Across the table, Blake takes a slow sip of his beer. Doesn't cheer. Doesn't react. But he catches my eye over the rim of his glass. Dips his chin — just an inch. Acknowledgment.
Then he goes back to watching the door.
Did I just get the Blake Moore seal of approval? What's next, a handshake? A firm nod at my funeral?
By round four, the table is covered in empty baskets and sticky rings from the glasses.
"I need water," Angie announces. "And a bathroom break. But mostly water."
"I'll get it," I say, sliding out of the booth before Reid can move. "I need to stretch anyway. Anyone else need anything?"
"Another IPA," Reid says, flashing that smile that still makes my stomach flip. "You're an angel."
"Stout," Blake says. He stands up. "I'll help you carry them."
"I've got it, Blake. It's just three drinks."
"Bar's crowded," is all he says. He's already moving, effectively cutting off my protest.
He's right. The bar is a mob scene. A local college team must have just finished a game, because the place is suddenly swarming with guys in jerseys who have clearly already a few beers deep.
I squeeze toward the bar counter, dodging elbows. It's tight. I have to turn sideways to slip between a pillar and a group doing shots.
"Two IPAs and a stout, please," I yell to the bartender. "And a water with no ice."
While I wait, the crowd surges. Someone bumps me hard from the left, knocking me into the counter.
"Watch it, sweetheart," one of the jersey guys slurs. He's looming over me, grinning in a way that makes my skin crawl. "You look like you need a better drink than that water."
"I'm good," I say, turning my back.
"Come on, just one shot. Don't be boring." He reaches out, his hand aiming for my arm.
A wall of flannel appears between us.
Blake steps in. He doesn't shove the guy. He just occupies the space where the guy's hand was going to be. Plants his feet, broad shoulders blocking out the lights, creating a human barrier between me and the rest of the room.
"She said she's good," Blake says. His voice isn't loud, but it cuts through the noise like a blade.
The guy blinks, looking up at Blake, then down at Blake's arms. Takes a step back. "Chill, man. Just being friendly."
"Be friendly somewhere else."
The guy disappears into the crowd.
I let out a breath, the tension in my spine loosening. "Thanks."
Blake turns to face me. We're pressed together in the crush, closer than we've ever been. I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
"You okay?" he asks. He's looking at my face, checking for... I don't know what. Panic? It was a drunk college guy. I've had worse, more times than I can count. You haven't lived until you've had a five-foot-tall Thai man try to motorboat you in a nightclub.
"I'm fine. Just loud."
He nods, but he doesn't move away. His hand is resting on the bar behind me — not touching me, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of his arm. Boxing me in. Creating this stupid little pocket of quiet in the middle of everything.
The bar noise drops out. Just — gone. And for a second it's just him. The stubble on his jaw. The way his breathing has slowed down. The way his eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
Something about the look in his eyes makes the back of my neck tingle. Then the bartender slams the drinks onto the counter behind me.
Blake flinches. Steps back immediately, his face closing down like a shutter.
"Grab the water," he says, voice rougher than before. He picks up the three beers with his large hands, turning away. "Let's go."
He walks back to the table without waiting for me, cutting through the crowd like a plow.
I stand there for a second. Gripping the cup of water.
What was that?
When I get back to the table, Blake is already seated, staring at the TV screens. His knuckles are white around his glass.
"We won!" Reid yells as I slide in next to him. "We got the bonus question! We're getting the gift card!"
"Nice," I manage.
Reid kisses my cheek, warm and easy, and the weird feeling loosens.
"Best night ever," Reid says.
"Yeah," I say. "It really is."
We finish the drinks, cash out the tab, and walk out into the cool Oregon night air. The ringing in my ears fades.
"You guys heading out?" Tony asks, helping Angie into their car.
"Yeah," Reid says. He turns to me, wrapping his arms around my waist. "Unless... you want to come back to the house? We can celebrate the victory."
"Yeah," I say, looking up at him. "I'd like that."
Reid grins, opening the truck door for me. "Perfect."
As I climb in, I catch Blake watching us from the other side of the cab. Something crosses his face — there and gone before I can read it. He starts the engine, and the roar fills the silence.