Chapter 14 #2
For one second, all either of us does is look.
She’s wearing cutoff shorts and one of those thin tanks that shouldn’t be sexy but absolutely is, her hair up in a loose knot that’s half fallen apart around her face. No makeup beyond what she always wears. No stage lights. No music. No men watching.
And I still react.
That alone ought to tell me enough.
The Ambrosia girl clears her throat. “I can give you a minute.”
“No,” Allison says before I can. “You don’t have to—”
The girl has already read the room better than most men twice her age. She lifts the clipboard slightly in Allison’s direction. “I’ll put this in the office. You can grab it later.”
Then she’s gone.
I look at Allison. She looks right back. There’s no surprise in her face. No confusion. And that, more than anything, tells me she knows exactly why I’m standing here.
“You signed up for amateur night.”
Not a question.
Her chin lifts just slightly. “Looks like it.”
A hot, hard wave of anger goes through me so fast it almost blurs my vision. “At Ambrosia.”
Now one of her brows goes up. “That is where it happens, yes.” Sarcasm.
Great.
I take one step closer. “What the hell are you thinking?”
She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Wow. Starting off strong.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“No, you’re not.”
Her whole body changes at that. Not bigger. Not louder. Just tighter. Sharper. “You don’t get to tell me whether I’m serious.”
I ignore that because if I don’t, I’m going to lose the thread entirely. “That room is full of drunk men every weekend. You know that.”
“Yes, I know how Ambrosia works, Jimmy. I’ve been around it my whole life.”
“Then you should know better.”
There it is.
The line lands between us hard enough that even I know I’ve crossed something.
Her eyes flash. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“No, I heard you say something arrogant and deeply insulting, so I’m giving you one chance to fix it.”
I drag in a breath and fail to do anything close to fixing it. “I’m saying you know exactly what kind of attention that’s gonna draw.”
“And?”
“And?” I repeat, incredulous enough that the word comes out rough. “That’s your answer?”
She folds her arms over her chest and shifts her weight onto one hip. “Maybe I don’t have a problem with attention.”
Every muscle in my body locks. Because I know exactly who that answer is for. Or at least who it feels like it’s for. And I hate the way that possibility hits me low and mean.
“This is a bad idea.”
Her laugh comes quick and sharp. “You keep saying that like it should matter more to me than the fact that I’m the one making the choice.”
“It should matter because I know what those men are like.”
“And I don’t?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you keep implying.”
I scrub a hand over my jaw because this is already going sideways, and the worst part is I can’t even say the real reason without blowing the whole damn thing open.
The real reason is not that Ambrosia’s dangerous. It’s not that she can’t handle herself. It’s not even that men are pigs, though plenty of them are.
The real reason is that the thought of her up there is driving me out of my fucking mind. Because I know what other men will see. Because I know what I’ll see. Because once that image exists in my head, I’m not sure I’ll ever get rid of it.
“I’m looking out for you,” I say instead, and I know the second the words leave my mouth that they’re weak.
Allison knows it too. Her expression goes flat. “There it is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that’s your favorite line when you want to act like you own my choices.”
I step closer before I can stop myself. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
She doesn’t move back.
Good. Also terrible.
“Really?” she asks quietly. “Because from where I’m standing, that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
I can feel my pulse in my teeth now. “Allie.”
“No.” Her voice cuts clean through mine. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say my name like that when you’re about to start bossing me around.”
I stare at her.
She stares right back.
This is the problem with Allison. With Allie.
With Landon’s little sister and Ana’s best friend and the woman I’ve spent years trying not to look at too hard.
She never backs down. Never softens just because a man gets bigger or louder or more intense.
She plants her feet and gives it right back, and every time she does, some part of me respects her for it while the rest of me gets meaner because she should not be this impossible.
“Why this?” I ask, forcing my voice lower. “Why amateur night?”
A beat passes. Then another.
Her expression shifts just enough for me to know I hit something real. “Maybe I wanted to.”
“That’s bullshit.”
She laughs once, not kindly. “You don’t get to decide what my reasons are.”
“I do when they’re stupid.”
There it is again. The line. The push too hard, too fast, too obvious. But I can’t seem to stop.
Allison’s eyes narrow. “You know what? I’m actually getting really tired of you talking to me like I’m still sixteen.”
That lands harder than I expect.
Maybe because she’s right. Maybe because part of me has always treated her like I could keep her in some safer category if I just held the line hard enough. Maybe because the truth is, the line stopped feeling safe a long damn time ago.
I drop my voice. “This isn’t about that.”
“Then what is it about?”
I don’t answer.
Because I can’t. Because what I want to say is that every instinct in me is screaming at the thought of her on that stage.
Because what I want to say is that Landon trusting me around her has become one of the ugliest things about this whole mess, since I’m not safe for her the way I’m supposed to be.
Because what I want to say is that I know exactly what kind of man watches amateur night at Ambrosia, because I’ve been in that room, and I’d like to break the hands off every one of them for even thinking about looking at her that way.
Instead I say, “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
She lets out a breath through her nose and shakes her head like I’m disappointing her in real time. “No,” she says. “I really don’t.”
That shouldn’t get under my skin as much as it does.
“You signed up because you’re trying to prove something.”
“And if I am?”
“Then pick a smarter way to do it.”
“Maybe I’m done picking smarter ways.”
The words hit like a fist.
Because there’s something in her voice now that wasn’t there a second ago. Not just anger. Something older. Something tired. And under that, something that feels a hell of a lot like hurt.
My jaw tightens. “What the hell does that mean?”
She laughs again, but there’s no humor in it. “Come on, Jimmy. Keep up.”
I don’t like the way she says my name right then. Not because it’s cold. Because it isn’t.
It’s worse.
There’s too much history in it. Too much frustration. Too much of whatever has been building between us for years now and keeps finding new ways to bleed through.
“I’m trying to keep you from doing something dumb,” I say.
“No,” she shoots back immediately. “You’re trying to keep me in the same little box you’ve always kept me in, and I’m over it.”
I go still.
Because there it is. The thing under all of this. The accusation I’ve been avoiding ever since Ambrosia the other night and probably long before that.
She steps closer. Not enough to touch. Enough that I can feel the heat of her. Enough that her voice doesn’t have to rise at all when she says, “You don’t get to ignore me one minute and then come charging in the second another guy notices me.”
Every muscle in my body goes tight. “Allie—”
“No,” she says again, sharper this time. “You don’t get to do that either.”
“Do what?”
“Act like this has anything to do with protecting me.”
The hallway feels too narrow now. Too quiet. Like the whole clubhouse is holding its breath even though I know that’s impossible.
I lower my voice because if I don’t, this becomes a scene. “You think I’m making this up?”
“I think you only ever seem to care when somebody else is looking at me.”
The words land exactly where they did at Ambrosia. Same wound. Same ugly truth under it.
I have no answer she’d accept. Not because there isn’t one. Because the real one is worse than silence.
I care all the time.
That’s the problem.
I care when she walks into a room. When she laughs with the women. When she says my name like she knows exactly where to put it. When she looks too damn right in the middle of a life I’m not supposed to picture her in.
I care all the time.
I just only let it show when another man gets too close, because that’s the only time I can pretend my reaction is about being protective instead of what it actually is. And what it actually is would get me buried by Landon if I ever said it out loud.
So I say the one thing that’s true enough to survive on. “You know why I care.”
Her face changes. Not softer. Not harder. Just wounded in a way I hate immediately.
“No,” she says quietly. “I really don’t.”
God.
This again. That same impossible question wrapped in different words. The same demand for honesty I keep failing to meet.
Because if I tell her the truth, I blow up more than just us. I blow up Landon. Ana. Torch. Every line I’ve tried not to cross.
And maybe that makes me a coward, because I still can’t do it.
So I stand there looking at her with a thousand words in my throat and none of them usable.
She waits half a second longer than she should. Then something in her face locks down. “All right,” she says. She moves like she’s done with this, stepping around me toward the common room, and instinct punches through thought before I can stop it.
“Don’t do it.”
She stops. Turns. Looks at me like she cannot believe the balls on me. “Wow.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“This isn’t funny, Allie.”
Her eyes flash. “I’m not laughing.”
And there it is.
That line of stubborn steel that’s always been in her, now sharpened into something that hits me right in the mouth.
I can feel the whole thing slipping. Every attempt at control, every careful distance I’ve kept, every excuse I’ve used to make this about anything except the truth.
Landon appears at the far end of the hallway before either of us says another word. “Everything good?”
The question is simple. Brotherly. Casual.
It cuts through me like a blade.
Because he’s looking at me first. Because he trusts me. Because he has no idea that I’m standing here in a hallway trying not to drag his sister back into a conversation I have no right to be having with her in the first place.
Allie doesn’t look at him. She keeps her eyes on me.
That feels worse.
“Peachy,” she says.
Landon looks between us, reading enough tension to know something’s off but not enough to call it yet. “You two fighting?”
“No,” I say too quickly.
Allie gives me one long, unimpressed look that says she noticed exactly how fast that answer came.
Then she looks at her brother and shrugs. “Jimmy thinks he gets a vote in my life choices.”
Landon’s brows go up slowly.
Here we go.
I beat him to it because the last thing I need is him asking follow-up questions in this hallway. “She signed up for amateur night.”
Landon’s whole face changes. “She what?”
Allie exhales like she’s exhausted. “I’m still standing here, by the way.”
“The fuck you did,” Landon says.
“See?” she snaps, throwing a hand up. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell either of you.”
“Either of us?” Landon repeats.
I say nothing, because that one word should not have landed in my chest the way it just did.
Allie folds her arms and looks between us. “I’m not a child.”
“No one said you were,” Landon says.
“You both act like it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s not fair?” Her laugh is sharp now, edged with every ounce of frustration she’s apparently been sitting on for God knows how long. “You two have spent my entire life deciding what’s best for me like I’m a problem to manage, and now suddenly it’s not fair if I do one thing without permission?”
I watch Landon take that hit. Watch him realize this is bigger than the sign-up sheet.
And then, because apparently she’s not done with me specifically, she turns back my way.
“You know what?” she says. “Don’t watch.”
I blink once. “What?”
“If you don’t like it so much, don’t watch.”
The words hang there.
Challenge. Dare. Punishment.
Landon looks between us again, definitely hearing too much now.
I should say something smart. Something dismissive. Something that makes it seem like I don’t care nearly enough for this to matter.
Instead I just stare at her.
Because there is no version of tomorrow night where I’m not in that room. No version where I let her step onto that stage and don’t watch every damn second with my teeth grinding and my hands curling into fists. No version where I hand that over to a room full of strangers and pretend I’m above it.
Allie sees the answer on my face before I say a word.
Of course she does.
Her mouth twists, half bitter and half triumphant, like maybe that’s exactly what she wanted to prove. Then she steps around both of us and walks away without another word.
Landon lets the silence sit for two beats before he turns to me slowly. “What the hell was that?”
I drag a hand over my face. “Nothing.”
“That didn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s handled.”
His expression says he thinks that’s bullshit. He’s probably right. He studies me for another second, too sharp, too familiar, too much like a man who knows me well enough to hear the strain I’m trying to hide.
Then, because he’s still Landon and because some part of him trusts me even now, he just says, “If this is about her doing amateur night, I’ll deal with it.”
That should help.
It doesn’t.
Because the second he says anything to her, the second he throws himself into the role he’s always had with her, all I can think is that I should’ve let him handle it from the start.Because he’s her brother. Because he has the right. Because I don’t.
There’s a beat of silence.
I look past him toward the common room, toward where Allison disappeared, and I tell myself again that she’s off-limits. That she is not mine to touch. That there is a line here and I know exactly where it is.
But tomorrow night?
Tomorrow night I’m going to watch every second.