Chapter 20
ELLIOTT
August
Two questions:
It’s almost closing time and Loren and her friend are still here. Normally, I’d be laying down the law and kicking them out so we can get home. But she’s entertaining as hell when she’s drunk.
Why is she so drunk though? From the dribs and drabs I’ve overheard from her conversations with her friend, it seems as though all is not well in paradise.
How’d I come to that conclusion? Let’s just say they’ve dropped the term “douche canoe” an insane number of times in conjunction with her boyfriend’s name.
Called it the first time I saw the guy.
Loren’s friend slips off her stool. They were at the far table for a couple rounds, then made their way to the open seats at the bar. “Time to go, doll face,” she shouts. “We’ve got work in a few hours.”
From Loren’s pout, you’d swear her friend told her that someone ran over her cat. “It can’t be time for bed already. I haven’t even danced yet.”
Loren has been on that dance floor tonight more than anyone else in this bar.
Not that there’s any point in saying so. She seems determined when she heads to the center of the empty floor.
She looks shit hot in that green dress. If she were single and if she wasn’t my neighbor and drunk as a skunk, I would absolutely shoot my shot.
Meg groans, dropping her face into her hands. “I’m never getting home.”
“I can take her back if you want.” The offer is out before I have a chance to stop it.
Meg narrows her eyes at me. “Why should I trust you?”
August chooses this moment to step out of the office.
Should’ve known he’d be listening from back there.
He’s the nosiest Nellie there ever was. “Because he’s basically Clark fucking Kent without the glasses.
Unbutton your shirt, Elliott; show her the red and blue spandex suit you wear under those shitty T-shirts. ”
I’d take my “shitty T-shirts” any day over the Hawaiian button-up his sister made him wear for tonight’s shift. “Nobody asked you.”
August shrugs and heads over to the dishwasher to start unloading and drying glasses.
Loren’s friend still doesn’t look convinced. “You swear you won’t touch her?”
I hold up three fingers. At least I think it’s supposed to be three. “Scout’s honor.”
“Let me see your license.”
I take out my wallet, and the woman snaps a photo of my ID. Knowing she’s looking after Loren like this makes me feel a little better. There are a lot of shitheads out there. I’m glad they’re being careful.
As I tuck my license back into my pocket, I ask if she needs a lift home as well.
“No, I’m good. I called a ride share. Is my car okay here tonight?”
“There are cameras on the lot, so it should be fine.”
With that, she gives Loren a smack on the ass before disappearing into the frigid night.
I hang the cloths and towels on the edge of the sink, then shoot my cousin a glance. “You good to lock up?”
“Yeah, man. Get that girl home.”
Loren is in her own little world, not even realizing there’s no longer any music playing. The curls at her temples drip with sweat, and she’s pulled the rest of her hair onto the top of her head. She looks like mayhem wrapped in one very sexy green package. “Come on, Chaos. Time to go.”
Loren blinks at me, the hands that were twisting and flailing above her head slowly falling as she glances around the empty bar. “Where’s Meg?”
“Went home to bed, I imagine.”
“She left me here with you?”
“Why do you make it sound like it’s the worst fate in the world?”
“Because it is.”
Here I am, trying to be nice, and this is the thanks I get? Next time, remind me not to bother.
I hunch down so she can drape her arm across my shoulders, and together we walk to where I parked around the back of the bar.
At least I walk. Loren stumbles like a newborn foal.
Or a baby giraffe.
Yeah, that’s what she is. A baby giraffe. What are baby giraffes called?
Leaning her against the side of the vehicle, I fish out my keys. “Don’t puke in my truck, okay?” That shit is impossible to get out of the carpet. Don’t ask me how I know.
Let’s just say it involves August and tequila.
“Please. I’m not going to puke.”
That remains to be seen. If I drank what she did tonight, I’d absolutely be introducing the contents of my stomach to the toilet when I got home. Work is going to suck for her if she makes it. Right now, it’s not looking very promising.
She catches the handle and yanks before I’ve had a chance to unlock the damn door.
I press the button on my keys and hear the mechanism click, but Loren yanks at the same time and won’t stop. “Hands off.”
She throws her hands up in the air like I’m about to frisk her, and fuck, if that doesn’t put some dirty thoughts in my mind.
Like how good it’d feel to press those black-tipped fingers to the window, and kick her heels wider so I could slide my hands from her dainty ankles, over the swell of her calf and knee, up her inner thigh to—
Nope. Nope. Nope.
Eyes on the skies, Elliott. You are not touching this woman.
With her hands still over her head, it gives me the chance to open the door so she can climb in, which is easier said than done because her shoes keep slipping off the running board.
“Do you need help?”
“No. I’ve got it.”
Doesn’t look like it. “Just let me—”
“I said I’ve got it! I don’t need a man’s help. I am a perfectly capable, independent woman.”
All right…
By the time I’m settled in the driver’s seat, she’s finally in. The engine roars to life, and I throw the thing into reverse, backing out of the lot.
Being cooped up in here with her peaches ’n cream scent slowly assaulting my senses is a torture I hadn’t expected to endure tonight.
Time to turn on the radio and distract myself from the way her chest rises and falls with each breath.
Staring out the side window, she shoves her chaotic hair back from her face. “Why do men suck?”
“It’s one of life’s great mysteries.” From the corner of my eye, I catch Loren frowning up at the moon. “Boyfriend trouble?” I assume, even though it’s really none of my business.
“Yeah.” She tugs one shoe off, then the other, and tosses them on the floor with a huff. “The trouble is he’s not my boyfriend. He’s someone else’s.”
No wonder she’s been drowning herself in alcohol.
I never understood cheating. If you don’t like someone enough to stay faithful, don’t call them your girlfriend. Say you want to keep it casual or don’t feel like being tied down.
It’s common fucking sense.
It sucks for Loren that her boyfriend was a cheating asshole, but it sounds like she’s better off—not that saying so aloud will help the situation. She needs to sit in the suck for a while before she sees it that way.
I tap my thumbs against the steering wheel, matching the beat of the Fleetwood Mac classic buzzing quietly from the radio. “How’d you find out?”
“I saw him plastered all over my boss’s Instagram. They’ve been dating for years. Years. I can’t believe I moved to Tennessee for the guy.”
What a slimy fucker. “Does he know that you know?”
“I texted him as soon as I found out. He tried to call me a bunch, but I turned off my phone.”
Half of me is worried he’ll be there when I pull into our parking lot. The other half is sorry that he isn’t because I want to call him a shithead to his face.
“I gave him till Friday to tell his girlfriend the truth,” Loren goes on, collecting her shoes and purse.
“He’s not going to tell her.” No way is a guy like that going to admit he did something wrong.
“He might.”
I may not know this dickwad from Adam, but I know men, and ninety-nine percent of them don’t come clean when they’re caught. They burrow deeper, like ticks. “The guy cheated on her. The last thing he’s going to do is admit it. He’ll wait until you do and then make it seem like you’re the psycho.”
Loren turns to me, her eyes wide as the full moon at her back. “What am I supposed to do? He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with treating her like that, but I don’t want her to hate me either.”
The thing about a shit situation is that there’s rarely a way around it without getting your shoes dirty.
Although she’s right. That asshole shouldn’t get away with it.
All she needs is someone to tell this woman the truth about her boyfriend. Her boss doesn’t necessarily need specifics. “I could always message your boss.”
The tiniest wrinkle appears between her shapely brows. “Out of the blue? Won’t that be weird?”
I lift a shoulder. “Maybe, but I don’t have anything to lose.”
“Isn’t there some sort of bro-code that forbids you from ratting out another guy?”
Fuck that. “People who cheat are the scum of the earth. Your boss deserves to know the truth, but you don’t deserve the shit you’ll get if she finds out you’re the one he cheated with. You didn’t know any better and ended things the moment you found out, right?”
“I ran into the bathroom and texted that ratbag straight away.”
Ratbag. I like it. Suits him. “Exactly.” I pull out my phone. “What’s her handle?”
“Rebecca James. There’s an underscore in the middle.”
I tap on the Instagram icon and wait for the app to load. As soon as it does, I type in the woman’s name. “Damn.” She’s a stunner. Does she look as good without all the makeup?
Every other photo is a picture of some exotic dish or another. Personally, I’ve never understood the trend. Food is for eating, not for posting.
Loren’s head falls back against the seat. “I know, right? What kind of dipshit would cheat on someone like her?”
Someone like Rebecca, not someone like Loren. The casual distinction pisses me off. “He cheated on both of you.” Rebecca isn’t the only victim here.
Loren blows a raspberry through her lips. “I guess.”
Seriously?
Sure, this Rebecca looks like a Victoria’s Secret model, but Loren is pretty too. And she looks just as good with a fresh face.
Not that I tell her any of that because now is not the time to hit on my neighbor.
Even knowing the DM will go straight to Rebecca’s “Requests” folder, I type out a quick message and hit send.
“I don’t know, Elliott. Maybe we should wait and see if he tells her.”
“Too late. It’s already done.”
“What?” Loren jerks out of her seat, leaning over the center console to grab my phone. “You sent it already? What did you say?” Her thumb swipes across the screen over and over again, as if there’s more to see than a couple of lines.
“I said I saw him making out with another girl and thought she’d want to know.” Which isn’t a lie at all because I had seen dipshit and Loren making out in the parking lot one night.
She pushes the phone at me and falls back into her seat, pressing her palm to her forehead. “It’s fine. It’s fine. No one will know it was me.”
“Exactly. Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
I jump out of the car and run around to the passenger side before she opens the door. It’s a good thing, too, because she must not remember how high up she is and misses the running board completely, falling straight into me. I have to catch her to keep her from face-planting on asphalt.
Why did she put her heels back on?
I take her hand and help her climb. We reach the second floor before she tugs free of my hold and plops down on the concrete. “My legs are tired.”
“Come on. Three more floors and you’re home.”
“I can’t do it. You go ahead.”
“I’m not leaving you behind.”
“I’ll be fine.” She eases back on her elbows.
“Don’t you dare lie down. Loren, get up. Loren? There’s gum right beside your head.”
She launches upright and glowers down at the hunk of pink next to where she was about to pass out.
“Up you come.” I stretch a hand toward her, wiggling my fingers. “You can do it. I know you can.”
Her hand locks onto mine, and I yank her back to her feet. She wobbles a bit and with each step she takes, she makes a keening sound like a dying hyena, but eventually we make it to her door where she roots around in her purse, muttering to herself.
I offer to look for her keys, but apparently, I’ve “done enough” and “should have let her sleep on the stairs.”
Cursing, she squats down and dumps the contents of her purse onto the stoop. A wallet, tampons, chewing gum, two tubes of Chapstick, at least six hair ties, a napkin with—are those chicken tenders?—a ball of change, and a condom spill onto the concrete.
That thing really is like a black hole.
One more shake, and the keys magically appear.
Loren holds them up with a victorious smirk and proceeds to sweep the random assortment back into her purse, forgetting one thing.
Heat climbs my throat when I bend down to pick up the condom. “I believe this is yours.”
“You keep it,” she says, turning the key in the lock. “It’s not like I’ll be having sex anytime soon.” Her maniacal laugh curls around my ears. “Besides, who needs men when you have vibrators?”
She leaves me standing alone in the hallway holding a fucking condom, wondering what other sex toys she might own.