22. Chapter 21
Chapter 21
Leon Aldon
The only positive from this entire night has been getting to see Maeve genuinely happy.
It's worth wasting my night with this God-awful music, the typical stench of a bar, and all of the threats I've already had to make tonight.
It started with the bartender. He had to have been fucking delusional to think that he could disrespect ma fleur and come out of it with his hands intact.
I'm pretty sure I only bruised the bones; I didn't hear a crack, but who could tell in such a loud place?
Next were the few men who attempted to talk to and touch my girl, something I would not allow.
If I had the time and the privacy, I would have done a lot worse than simply squeezing the pressure point in their neck until they collapsed.
Maybe I would have dipped their hands in acid and watched as the flesh and bones dissolved into goop.
That seems like a fitting punishment for even dreaming of touching what belongs to me, but I don't have time for that, not when I overhear my beautiful drunk girl telling her friend about her little fantasy.
I wish I could stay and focus on that little confession, but I don't have time, not when her roommate screams at her and kicks her out of her home.
I need to remember to pay them a little visit later; right now, I just need to make sure my girl is okay.
As quickly as possible, I close out Maeve's tab and grin at my handiwork on the bartender's hand.
I definitely broke it.
Good.
Either way, I still tip generously before rushing out the door and jumping in the car to chase my girl down.
She's speed walking down the sidewalk with her hair shielding her from letting anyone see her face, but I know she's upset.
I know she's just a few seconds away from breaking down.
I'm not going to leave her alone to feel this way.
Okay, act natural. It's not like she'd be able to tell. I know she's at least a few shots past drunk, but still.
I pull my car over and roll down my window to shout for her. “Maeve?” I ask in a fake, surprised voice.
She jumps and turns to look at me with a weak and fake smile plastered across her face, but I don't miss the water in her eyes or the little drops of her mascara that is just starting to streak down her face. “Oh, hi.” She says timidly.
I smile back at her and hope it's convincing, but my smile is just as fake as hers right now. “Need a ride?” I ask casually.
Maeve shakes her head and tucks her hair behind her ear, flashing me the same beautiful but fake smile. The same broken look that's only hidden from someone who doesn't know and love her as deeply as I do.
There's no feeling this woman can hide from me.
“That's okay, the air feels great!” She says cheerfully.
That's a fucking lie.
You'd think the girl who was born and raised in Louisiana would be good with the heat, she is not.
I've seen this woman sweat while sitting in the air conditioning.
I've been lowering my own air conditioning a little at a time in hopes of hitting a temperature that's comfortable for her without freezing myself to death.
It's like a damn igloo in there, and I'm still not sure it's cold enough, so I know she's not telling me that Texas in May feels good to her.
Does she think I'm stupid?
Wait, no. Idiot, she thinks you don't know her!
My girl keeps walking down the sidewalk at the same fast pace, which is thankfully pretty slow considering how many drinks she's had, so I'm able to easily keep up with her in my car and keep my eyes on her.
I pull over again while she waits for the signal to cross the street; however, this time, I jump out.
I rush to Maeve's side and grab onto her arm, feeling her warm and soft skin on my fingers and dreaming of the day that I never have to let her go again.
Not today, but soon.
“Maeve, get in the goddamn car!” I snap.
She turns to look at me, but her head is hung low and she refuses to meet my eyes, not that I need her to in order to know why.
“I'm fine. You, however, are about to be public enemy number one if you don't move your car. They'll riot, key weiners into the side of your car, or steal your tires. It won't be pretty.” She rambles.
Did she just say weiners?
Stop, focus.
The goal right now is to get Maeve in my car, not ask her about her vocabulary.
“I don't care about them; they can all go fuck themselves. I care about you, and you're not walking home. It's like ten miles, for fuck sake.” I insist.
Maeve shakes her head again. However this time, it makes her lose her balance and lean into me.
Immediately, my arms are around her, and a flood of calm overwhelms me.
Is this how it'll feel when she's mine?
The heat and the weight from her body against me and the knowledge that she's dependent on me right now will forever be carved into my mind.
She smells like expensive tequila, her usual sweet blueberries, and a touch of sweat. It's intoxicating.
She's intoxicating.
“It's seven.” She slurs.
I roll my eyes and pull her toward my car anyway, ignoring her weak protests. “Yes, solid argument. I love the part where I give a shit.” I huff.
I pull Maeve along with me until we get to my car, and I practically shove her into the passenger seat. I'm able to squat down in front of her and block her from getting out. “Tell me what has made you so upset, ma fleur.” I insist.
She keeps her gaze low, staring at her fingers in her lap and letting her hair shield her face from me, but that won't do.
I tuck her hair behind her ear, smiling at her when she picks her head up and stares at me. “Tell me so I can fix it.” I add.
“I just want to go home.” She whispers in defeat.
I know she's holding herself together by a thread, only not wanting to fall apart in front of someone who she thinks doesn't know her.
This whole week has been rough for her, and I'm trying my best to fix everything.
First, that asshole professor bullies my girl, then her friends try to ditch her with an expensive bill, and then they humiliate her in a crowded club.
My girl is too fragile to be treated like this.
I handled the professor. His bones are fertilizing the winecup flowers I planted a few weeks ago. They're actually doing quite nicely despite my yard not being sandy or dry.
I'm pleasantly surprised.
But that is not the point; Turner will no longer terrorize my girl or anyone else ever again.
I handled the tab at the restaurant and the bar, as well, just to lessen any stress on her.
Now, I need to handle her idiotic friends.
Nobody hurts my Maeve and gets away with it, nobody but me.
I am the monster under her bed; I am what haunts and fills her dreams and her mind.
Me.
She shouldn't have a single worry in that pretty little head of hers but me.
Clearly, it has been a mistake to keep my distance. While I know she's overly independent, I know it's from years of neglect.
I know it will take time to chip away at the layers she piled onto herself like a suit of armor to protect her from the world, but I will do whatever it takes for the real Maeve to bloom.
It almost feels like this is what I was meant to do; this is why I became a psychiatrist.
“I can help you, ma fleur.” I promise her.
I pinch her chin between my finger and thumb and make her look at me. I can see the very moment that her composure cracks. The look in her eyes shifts just seconds before a single tear rolls down her cheek, and she swipes it away before it makes it past her nose.
I swipe the next few away with my thumbs, all while our eyes are locked onto each other, and the rest of the world fades into the background.
It's all irrelevant in comparison to my girl crying in front of me.
That is until some asshole lays on their horn, and Maeve jumps in surprise.
Fuck.
We are still in the middle of the road.
I situate her in the front seat before closing the door and rounding the car, but first, this asshole.
“Move it, dickhead!” He shouts as he hangs halfway out the window of his piece of shit truck.
I pull my gun from my waistband and shoot into the grill of his truck, grinning when smoke immediately starts to billow out from under the hood. “Have a good night.” I say with a laugh.
Now I can take my girl home.
When I get back in the car, Maeve looks terrified and confused. “What was that bang? It sounded like a gun.” She mentions.
I chuckle and pat her bare thigh. “Ma petite fleur, have you ever even heard a gun? That was the truck behind us. He revved the engine too much and blew his head gasket.” I quickly lie.
Judging by her little “ohh” sound, I'd say she buys it.
I don’t even know what a fucking head gasket is, but it sounds convincing enough.
The drive back to campus is eerily quiet other than the occasional direction from Maeve and the few sniffles she tries to hide behind a cough, but I don't comment on those.
There's nothing to say right now.
When we finally reach her complex, I shut the car off and finally face her again. “Now can you tell me what's wrong?” I ask.
I don't need her to tell me, but it would be nice to see that my girl feels comfortable confiding in me.
I want to know that she trusts that I can take care of her, but my stubborn girl simply shrugs. “I just had too much to drink.” She admits.
Yeah, that's fair and very much so my fault.
I may have enabled her a bit too much, but I wanted her to have fun. She deserved it.
“Okay, let's get you inside so you can sleep it off.” I insist.