39 Seven #2
My gut tightened. Purely physical reaction, I told myself. But deep down I knew it wasn't. It was something born out of compassion and understanding I didn't think I possessed. Maybe some other feeling I couldn't name just yet. Her presence was fucking with my head.
"I'm sorry," I rasped out.
"For what? You didn't do it."
The waitress approached with the second drink right when I was about to respond. Kimmy swirled her drink, watching the ice clink against the glass, before trying it. She studied the liquid for a second, then smacked her lips and drawled out, "Yummy."
I needed to stop her from getting drunk but I couldn't. Instead, I watched her pick at leftovers of food on her plate until I finally managed to say, "You understand that these people baited you today, right?"
She nodded.
"So you did exactly what Valmont wanted you to do. Made yourself visible. Made yourself trackable."
"What other option did I have?"
"Call me."
"And what would you do? What would you tell the police?"
"Hell, I don't know. Tell them I'm your boyfriend or something," I snapped before I realized what came out.
"No one would believe you. Especially my sister."
That felt like an insult. "Why not? What's wrong with me posing as your boyfriend?"
"Everything." She giggled and I felt the moment slip sideways beneath me. "First of all, this." She reached out and touched the edge of my bandana. "Second…" She paused to look me right in the eyes, then stated, "You're not my type."
I was equally shocked and offended.
"What's your type?" I huffed out. "That douche with an online degree from Vanguard University that took you to the movies two months ago and didn't even buy you a separate popcorn bucket?"
She stared. "You even know this?"
"That's what you hired me to do, isn't it?"
"Did you investigate my underwear color too?"
Not, but I'd love to. The voice in my head that told me to stop thinking about her panties sounded like Father's and that sobered me up real fast. "Wasn't necessary," I gritted out, trying to keep my pulse under control.
She finished the rest of her drink in one go and called out the waitress again.
"That's enough." I grabbed her hand she'd tossed in the air to pull it back down. "It's time to go."
"But I haven't finished my food," she protested, gesturing at the empty plate on a table. "And you haven't touched your coffee."
The waitress lingered nearby unsure if interrupting us right now was wise.
"Check please," I said, slapping a hundred-dollar bill on the table and gesturing for Kimmy to get ready to leave.
She made a show of pouting as we stood, but the buzz had made her compliant. I kept my hand on her back as we navigated through the diner, steering her toward the exit before she could cause any more trouble.
The K-Town streets hit us with a wall of traffic noise and even more neon. Kimmy's eyes went wide like she was trying to see everything at once.
"Let's go there." She whipped her hand out, pointing at the sign across the street.
I zeroed in on the building. "No."
"Come on. Don't be a buzzkill."
"Absolutely not." I turned toward the parking.
She didn't wait for me to change my mind as she begged.
She just grabbed my hand with the kind of confidence that only alcohol could inspire.
She pulled me toward the crosswalk as the light turned green.
Her fingers threaded through mine before I could process what was happening.
The simple touch sent a jolt through me—her hand was small against mine, delicate in a way that made something primal in me want to protect her even as she led me into danger.
Pedestrians flooded around us from all directions when we hit the crosswalk.
She didn't let go. If anything, her grip tightened, pulling me forward with single-minded determination as we weaved through the crowd.
I felt the warmth of her palm against mine—soft and completely at odds with the fact that I was meant to be the one in charge.
My pulse picked up for reasons that had nothing to do with the danger we were walking into.
The entrance was blazing and alive with energy. People were clustered outside in groups of all sizes. The muffled sound of someone destroying a ballad drifted through the glass doors.
"Why are we here?" I asked.
"I promise you'll love it," she shouted excitedly over the street noise.
"I don't think so."
"Why are you so certain if you've never done this before?"
When she glanced at me over her shoulder, that grin on her face said everything.
She was drunk and radiant and completely impossible, and although I was about to walk into a sealed room with one exit while Valmont's people were still looking for us, I couldn't refuse her.
Maybe because I wanted to try all these things she'd called fun once. And I wanted to try them with her.
"Okay, next up," she announced, selecting another song. "Whitney Houston. Classic."
She was gloriously, catastrophically off-key. Her voice cracked on the high notes, she missed entire verses, and she didn't seem to care one bit. She swayed across the small room like she was performing at Madison Square Garden, throwing her arms wide, completely lost in the moment.
I watched from the couch, my jaw tight, trying not to think about how vulnerable she was in this moment. How exposed. And how much I wanted to be closer to her.
When the song ended, she turned to me, breathless and flushed. "Your turn."
"No."
"Come on." She scrolled through the menu, shouting drunkenly, "Pick something. Anything."
"I'm not singing."
"Why not?" She pouted, already queuing up another song for herself. "Don't you want to feel alive?"
I was plenty alive. Too alive. Especially when she called the waitress for her fourth drink tonight.