Chapter 11 #2
With every drink tonight, I’ve only gotten more annoyed that Sebastian’s ghosted me for the past few days. I mean, yes, I gave my notice. And maybe I said some things I shouldn’t have in frustration.
But it’s like I ceased to exist for him. One minute, he’s trying to win me back. To work. And then the next, he’s gone no-contact.
I don’t know what to tell people who call and ask me when he’ll be back.
And maybe I’m a little worried. Objectively, I know he must be fine. I mean, if something were to happen to him, the tabloids would be all over it. But it still shakes me, this silence from someone who is a lot of things, but never silent.
The more I sip the creamy, sweet shot that Sadie shoved in front of me before heading to the dance floor, the more I decide that messaging Sebastian again is a good idea.
Tonight.
Now.
I’ll just send an easy-breezy text. I’ll inquire where he is, purely for business purposes. I will be professional. And carefree. And he will have no idea that there’s a small part of me maybe missing him.
I’ll pretend not to care about him not caring about me. Or something like that.
I down the rest of the shot and decide.
Drunk texting is not the same as drunk dialing.
I can compose a sober-sounding text. There’s autocorrect.
I squint at my phone and start typing, but the words on the screen keep blurring. And my fingers… it’s like typing with sausages.
So, I don’t plan on drunk dialing. One minute, I’m trying to punch letters on keys that are too teeny-tiny. And the next, I hear ringing.
I stare at my phone as if it’s at fault. It set the trap. And I fell straight into it.
Damn.
He answers before I can hang up.
At first, I’m so surprised to hear his voice that I say nothing.
“Emma? Is that you?”
I grimace, panicking. I’ve spoken to this man multiple times a day for years. Now I can’t even form a sentence.
Damn tequila.
“Em. Is everything okay?”
A tall, drunk man with a mustache sidles up next to me, leaning on the bar and standing too close. “Hey, angel. Want to go back to my place and fuck?” he slurs.
His clumsy pickup line appalls me enough to distract me from Sebastian’s question.
“Where are you?” my boss asks, sounding more forceful now. “Who is that? Talk to me.”
And that unsticks my tongue. All my good intentions about sounding unbothered fly out the door of the bar.
“Oh, so you want me to talk to you? And you want to know where I am? Well, where I am is none of your business. You certainly didn’t feel the need to update me.
You were supposed to be back, and you didn’t even tell me what was going on.
You won’t even answer my messages. What the hell, Sebastian? ”
He’s silent for a long minute. Then he sighs. “I didn’t know you wanted me to update you. I figured with you, you know, quitting… and doubling down… that you didn’t want to hear from me for a while.”
I snort. Which turns into a hiccup. Which turns into a giggle. “To hell with you. To hell with you and your Italian handkerchiefs and cashmere socks. And your girlfriend. And your ghosting trip to wherever you are.”
“What are you talking about? Are you drunk?”
“I don’t need to tell you anything, mister. Not ever again. At least not after”—I count the days on my fingers but lose track—“not after my notice runs out.”
“Hey, babe. Let’s get out of here already,” the drunk voice slurs next to my ear.
“Get your hand off my ass, jerk,” I cry, outraged, as the man brushes a beefy hand over my short skirt.
He winks before raising his hands in innocence and lumbering off, swaying into the crowd.
“Pig!” I call after him.
God, sober Emma has a foolproof resting bitch face and lightning-fast reflexes. Sober Emma would have kneed him in the dick.
Drunk Emma has a serious lack of skills. Maybe I need to take my next self-defense class drunk to be better prepared.
“Emma!”
My phone is yelling, I think in surprise.
Correction. It’s my boss yelling through the phone. Phones really are an incredible invention if you think about it.
I hold it back up to my ear. “Yep. That’s my name,” I say cheerfully.
“Who was that guy? What did he do to you? Where. Are. You?”
“Geez. You don’t have to yell. I’m at a club with Sadie.
Or at least, I was with her. Except now she’s dancing with this really hot dude.
Like, dirty-type dancing. I hope she gets some of that.
Except she’s staying at my apartment. So, I hope she doesn’t get some of that in the living room. That would be awkward.”
“She can’t bring a stranger to your apartment. Who knows what could happen? Get some water. Do not have another drink. I’m coming to get you both,” he orders.
Commanding Sebastian is hot. And annoying.
“Don’t tell me what my sister can’t do. You’re not the boss of her. Or of me. At least you won’t be very soon. And plus, you can’t come and get me because I didn’t tell you where I am,” I bluster. “So, ha!”
“Sebastian?”
“Sebastian!” I repeat.
But there’s no one on the line. He’s gone. Ghosted again. I hate being ghosted.
“Fine, don’t say goodbye,” I grumble. But for some stupid reason, I do as he ordered. Instead of going back to dancing or getting another shot, I slide into a seat, catch the bartender’s eye, and ask for an enormous glass of ice water. It tastes freaking delicious.
I may have stayed there, except ten minutes later, Sadie bounds up to me with her hot guy. And her hot guy has a friend. My sister hands me another shot, which I down. And I forget all about drunk dialing. Soon, we’re all dancing.
I close my eyes and let the music carry me to a place where I don’t have to think about bills or jobs or rent or irritating bosses who are too good-looking. In fact, I don’t have to think at all. I only have to move.
The man I’m dancing with seems to realize that my brain has gone offline.
He pulls me into his arms. I think about protesting.
But that’s a lot of work. I close my eyes tighter and pretend he’s someone else.
Someone who’s taller. And broader. Someone with a razor-cut jaw.
Someone who can make me madder than I’ve ever been and then turn around and make me melt.
My dancing partner grabs my ass—seriously, what’s with all the ass-grabbing?—and grinds me into him. I can feel something that is definitely not his cell phone poking into my abdomen.
Ugh.
I push him away. But the sudden movement is disorienting. My eyes pop open, and the whirling lights make my stomach roll. I think about all the shots I’ve done. And the giant glass of water I just drank.
That’s when it happens. It doesn’t come on slowly. It’s sudden and ferocious.
I puke. All over my dancing partner’s shoes.
“What the fuck?” the dude cries.
“We’re both lucky she just did that,” a deeply familiar voice says from behind me.
I whirl around, which doesn’t do great things for my queasy stomach.
The tall, broad man with the blue-blue eyes and the jet-black hair I’d been trying not to think about stands there. My boss looks cool and collected and like a billion dollars. Unlike his costars, he’s never bothered with shades or a hat or any other disguise. He always shows up just as he is.
Sebastian reaches out and settles me into his arms, steadying my swaying.
He pushes my hair back from my face with gentle fingers.
“Because if she hadn’t just puked her guts out on you, I would’ve had to kick your ass,” he continues in a conversational tone to my former dance partner.
“You wouldn’t like it. And I don’t feel like ending up in jail again. ”
The guy’s disgusted face turns into one of wonderment, even with my dinner probably filling up his socks. So. Gross. “You’re Sebastian Blake! I love your movies. You’re the best Wanderers character.”
My hand flies up to my mouth as the room spins again.
“Easy, Em. We’re going home.” He ignores his fanboy and takes me by the arm, leading us toward the bar.
“But why are you here?”
A fragment of memory runs through my brain, like a puzzle piece I can’t quite get to fit. I called him from the bar. I was chastising him over the phone.
I focus on his face, but I can’t discern any anger or annoyance. His voice and touch are infinitely gentle.
My brows bunch. I need to remember something. “Sadie…” I whisper. “The buddy system is important. No woman left behind,” I mutter. Sebastian is the only thing keeping me upright. The world’s a blur, but he’s a solid presence.
“I talked to her. She knows you’re leaving. Duncan will stay and make sure she arrives home safely. Follow me. I’ve got you.”
“Wait,” I say stubbornly. I trust Duncan. He’s worked for Chase, Sebastian, Ryder, and Ronan for years. Still, this is my sister.
I turn and find her in the crowd. She’s watching us with a wide grin, and she gives two thumbs-up. The guy she was dancing with is standing next to her, looking disconcerted by the intimidating presence of a ninja-like Duncan wearing all black and glowering behind them.
I bet Duncan is superb at cockblocking.
Satisfied now, I lean against Sebastian as we make our way out of the crowded club and into the alley.
A dark car waits, idling. A series of flashes blinds me, and I realize a photographer’s trying to get our photo.
Sebastian blocks me from view and, in a smooth move that speaks of thousands of paparazzi-avoiding maneuvers, he slides us into the back seat. Then we’re flying down the road.
I look over at him, memorizing his face. I missed him this week. Missed him more than I could ever have imagined.
His presence is so all-consuming, it’s like staring at the sun.
Until you’re shut out and left in the dark.
I turned off the lights first, the fair part of my mind reminds me.
“It went dark this week,” I mumble. Trying, and failing, to explain.
His eyes turn troubled. “Oh, Em, you have no idea. It was so fucking dark,” he whispers, as if understanding, when I don’t even understand myself.
I stare into his eyes. They feel more like a blue flame than ice, burning through my skin and bones, reaching deep into my soul.
But I can’t hold focus. My eyelids are too heavy. They flutter closed, even as I try to keep them open.
“Rest, sweet girl,” I hear him say. Except he doesn’t call me by endearments. He calls me Em. None of tonight makes sense. Nothing has made sense since I quit.
And sweet is the last thing I am.
I’m a type A overthinker. I’m an overfunctioning workaholic. I’m a pain in the ass who needs to be needed. I’m a lot more things, but I can’t think of them just now.
He gently guides me until I’m lying down, my head resting on something warm and hard. I turn toward the heat. His sweater is soft. Cashmere.
“Cashmere, like your socks,” I murmur.
And that’s the last thing I remember.