Chapter 14
don’t pop your dimples at me
Rowan - now
All manners of the space-time continuum have been tampered with.
This place hasn’t changed—down to the stools we’re sitting on. Alan’s changed even less.
Hannah drops her purse on the bar. Her whole body sinks over a long breath, the weight of what happened in the parking lot bearing down hard.
Under the bar, I see her knees dotted with the imprints of crawling over strewn pieces of asphalt.
Her fists clench around the memory of keys staggered between her fingers.
And the color of my rage, desperate for revenge, is the same as the rings around her wrist. Red.
Her tears have stopped, but the evidence remains as Alan so eloquently points out. “He responsible for your tears, dollface?”
She laughs a little. It’s pained and weak, but the sound eases something inside of me. “That bad, huh,” she says, swiping her fingers under her eyes.
The bartender doesn’t respond. Just stares at her like a protective grandpa ready to throw me out on my ass if she gives the word.
“No,” she sighs. “It wasn’t him.”
Alan offers a curt nod. “What’ll it be then? I only got beer, shots, liquor neat or on the rocks.”
Hannah side-eyes me with a quirked mouth before she orders two shots of tequila. Alan turns on me then. “You gonna take care of getting the lady home safe?”
“Yes, sir.” I know his next move. Before he can make it, I add, “Water for me.”
Alan gets to work behind the bar as Hannah climbs off her stool. “I’m gonna go to the restroom.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
“I can go to the bathroom by myself.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t. For my sake, I’d rather walk you.”
Hands on her hips, she huffs and pings her eyes between the ladies room and me. “This place is the size of a matchbox. You can see the bathroom door from here.”
“You know what?” I hop down from my seat. “I actually need to visit the men’s room too.” My gaze locks on hers over my shoulder as I move in that direction. “You coming?”
She squints. I curl one corner of my mouth.
“Don’t pop your dimples at me,” she grumbles.
Hannah stomps past. I slide my hands in my pockets and follow, smiling after her.
Do I need to use the restroom? She already knows I don’t. But I’ll be damned if another man so much as looks at her wrong and I’m not close enough to stop it.
When she emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, the mascara streaks have been washed away. She tosses back one tequila shot, then another before her ass hits the seat.
The burning alcohol tumbles down her throat against a wince. Eyes pinched, she shakes away the burn and promptly signals Alan for another.
“Wanna tell me what happened?” I ask, spinning to face her.
Her attention remains locked on the empty shot glass she’s twirling in her fingers. A sharp crease forms between her brows. “I mean, I think you saw what happened.”
“Who was he?”
She avoids my gaze, swallows once. “Blind date.”
“What do you know about him?”
There’s a barely-there shake of her head before she mumbles, “Nothing. I know nothing.”
Alan appears with a fresh shot glass and a bottle of tequila.
She watches him pour the amber liquid, entranced like she’s one pull away from dissociating.
It’s normal after what she’s been through, but all the time I’ve spent with military doctors and therapists specializing in PTSD reminds me it’s best to keep her talking.
She throws back the shot and slams the glass down on the bar. “My friend set us up. He works with her husband.”
Her lungs pull in a heavy rush of air as the alcohol works its way through her system. She’s about to wave Alan down for another when I stop her. “Drink some water first.” I slide my glass over. Her eyes meet mine. “Please?”
Thankfully, she doesn’t argue and takes a long sip. Her phone vibrates from inside her bag. When she retrieves it, her face falls.
“What is it?”
“It’s Kristen. The friend who set us up. She’s asking how the date went.”
I scratch the stubble along my jaw. “You gonna tell her what happened?” If I can’t get her to report it, maybe she’d be willing to talk to her friend about it at least.
“How do I not?” She stares at the screen, thumbs hovering but unable to move.
The same 80’s and 90’s classic country music pours from the same old jukebox as I watch her war over how to reply. My gaze dips to her wrists again and all I see is red. I want to hug her some more.
Gently, I free the phone from her hand and set it on the bar. “Maybe not by text.”
“Yeah…yeah, you’re right.” She sips more water, simultaneously flagging Alan for another shot. I signal for more water at the same time.
Her fourth shot lands in front of her which I promptly cover with my palm.
She huffs but chugs down the water first without a fight.
I’ll let her do whatever she needs to process what happened.
I’ll be her bodyguard, her designated driver, her shoulder to cry on.
But she needs water to balance the alcohol.
“Happy now, Mr. Bossy Pants.”
“To see you? You have no idea. The circumstances? Hate everything about them.”
She holds my gaze, eyes a little glassy. All the tension in her body from earlier has released as her inhibitions have lowered. There’s nothing relaxed about the way she looks at me, though. It’s all memories and disbelief and questions.
So many questions.
Before she can ask any of hers, I ask mine. “Why’d you run away from me outside the hardware store today?”
At that she looks away and chokes down the shot with a sputtering cough. “Honestly? I don’t even know. One minute I was on a work call, then a door pummeled me in the face without warning and you showed up. I panicked.”
I laugh, but so does she. A real one this time.
“I’m sorry,” she continues, body swaying. “It was dumb.”
“Pretty sure I’m the one who should be apologizing.” I check the lump on her forehead on instinct.
Her head tips back on another laugh. She nearly topples off her stool, and I throw out an arm to steady her. My hand splayed across her back, she pushes against it for a beat before gripping the bar and pulling herself forward.
“Promise me something, Rowan.” Her words drag out, slurring together.
“Okay.”
Hannah looks at me, deep and long. I can’t help the thoughts that cross my mind when our eyes meet. So pretty. I’m leaving in a couple of weeks. Not again. Thoughts I shouldn’t be entertaining. Not tonight.
She just stares, my hand still an anchor at her back.
“I forgot how blue your eyes were.”
I smile. She’s tipsy but at least her mind’s on me and not the asshole.
“And these”—she pokes a finger into the dimple on my right cheek, then my left—“should be illegal.”
“Hannah?”
She blinks slowly, then flares her eyes wide. “Huh?”
“The promise?”
Her brows scrunch, deep in thought. She leans against my hand again, humming softly.
“What do you want me to promise you?” I prod once more.
On a deep breath, she heaves herself back forward, one finger in the air signaling me to wait while she throws back some water. “Yes, s’right, the promise. Promise me, when I get sick later—” She pauses for dramatic effect. “And I will,” she singsongs, “that you won’t shudge me.”
I hold up three fingers in scout’s honor, pulling my lips between my teeth to hide my stupid, stupid grin.
She tsks. “Rowan, no,” she says, tone grave enough to make my senses go on alert. But then she grabs my hand and pins it clumsily to my forehead, demanding a soldier’s salute instead.
I do as she asks.
“S’better. Alan?!” she hollers, way too loud for this tiny establishment. Hannah slaps a hand over her mouth when she realizes.
The glowering man turns and I shake my head at him.
“Okay, runaway, I think you’ve had enough,” I coax.
“Nope, jussss one more. Look, water!” She downs the last of the glass. “One more, Alan, and keep ‘em comin’,” she declares even louder than before, twirling her finger in the air.
Palm permanently plastered to her spine at this point, I sigh as Alan saunters over. He does the same when he places her fifth tequila shot on the bar.
“Rowan,” Hannah whines, heels wobbling on the concrete outside the bar. “I think I drank too much.”
Her fifth shot was her final shot, I made sure of it.
Made sure she kept downing water too. Yet she still isn’t sober enough to walk in a straight line.
I wish I knew what she’s been up to for the past five years, but she wasn’t much of a conversationalist tonight.
And I can’t blame her. She wanted to just be, so I let her be.
I tug her gently by the elbow and cross her to my other side so I’m between her and the street. “You don’t say.”
A giggle escapes but jilts when she stumbles. She catches herself on my arm. “Shit! My ankle’s still sore.” Her heels come off and she scoops them up, dangling them by her fingertips.
I stop us at the alley entrance that leads to the parking lot. “Wait. It’s too dark to go barefoot. Let me carry you.”
She sucks in a sharp breath, eyes wild.
I’m about to course correct, worried I made her uncomfortable, when her face pales. Cheeks puffed out, head shaking, she croaks, “I’m gonna be sick.”
Before I fully comprehend what she said, she gives me her back to brace herself on the brick facade of the building. I sweep her hair into one hand, grabbing her shoes with the other, just before she pukes up every bit of tequila she consumed over the last hour, along with her dinner.
After several long seconds of more dry heaving, she pulls herself upright. Groaning, she swipes the back of her wrist over her mouth. “Please pretend you didn’t see that.”
I toss her a wink. “See what?”
Her whole body sinks with exhaustion. But she smiles. So I smile back.
“Will you let me carry you?”
She nods. I survey our surroundings to assess any other people lingering around. Her stomach probably couldn’t handle being thrown over my shoulder, and her dress is too short to ride on my back.
“Come here.” I hook one arm under her back and sweep her up under the knees with the other. Forearm braced where the hem of her dress hits her thigh, the fabric holds taut, and she wraps her arms loosely around my neck.
We step into the dangerously dim lighting of the parking lot, and her body stiffens again. She buries her head against my collarbone like she can’t bear to even look at this place. A quivering breath fans over my neck, and I position my head close to hers, a quiet assurance that she’s safe.
At her car, I collect her keys, buckle her into the passenger seat, and move like hell to leave the scene of her most haunting memory as quickly as possible.