60. Lyla
Chapter sixty
Lyla
If I had a dollar for every time a man spoke to me without me wanting them to, I would no longer need my trust fund to buy my bookstore in Chicago.
The man with meaty hands and a horrific bro tank featuring a giant leprechaun was still going on about something I really didn’t give a shit about. All I wanted was to get the shots I ordered and return to the table to check in with Deacon. There was a reason Cassie stumbled into this bar, and I had a hunch that Deacon was the one who brought her here. But what could be unreasonable about that epiphany? Cassie was Deacon’s endgame, and I was a stop on the way to his happy ending.
I hated how much it hurt to say the words on repeat in my head. I was afraid if I stopped the track, there would be a piece of me that thought this could end differently.
“Anyway, did you want to head over to The Attic?” Bro Tank prompted. “A few of my friends and I are making one last stop before we call it a night.” His hand rested on my thigh, and I immediately slapped it away. The only thing worse than a man with unwanted words was a man with entitled hands.
“Well, that’s disgusting,” I said, brushing his attempt off with a laugh. “Don’t touch me again. ”
My stomach churned when I still felt where his hand gripped me through my jeans. Even though the sun was beating down on my leather jacket, a chill ran through my chest. The belt began to tighten, and I felt my breath hitch in my throat.
No. No. No. All because an asshat decided to make a move? This couldn’t be happening, not on the holiday weekend.
Bro Tank’s eyebrows pinched together, and the same set of eyes that glazed over my bare stomach looked at me like I was wearing a trash bag. “Why you gotta say it like that?”
“Because I don’t want to have to say it twice,” I snapped.
He went to rest his hand on my elbow, and I shifted so it hit the counter. He stood a little taller and shook his head. “You don’t have to be a bitch about it.”
I stepped back, ready to take the loss of the round of shots I ordered. I’d have another comment on deck if the panic weren't setting in. Another step to the left, and I felt him—the lavender and cedarwood loosened the grip around my ribcage, and my shoulders relaxed.
Deacon stepped between me and Bro Tank. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Bro Tank held up his hand for a high five. “It’s all good, man.”
A condescending smile spread across Deacon’s face. “It’s not. I don’t know what she already had to tell you, but her voice should’ve been enough for you to stop the first time.” Deacon took another step forward. “That never seems to be enough for assholes like you. So this is me telling you again.”
Bro Tank muttered something under his breath as he merged into an incoming group of people.
Deacon searched my face for the answers I wasn’t giving him as the bartender returned with our shots and my card. When she noticed my hand was shaking, the corners of her mouth fell to a concerned frown. I plastered on my best fake smile and slipped my wallet into my bag. The familiar thumping started behind my ears, and my mouth went dry. If I took this shot, I’d throw up.
Deacon put his arm around my shoulders and picked up the tray. “Let’s drop these off, and we can head out, okay?”
The crowd around us was becoming more intense. As the afternoon slowly melted into the evening scene, people became rowdier after day drinking, adding new energies to the mix. Heavy bass and upbeat tempos replaced the casual country and festive Irish music. I wanted to sink into my bed and pull the blankets over my head.
Deacon placed the tray on the table, and everyone grabbed their shots.
Charlie moved so she could whisper in my ear. “Is it happening? Do you need to leave?”
“I just need a second,” I said through a broken smile, “but take this for me.”
I handed her my shot as everyone else took theirs. Cheers erupted from the table as one last country song came over the speakers. Who knew “Wagon Wheel” by Darius Rucker would be such a college bar hit?
When I sensed Deacon following me, I peered over my shoulder. “You don’t have to leave. It’s St. Patrick’s Day. You should stay.”
Deacon grabbed my hand and led us through the crowded bar until we were on the street. It was like every student in Bowling Green was out to celebrate.
“Sheesh,” Deacon said, peering over the incoming swarms of people. He tugged on my hand, and I looked up at him, his warm gaze reminding me that we were on flat ground. “Do you wanna head home for a little bit? Get some space?”
Home . Hearing that slip so effortlessly from his lips brought butterflies to my stomach.
I nodded, and as we weaved our way to the side streets to avoid traffic, I focused on getting air in my lungs and keeping the nausea at bay. Now and then, Deacon would glance over to make sure I was okay, but he didn’t force me to talk about it. This wasn’t the first time he witnessed me losing my mind.
The living room was littered with White Claw cans, solo cups, and empty juice cartons. A bottle of vodka sat unbothered next to the sink, and pieces to the blender sat in a puddle of cloudy pink water. The place looked like a disgusting episode of Kitchen Nightmares .
Deacon cracked open the back windows before turning on the TV for background noise. I felt him watching me as I took a bottle of water from the fridge, taking slow sips as I tried to realign my senses. The last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to something that would pass in an hour.
“I’m sorry for all the walks we seem to take together,” I offered casually. “I really could’ve walked back by myself. ”
His mouth lifted into a slight smile. “I wouldn’t have let you leave by yourself. You know that.”
A lump formed in my throat. “I just feel bad.”
He crinkled his brow and leaned his elbows on the counter. “Why?”
“Because it seems like I always need you.” I looked up to meet his gaze, and his expression softened.
“You don’t need me, Lyla. You have me, and there’s a difference.”
I created space between us by going into the living room. I was already struggling to keep my heart rate down, and being near the first man who made me feel like it was okay to crumble wasn’t helping.
I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry. I just need a second, and then we can head back out.” The knots in my stomach tightened, and suddenly, the words were leaving my mouth before I could think through them. “I know it’s dramatic—”
“It’s not dramatic,” Deacon interrupted gently, crossing the room so he was in front of me. “Stop downplaying something that happened to you because you’re afraid other people won’t think it’s heavy enough. Pushing away how you feel about something doesn’t make it go away, Lyla. Until you let yourself feel it, it will follow you no matter where you go.”
Everything was adding up. The shit I tried to ignore but couldn’t. Trying to move past things like they weren’t always coming back. Hunter. Anna. My mom and the bookstore. My dad and the trust fund. Deacon provided the perfect description— heavy . I was tired, and I didn’t want to carry it anymore.
“It took almost a year of therapy for me to learn that after Dominic passed away,” he said as his thumb grazed my chin. “Sweetheart, I’m just trying to help you. If I’m overstepping, please tell me, but I care about you too much not to try to help you.”
“It’s like every time I don’t have control, I’m suffocating,” I admitted as another staggered breath left my chest. “There was something about the way that guy touched me. It wasn’t you, and I didn’t like it.”
A pained expression came over him, and he turned so he could rest his hands behind his head. He pressed his lips together and exhaled slowly, closing his eyes as he waited for the wave of anger crashing through him to pass .
I had seen Deacon work through emotion before. Anger, sadness, confusion—everything he tried to process whenever he talked about Dominic. Something about this was different. His warm brown eyes met my gaze before he took my face in his hands and leaned his forehead against mine.
“I didn’t know that he touched you. If I would’ve known that—” He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “If anyone ever touches you like that again, you need to tell me, understand? I don’t care how little something might seem to you. I want to know about it. You’ll never be too much for me, Lyla.”
The more he spoke, the more I felt at ease, wanting to be pressed against him—wrapped in his arms where I was safe, and the weight would be gone for a moment.
“Why do you care so much?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I couldn’t fathom why someone who walked into my life six months ago would care as much as Deacon did.
His mouth parted slightly, and the electricity in the room was intimidating. I couldn’t focus on anything but the sound of his soft breaths and the look in his eyes as they searched for a reason not to say what he was thinking. He was going to say something to me that would answer all of the questions floating around in my head. He was going to tell me how he felt, and while half of my heart begged me to listen, the other half of me was scared to hear it.
“Lyla, I—”
I shook my head. “Don’t answer that.”
“We don’t lie, Brooks.”
My knees threatened to buckle when his sexy smirk accompanied his reminder. I kissed him before he could say anything else. “We don’t lie. ”
There might not have been words, but I didn’t need them. I knew in the way his body spoke to mine and how he took his time. I knew when his hand cupped my face while his other rested on the small of my back, hugging me to his chest as he rocked his hips. It was sweet, slow, and all other forms I wasn’t used to. The thought of someone else’s eyes staring down at me felt foreign. I didn't want it if it wasn’t Deacon who smiled right before he kissed me.
I wanted this. I wanted him.
I fell in love with Deacon Scott, and no part of me would hesitate to do it all over again.