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Once she was wrapped up, I lifted her again and headed downstairs. Outside, the crowd was still thick around the Maserati.
“Move,” I barked and carefully lowered her into the passenger seat.
Apartment seven was silent when I carried Eve inside. I was glad the rest of the guys were out. I didn’t want anyone else to see her like this.
I set her down on the sofa and tugged her sneakers off. Sneakers with that dress. It should have been ridiculous, but somehow it worked on her. She flopped back onto the sofa as soon as I let her go.
“Give me your hand, Eve,” I ordered her, annoyed with the way she flailed around.
She batted my fingers away when I tried to sit her up. Irritation roared through me at the state she’d gotten herself into. She clearly didn’t have a single intention of following the rules I’d set out for her. She wasn’t scared of me, after all. I supposed it was because of that night in the pharmacy, or maybe it was just because of how she’d alwaysseenme, under all my efforts to hide. She saw me, and she wasn’t scared. I didn’t know how to feel about that.
I inspected her for other cuts. She looked hot as fuck, sprawled indecently across the bed.
I crouched and checked her face, from the high cheekbones to her plump lips. She was so beautiful and so incredibly fragile. Anything could have happened with that football-playing motherfucker, and she wouldn’t have been able to stop it. The thought made me livid. It short-circuited my brain for amoment. It came too close to all the things I never let myself think about.
I grabbed a first-aid kit from the bathroom, confident I could take care of her hand. I’d patched up my own minor cuts after games plenty of times.
I sank slowly to my knees before her, guiding her back against the couch. She went willingly, coming to and flinching when I touched her palm. She pulled away.
“Give me your hand,” I commanded, taking it back before she could protest.
She bit her lip, a squeak of pain leaving her as I started to clean the glass cuts on her palm. “Be gentle,” she warned.
I pressed the cotton ball with sanitizer into the cuts. “Not my style.”
I set aside the bloody cotton and reached for the antiseptic cream. I rubbed it on. She hissed and tried to snatch her hand away.
“Hold still, or I’ll make you.” My voice was a deep growl.
She scoffed but didn’t challenge me again.
“What was the plan there tonight?”
“To cross another number off the bingo card. It’s supposed to be fun. You wouldn’t get it,” she slurred.
Bingo card? What the hell was she talking about?“Yeah, well, that hangover tomorrow is going to be real fun.”
She looked at me with bleary eyes. “I’m not going to have a hangover. You don’t get a hangover from three drinks.”
“Three drinks did this? I don’t think so.”
There was no way. Sure, Eve wasn’t much of a drinker, but she was young, with a strong liver, and she’d already thrown up. She should be feeling better, but instead, she was holding onto the couch like it was a boat on turbulent seas.
“Did someone else make you a drink? What about that guy you were with?”
“I wasn’t with any guy.”
“The blond.”
“He just showed me where to puke.” Suddenly she let out a cackle. “Don’t get jealous, Beck. You’re still the number one pain in my ass. Do you hate when I call you Beck?”
I was shaking my head before I could think about my answer.
“But you hate that nickname,” she pointed out.
I shook my head again. “I don’t hate it. I love it, I just don’t love it coming from the wrong person.”
“Am I the right person?” she demanded, drunkenly blunt.
