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But the dumbass doesn’t recognize the sudden danger he’s in. Because he turns and looks at Dan. “Martinez.”
I watch Dan make a mental note of that. “Birth date?” he asks just as smoothly.
“March 12th—” Trey, the moron, freezes. “Wait— why do you want to know my birth date?”
“You should go,” Dan says.
He scowls. “Not until I talk to Brit. I need?—”
“Look asshole,” I mutter, head positively throbbing now. “You need to get the fuck out of here. It’s the middle of the night. Brit’s made it clear she doesn’t want anything to do with you.”
“I didn’t mean to scare her,” Trey says dumbly.
“Which time?” she mutters.
Trey narrows his eyes. “You wanted me to kiss you, and?—”
Brit settles her hand on my shoulder, pushes me slightly forward, just enough so that she can slip out from behind me.
But when she goes to step toward Dipshit McGee, I wind my arm around her waist, draw her back against me. “No,” I mutter, head starting to spin.
She stills, just for a second.
Then her hand settles on my arm. But she doesn’t fight my hold, doesn’t stop me from keeping her close, just rests back against me and turns her gaze to address Trey. “You hurt me.”
I feel Dan move closer, body taut and ready to strike.
“I don’t think you meant to,” she says. “But you slammed me down into the rocks and left my mouth bleeding, and”—a breath—“and I told you no.”
Dan jerks and finally the idiot in front of me seems to realize the danger he’s in because he looks to the side, pales, and staggers back a step. “I should—” He hitches a thumb over his shoulder.
“Yes,” I grit out, stomach churning, nausea spreading, bile rising up in the back of my throat. I tighten my grip on Brit, spread my legs a bit further apart, bracing myself against the dizziness that’s sweeping up and threatening to send me to the concrete floor.
Dammit.
I haven’t felt like this since the first time, since right before…I decided on a divorce.
Brit tugs lightly at my arm and I feel that dizziness increase, have to lean back against the car, have to release her so I don’t take us both down to the concrete floor, legs braced or not.
Fucking stupid.
Fucking—
I waver, bump into the mirror, folding it back against the car.
“Stefan,” Brit begins, turning toward me, concern lining her face. “Are you all right?”
“I—” I shake my head, trying to dislodge the black creeping in. “I’m fine,” I lie. “I’m just tired and need?—”
But the black edging into my vision won’t go away.
The black is increasing, is growing and taking over and?—
It’s all I see.
Thirty-Four
Brit
