Andrzej tells the bartender to close my tab, then grabs me by the waist and Tessa by the elbow and pushes us toward thedoor. My legs wobble, barely keeping pace. Tessa pouts like a child, trying to maneuver around him.
“Come on, Andrzej,” she whines. “You want to go, go—I can take Nate home.”
Andrzej steps closer into her, towering firm and signaling he won’t allow that.
Outside, rain slicks the pavement, chill slicing through my thin jacket. Andrzej flags a cab, tilts his head toward the car, and nudges Tessa into the backseat, then taps the cab, and it drives away.
“That’s how you do it, Nate,” he mutters. “Learn the fucking lesson.”
I stagger at the curb, gripping a lamppost for balance. The cold steel bar I’m hugging makes me think of Robyn. She’s sexier, my girl, more lush.
“Tessa’s right about something,” I murmur. “Robyn threw me away like nothing. She’s home today. I have to go to her right now. I gotta tell her how fucking unfair that?—”
He exhales, one of those long, controlled sighs. “Dude. Nothing good happens after three in the morning. Let’s get you to bed.”
I laugh, a low, unsteady sound. “This is the best idea ever. I gotta give her a piece of my mind.”
He groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You can’t handle vodka for shit. You’re a joke of a man.”
“We have to go now, Andrzej, I have to tell her.”
“No fucking way. You’re staying put, sleeping it off.” He holds me in place, pulling out his phone, tons of black cars on the screen of whatever he’s trying to do. “Let’s take you home.”
I break free from his hold when someone asks him for a light, and manage to flag down a cab and slide in. Just before it drives off, after I’ve given the address, the door opens and Andrzej jumps in.
“Fine, fine,” he says. “Let’s go, but for the record, this is going to ruin everything even more.” He mutters, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
That’s how you know Andrzej is beyond pissed off. English curse words with an accent. I could run to her apartment barefoot and scream every word until she understands what she’s done to us.
Droplets fallfrom my sopping jacket onto the carpeted floor. The hallway won’t stay still. It’s too narrow, or maybe I’m too wide. The carpet swishes under my shoes, and through the haze, I feel myself sinking with every step.Not even a fucking metaphor.I’m not sure how I got up here. One second, I’m getting in a cab, and the next, I’m standing outside Robyn’s apartment door, hand on the frame because I might slip away if I let go.
The number on her door wobbles when I squint at it. I look for the key, but none of them work. Can’t even fit them in the hole.
“Nate, need some hair on that hole to figure it out?” Andrzej’s voice cuts through.No, I don’t fucking need hair on the door.
I frown, trying again until the edge of the metal bites my palm. I really look at the keys now.
“What the fuck…” I mumble. “Did she—” The realization hits me like a drink going down wrong.She took my keys to her place.
My chest burns. “That’s so fucking cold, sweets.” A laugh bursts out of me, short and ugly. “You threw our whole relationship away, and you took my fucking key,” I say to the door, because that’s all I’ve got to talk to.
I smack the wood, not hard enough to hurt, but to feel something solid under my palm. I do it again until it sounds like knocking.
“Andrrrzejj…” I glance over my shoulder. He’s a blurry shadow leaning against the wall, shaking his head. “You see this? She locked me out of?—”
The lock clicks and the door opens.
Light spills into the hall, too sharp, too bright, and there she is.My Robyn’s a sight.Hair mussed, skin flushed, eyes heavy with sleep. Her T-shirt’s twisted at one shoulder, slipping a little. I want to lick the dip above her collarbone so much I salivate. My head’s swimming, and I can’t quite focus on where the light ends and she starts. Something pounds inside my chest. I woke her up. She needs more sleep than she gets. I’m the idiot standing here, swaying in her doorway, waking up my girl because it sounded like a good idea.
Then I spot the figure next to her. Julian Keller. His hair’s tousled up top, and if his shorts rode any lower, I’d be staring at his dick. He’s barefoot, rubbing a hand over his face, only half awake. A red shirt clings to his chest, a flash of ink curving along his ribs and disappearing under the hem of his cropped tee. Fuck me, if that isn’t the outline of a nipple ring under the fabric.
When does this dude have the time to work out?Is that a twelve-pack? I remember Robyn saying she doesn’t look at him. Hell,Ican’t help but look at the guy. Somehow, though, they’re in front of me, looking comfortable—secretive, complicit. And suddenly, I’m not comfortable with this friendship. Not at all.
CHAPTER 11
The Outburst
Robyn
