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“Baby, don’t be a brat,” David says as he grinds into me again. A growl escapes his parted lips. “You’re buzzed. You should be in the mood.”
I swallow, and my throat hurts. “Stop,” I say.
It must have been the magic word because David’s body flies backward, releasing me into the frigid arms of the winter air. I see a shadowy figure, a third person. “She told you no,” the new voice says. David goes to argue, but his words slur together. On instinct, I tug at my zipper and fasten my jeans, and when I look up again, it’s just in time to see Emory Underwood slam a fist into David’s jaw.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Let’s go.”
Emory’s voice is rough in my ear. His hand on my back guides me away from the silver truck. David slurs a few choice words to Emory, and I allow myself to glance back only once. David’s hand covers his cheek where he’d been punched. He leans against his truck and points at me.
“Where the hell are you going?” he calls out. “And who is this prick?”
“I’m her ride home,” Emory says, stopping. His shoes scrape across the broken asphalt parking lot as he turns toward David, leveling a glare at him that dares him to object.
“Fine,” David spits. “Not worth it anyway.”
The words hurt more than they should. Soon, my bright red heels are my focus point as I avoid potholes, walking in silence with my biggest enemy toward that dark red Camaro. My stomach rolls with more than just alcohol. Anger. Regret. Embarrassment. It all swirls through me, somehow avoiding the frigid chill that has my teeth chattering and my skin longing for a warm blanket.
The car’s headlights blink and the doors unlock. I hear the sound of keys jingling, the shuffle of my feet as Emory’s hands guide me toward the open passenger door. “Careful,” he says, his voice calmer than it was moments ago.
With his help, I don’t smash my head against the low opening of the door. My jaw hurts from shivering as I sink into the leather seat. Everything is quiet for a moment. Emory stands there, on the outside of the open passenger door, staring at me. I look up at him, squinting from the harsh glow of a streetlamp above us.
His jaw quirks. “Good movie, huh?”
I try to nod, but I don’t think I move. “I’m really glad to see you.”
I mean every ounce of the sentiment. After a night spent with a stranger and then the rush of fear and disorientation of the last few minutes, it feels good to see a face I trust. My chest shakes and a smile tugs at my chapped lips.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, leaning down until our faces almost touch. He takes the seatbelt, pulls it out and leans over me to buckle me safely into place. “I never thought of you as a funny drunk.”
I giggle again, and my hand reaches up on its own. I touch the shaggy strands of brown hair, the ones that always fall into his eyes. I brush them back, letting my fingertips graze across his skin. “You took my fear away just now,” I say, my words a whisper. He pauses, his face still inches from mine. I draw in a freezing breath and slide my hand down to his cheek. A small part of my subconscious knows I shouldn’t do this, I shouldn’t let him in, or treat him like a friend.
But the alcohol is in charge now.
I swallow, then grin. “I was scared. I was scared, and you punched him, and you saved me,” I say, my words tumbling out with the ease of alcohol. “And I thought ‘Oh good. Emory is here, and I can trust him.’” I snort a laugh, and he flinches. “That’s why it’s funny. I trusted Emory Underwood.”
My head falls back against the seat, my chest heaving with giggles as I shake my head. “That’s why it’s so hilarious. You can’t trust Emory Underwood,” I say, glancing up at him. He stands straight, his jaw tight. I smile again and reach out my arm for him. He doesn’t move, and my fingers barely reach the zipper of his leather jacket before my hand falls back down to my lap. “You can’t. But I did.”
“Watch out,” he says, gently closing the car door. Maybe it’s just the reflection from the glass or the movie theater beer, but something seems off in his face. Those dark, penetrating eyes still stare at me like they always do, but something is weird about him. I close my eyes and lean my head back, trying to make the world stop spinning. But even with nowhere to look, my body is still dizzy.
Emory gets into the driver’s side of hi
s car and starts the engine. The heater blasts from the vents and I delight in their warmth, leaning forward so the hot air can caress my face and hands.
“So where’s your date?” I ask into the heater vent.
“I don’t have a date.”
My eyes open and I look over at him, letting the heat blast the side of my head. My eyebrow quirks. “So you were with friends? Where are they?”
He brushes dust off the dash with his thumb. “I came alone.”
“You saw a movie by yourself? Who does that?”
When he doesn’t answer right away, my mouth falls open. “You were stalking me. Ciara told you where I’d be, and you stalked me here.”
He shakes his head in a soft display of denial. “That’s not true. Not entirely.”
