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He did the same. Then he snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me close to him. I tensed, uncomfortable with the intimate contact.
“Relax,” he whispered. “Act drunk.”
I laughed emphatically. Gave a half snort, as though he’d muttered something hysterical.
“Good,” he said. Then he started talking loudly about the music, the band, the dancing. Gesturing obnoxiously with the cup in his hand.
We made our way back to the grandstand and he literally plowed into a skyscraping broad-shouldered guy from behind, Kyle’s beer splattering against the stranger’s flannel shirt.
“Hey!” The mountain of a man whirled around and glared at us. I gulped.
“S’rry, dude,” Kyle said. “Didn’t see ya there. Which is, like, so weird, right? Because you’re … Damn. Seriously tall.” He craned his neck. “They call you Treetop or something?”
My gaze widened.
“What kind of prick are you?” the lumberjack demanded.
“One who works out every day.” Kyle relinquished his hold on me and lifted his arm, flexing his biceps. “You, however, look like you could use some extra weight on your dumbbells.”
Oh, fuck.
Dark eyes narrowed on Kyle. “You are one serious asshole, man.”
Kyle staggered a bit—and spilled more beer on the guy. “Sorry,” he grumbled. “It’s just that … you take up a lot of space.”
“And you need to shut the hell up.”
“Wanna make me?” Kyle challenged as he swayed a bit.
“You need to learn some manners, buddy.” The big lug took a swing and it connected. Kyle hit the ground. I screamed and dropped my beer.
“Son of a bitch!” I yelled, then sank to my knees to check on Kyle, who bled from a split lip. Crimson dotted the front of his new shirt.
“Maybe I should have picked a smaller dude,” he mumbled.
His eyes rolled in the sockets. He likely saw stars. And birds.
“Jesus, Kyle.” My stomach clenched.
“Hey, what’s going on over here?” A new voice.
I glanced up to find the two officers closing in on us.
Time to play my part.
One of them reached for the assailant, but I clumsily got to my feet, stumbled as though tipsy, and declare
d, “Isnot ’is fault.” I waved a finger toward Kyle. “’Is drunk. I mean … heeee’s drunk.” I cleared my throat. “He’s drunk.” I forced the enunciation as though it were challenging.
“Great,” the second cop mumbled. “So are you.”
“Is not.” I shook my head. “Am not,” I corrected.
“Come on,” cop number one said as he helped Kyle up.
“Whoa,” I called out, pressing a palm to the officer’s chest.
Cop number two warned, “Don’t touch him.”
