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His cursing takes me aback. Alex’s not one to drop the f bomb for no reason. Something must be seriously wrong.
“She turned her phone off. We were having a girls’ night. Why do you need to talk to her?”
“It’s Will.”
Fear slams into me.
“He… he told me he felt like she understood him once. That they were friends. I need her help. Might be a long shot, but maybe she can talk him out of it.”
“Talk him out of what?” I cut in.
“We’re at some bar downtown. Lucifer’s Den. Will’s a fucking wreck. He’s been getting into fights, starting shit with everyone with a heartbeat. The owners are threatening to call the cops on him, but he won’t leave. I don’t know what to do.”
“What’s gotten into him?” Morgan panics.
“No clue. He won’t talk to me. He’s been acting weird as shit all week. Please tell me she can help.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“I’m on my way.”
I’m bursting through the doors to Lucifer’s Den twenty minutes later. The bar is gloomy, illuminated by red neon lights, hence its name. It really does feel like we’re entering the devil’s den. The second Alex hung up, I jumped out of bed, changed out of my pajamas into sweatpants and a T-shirt, and bolted into Morgan’s car. Luckily, there weren’t any bouncers at the door.
I spot Alex arguing with someone by the coat check. The manager most likely.
“Alex!” I wave, and his shoulders drop in relief.
He crosses the distance between us in one stride, then stops, analyzing his surroundings. “Morgan didn’t come with?”
Wait, was that disappointment in his voice? I see. He was hoping this would give him an excuse to see her.
“No. She stayed back.”
He snaps out of it. “Okay. Will’s at the bar. You have five minutes tops before they call the cops.”
I turn away.
“Kass, wait.” Alex grabs my arm. “He broke a bottle. There’s glass everywhere. Watch your step.”
This is worse than I thought.
I nod, diving deeper into the crowd and seeking Will’s built frame at every corner. Then I see him. Hunched over the bar, gesturing to the bartender, who seems hell-bent on ignoring him.
“What kind of bullshit business is this?” I hear Will spit as I close in on him. “Now we can’t get another drink at a fucking bar?” The ironic part is, he’s got a half-full beer in front of him.
“Nah, it’s just you who can’t get a drink, mate. Take a hint,” the bartender retorts with a thick British accent as he attends to other customers, all of whom are throwing Will nasty glances.
Not having it, Will rises from his stool, ready to flip the guy off, but my hand flies to his shoulder before he can open his mouth. Surprised, he turns around—okay, more like staggers—completely wasted. I can’t possibly translate his features when he frowns, taking me in.
I expect him to be angry.
Sad.
So, you can imagine my surprise when he starts laughing.
“Wow, either I’m really drunk…” He sticks a finger in my face. “Or you look exactly like my girlfriend.”
My pulse gives a jolt at his choice of words. Girlfriend, huh? Does that mean we’re still together?
