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Perhaps he’s always been, and I just never noticed.
“I should have brought Sem with us,” I mutter, and August scoffs, parallel parking in a tight space on the dark street.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I can protect you just fine. Nothing’s going to happen anyways.”
I look at him skeptically because he’s well-built and strong, but he’s also too nice. I have a feeling if someone came at me, he’d try to reason with them before actually throwing a punch. Whereas, Sem would always throw a punch and then ask questions later.
Actually, he wouldn’t bother to ask any questions.
“Do not look at me like that,” August grumbles and then wrenches the door open, and I scurry out, following him inside a shady bar on the opposite side of the street.
Curious eyes trail us as we enter the dimly lit space. The air is humid and smells like stale beer and cigarettes. A seventies rock ballad plays over the sound system and my sneakers stick to the tacky floor when I walk.
I lean into August and mutter, “Your step-brother better appreciate this because I am way too pretty to have my body murdered and thrown in some back-alley dumpster.”
August just rolls his eyes and chuckles.
“Oh, come on,” I breathe. “The bartender looks like she eats nails for breakfast and I’m pretty sure there’s a dead guy over there.” I gesture to the corner of the bar.
August glances around. “Ok, point taken, just don’t piss off the bartender…” he says and then his face pinches and his eyes narrow. “Oh fuck, that’s not a dead guy, that’s Emery.”
August grabs onto my arm, seemingly oblivious to my safety concerns, and pulls me forward. We approach Emery, his torso sprawled out over the bar, his tattooed arms resting on the sticky surface, and his hands cradling a glass of clear liquid.
“This little shit yours?” the brawny woman behind the bar asks.
“Yep. Mine,” August says, and Emery turns his head and blinks up at August with his dark brown eyes. His chin-length hair falls across his face, and he blows at it.
“Nah, not his,” he mumbles and then tries to reach up and pat the side of August’s face, but August just pushes his hand away.
“Get him out of here. He’s a sloppy drunk and an asshole,” the woman says and then she holds out her hand, silently asking for payment for the however many drinks Emery managed to consume.
August sighs unhappily, pressing his credit card into her awaiting palm.
“Thanks, brother,” Emery slurs and tries to stand but falls forward into August’s chest.
“I’m not your brother,” August grinds out as he struggles to keep Emery standing.
“Soon though,” Emery says, his large brown eyes meeting August’s. “Such a shame.”
August grunts and then shifts Emery in his arms as the lady slaps August’s credit card onto the bar top.
“Leave me a big tip. This asshole was disrespectful. I kept him from getting killed despite wanting to watch him get a few teeth knocked loose.”
August looks at me, and I nod, swiping his card from the counter and scrawling a large tip on the slip of paper.
“Thanks boys,” she says, and August shifts Emery in his arms.
“You have a low? High?” he asks, and I remember that Emery is a type 1 diabetic. Apparently, a very irresponsible one.
“I’m fine,” he drawls sloppily.
“Good. Now walk, asshole.”
“My legs’re tired,” Emery attempts to say, leaning against August’s chest like a ragdoll. A slight snore escapes his nose.
“I think he’s asleep,” I say, and August sighs heavily.
“Fuck my life.”
