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“I like 'em grown.”
“You like old men.”
“Silver foxes, honey,” Gideon corrects in her low, southern drawl. “You want a refill before I get back to work?”
Without hesitating, I shove the glass back to her. “Keep 'em coming.”
40
JACKSON
I regretted goingout the moment that first shot burned my throat.
Hell, I regretted it seconds after we left the house.
I definitely fucking regretted it when we walked into a random bar and the first person I saw was the bartender. The very reason I was out in the first place.
If I thought the Greenies uniform was bad, it has nothing on this. Short denim skirt, a cropped black t-shirt, fucking miles of bare, tan skin. A few strands of hair secured back in a loose braid, the rest flowing around her shoulders. She looked fucking phenomenal blonde, but shit, she might look even better brunette.
I didn't think that was possible.
Luna being here, looking that fucking good, contributed to me getting drunker than I intended to, than I wanted to. The first couple of rounds, I knocked back quick because I felt like I needed them, like I needed to keep myself busy to stop myself from doing something foolish like marching over there. I thought it would calm me down. Would dull the... whatever the fuck I felt when I walked through those doors and saw her.
Instead, the excessive alcohol just amped up all those ideas and chiselled down my willpower not to do them.
I probably should’ve left. A smarter person would’ve left. But I never claimed to be smart so I stayed. Planted myself at this table, one hand gripping the side of my chair like that might keep me in it, and proceeded to drink myself silly until maybe,maybe, I could forget she was here.
It probably would've worked if she hadn't done the exact same thing.
Her shift must've ended not long after we arrived because she's gone from being behind the bar to sitting at it. For the last hour or so, she's been knocking back a stomach-churning combination of red wine and vodka shots, alternating between laughing with the pretty brunette bartender and making friends with the pair of guys huddled beside her.
The round she dropped off at our table was the last I indulged in. After that, I was too busy staring at her to drink. Too busy staring at the dickheads crowding her. Too busy tensing every time they inch closer.
It seems like the more I sober up, the drunker she gets. I can tell when she starts tipping towards the sloppy end of the scale because she gets louder, starts slipping off the barstool, starts slowing down. I bet if she turned around, her eyes would be hazy, half-shut in that way they tend to go when she's had too much, and her cheeks would have that familiar rosy flush I love.
Loved.
Whatever.
“You're staring,” a voice slurs as an arm snakes around my shoulders, shaking me playfully.
I jerk an elbow back into Nick's stomach. I'm not staring. I'm just... checking on her. Making sure she's alright. Keeping an eye on her drink since she clearly isn't.
Nick doesn't seem to get that. “Just go talk to her.”
“I did talk to her.”
“You call that talking?” Nick snorts. “You said one word and then gazed lovingly at each other for ten minutes.”
“Leave him alone.” Cass loops an arm around Nick's neck and yanks him away from me. Nick shrugs him off, shoving his future brother-in-law away from him with a roll of his eyes. When the two of them inevitably start bickering over nothing, like usual, my gaze strays back to Luna.
I don't like what I see.
She's facing me now, back braced against the counter. She’s not looking at me though. The guys on either side of her have her full attention. Have her laughing, head thrown back and eyes closed so she doesn’t see the look the creeps share.
Nothing but fucking predatory.
The bigger of the two rests a hand on her thigh and leans in to whisper something in her ear. She laughs again, louder this time, before almost falling on her face as she hops off the barstool. When both guys steer her toward the door, I'm on my way over there before my mind can catch up with my feet.
