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The asshole who just made her laugh has to reach out to grab her arm to steady her. When I see his hand clasp around her arm my jaw clenches and my vision floods with red.
The guy grabs the bottle of tequila. He must be moving it out of her grasp. Good. He might be a jerk, but at least he has enough to sense to be able to tell that another shot of liquor is the last thing Phoebe needs right now.
At least, that’s what I think for a moment, until I see the asshole tip the bottle and pour Phoebe’s shot glass up to the fucking brim.
I crumple up the red Solo cup it my hand and let it fall to the floor. Let the basketball assholes clean it up later.
I stalk over to Phoebe, hurrying to get there before she tosses back the shot and gets even drunker than she already is.
I make it in time. I push the guy in front of her to the side, snatch the glass out of her hand, and just for good measure, throw it back and let the liquor burn down my throat.
Setting the shot glass down on the table next to me with a thud, I lower my brow, fixing my gaze on Phoebe. “Where’s Casey?”
“What … Hunt …” her words are slurred, her eyes cloudy. I’m glad I got here in time, because if she took that shot just now, she’d be in an even worse condition.
Something the idiot who poured it for her should have enough of a brain to recognize—but I’ll worry about him later. Right now, I want to find Casey and let her know she needs to take Phoebe home.
“Hunter, what are you gooing here?” she finally blurs out. “Doing. What are you doing here?” She corrects her drunken mistake, sounding as if she’s not happy to see me.
Not that I care. I’m pretty sure Phoebe Sinclair is never happy to see me, and I don’t need me rescuing her from getting absolutely trashed with no one to look out for her to be the first time that changes.
“Where’s. Casey.” I enunciate the words slowly and forcefully.
“Why?” she asks.
“You need to go home.”
Her brow hardens and her lower lip puffs out in a pout. If I weren’t in such a serious mood right now, I’d let my gaze linger on the way her slick, pink lip glistens in the soft overhead lighting. “Says who?” she asks.
I roll my eyes. Obviously, I expect any given time I talk to Phoebe to turn into an argument, but this is the one time I really don’t need that to happen.
“You’re drunk.”
“So what?” she bites back. She crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s a party. People get drunk. Big whoop.”
“You’retoodrunk.”
“So you’re the … the …” I can see the gears turning in her drunk brain through her glossy eyes. “So you’re the …drunk policenow?”
“Where’s Casey?” Maybe she’s drunk enough that if I just ask the same question over and over again, she’ll lose track of the conversation and just answer the damn question.
“She’s not here.”
My eyebrows furrow. Phoebe came to a party without Casey? Alone? When we both know that being at a party can fuck with her head?
So not only is she here alone, somewhere she knows destabilizes her mentally and emotionally, but she’s clearly trying to cope with that by drinking way too much.
Not good.
Yep, I’ve decided. I’m getting her out of here.
Obviously, though, she still has other plans.
“Come on, Tony,” she says to the guy still standing next to me, who’s very wisely been silent during the course of this conversation so far. “Let’s have another shot.”
I turn my head towards Tony and look down on him with a gaze cold enough to give him frost bite.
He looks up at me with big, scared eyes. Smart of him to be scared—he should be right now.
