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But the voice that shouts back is Byron’s—“I’m not opening it. Just go away. Haven’t you done enough?”
“Seriously?” Shauna growls, giving the door another bang. “You stole my friend’s hair and her picture and brought it to a psychic, you little perv. You’re going to face us like a man.”
Damn, I’m not sure I’d open that door either. I give her slight nod, and she returns it.
There’s a creak from behind us, and I turn and then nearly lose my balance, because what the actual fuck isDannydoing here? I’m getting cognitive dissonance from seeing him in this place, when he belongs in the clean and tidy apartment on Broadway Street.
My gaze flits to the guy who’s with him, whom I recognize from photos as Shane, the lawyer pal he’s known since childhood. He’s good-looking, too, but in a hotshot way. My eyes bounce off him and stick to Danny, to the curl of his hair, to his deep, dark eyes, and his slight smile—always slightly sarcastic, like he’s making a joke or feels like the punchline of one.
I clear my throat, trying to regain my grip on reality—and on this confrontation we’re supposed to be having. It’s not going according to plan. I figured Shauna, Delia, and I would storm over here, and our girl power would blow Byron over like he’s a fall leaf. But I didn’t account for Danny and Shane. Which is when it hits me that he must be here because of me. The knowing looks on Shauna’s and Delia’s faces suggest they know to.
Oh.
“Are you here to—”
“What the fuck?” Byron moans from behind the door. “Is that your boyfriend? Why would you bring yourboyfriendto my apartment? You want to rub it in my face?”
Danny’s friend mutters, “Told you,” which means nothing to me other than that I’ve met someone else who enjoys sayingI told you so.
Anger burns through me as quickly as it would a curl of paper. “Seriously? You’ve been bringing women home for weeks. Why the hell do you care what I do?”
“You’re the one who chose this,” he says sulkily.
“Because you’re an asshole. Who steals people’s hair, apparently. I shouldn’t have to tell you how weird that is.” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “Didn’t it occur to you that there was probably some of your hair mixed up in what you took from the drain?”
The door swings open, hitting one of my crutches.
I nearly fall over, but Danny’s hand wraps around me from behind. I hear his intake of breath—and I realize it’s the wrist he hurt in the stairwell. It’s swollen, and I glance back at him with alarm. “Your wrist—”
“It’s fine,” he says through his teeth, but he releases me and holds it to his chest.
It’s obviously not fine.
“I opened the door,” Byron says flatly, clearly unconcerned that he almost knocked me over. “Now tell me why the fuck you’re here with your boyfriend.”
Turning to look at him, I frown. He has one of my old towels wrapped around his hair in a turban. He has medium-length chestnut-brown hair, one of his best features, so it’s not the first time I’ve seen him with a towel wrapped around it, but it’s a weird way to answer the door in the middle of the afternoon. He looks like he’s spent the day at the spa to try to combat a hangover.
“He’s my roommate, not my boyfriend,” I say. “I didn’t ask him to be here, so I have to assume that you’re so dislikable, he felt compelled to come on his own.”
My tone darkens with every word, because I’ve decided I’m annoyed that Danny and Shane are here. They clearly came because I told Danny about those texts, and he figured he’d step in and handle the situation.
Part of me is…touched that he cared enough to bother, but I’m also kind of disappointed that he didn’t wait to be asked. I didn’t take him for the swinging dick type of guy. Then again, maybe all guys like to swing their dicks when given the opportunity. It might be a quality that’s carried in the Y-chromosome.
I turn, looking over my shoulder, and aim a scowl at Danny. “I was handling this. You should have let me handle it.”
“You’re right,” he says, looking away from me, at the door. “I just—”
Shane steps forward and clears his throat. “Mr.…” He looks at me and lifts his eyebrows.
Sighing, I say, “Lord.”
Yes, Byron’s parents thought it would be classy as hell to name their child “Byron Lord.” They have no one to blame but themselves for his decision to be in a band.
His lips twitch as he adds, “Mr. Lord. I’m Ms. Evans’s lawyer, and you’ve been engaging in a disturbing pattern of behavior. Would your employers—”
“Your parents,” I interrupt. Because no one in the band would care that he’s harassing me. They liked me just fine when I used to give them free drinks every time they came around my bar, even if they weren’t playing, but they all took Byron’s side in our breakup. His upper-crust parents would care, though. They might have thought their baby boy deserved better, but they like controversy even less than they do sassy bartenders.
Shane angles his head, his eyes on Byron’s towel. I’m pretty sure he’s doing it intentionally, as a power play. “Would yourparentsbe impressed to learn you’ve been threatening her?”
