I push through a sea of mostly college-aged people and find the line for the bathroom. The one bathroom door has a man symbol next to a woman symbol, and there are both guys and girls waiting in line.
I sigh, counting ahead to figure out where I fall in line. I’m sixth. It might be a while. Glancing around the room, I watch a rail-thin woman make out with a big, bearded guy. I listen to the girl in front of me yell into her phone, telling her babysitter she’ll be late tonight. The guy behind me has bloodshot eyes and a droopy face. I think he’s on something. I’m in a strange, new land, and I’m still learning the culture, but I kind of like it.
Autonomy is the greatest feeling on earth. Mix that together with a little rebellion and a taste of inhibition, and I’m scaling heights I never knew existed.
I bob my head to the music. It’s deep but catchy, like the voice of a sad man singing happy songs. Liberty’s boyfriend is ridiculously talented.
“Excuse me, miss.” I spin around, finding myself faced with a broad-shouldered man donning a black t-shirt with SECURITY written across it. “I’m going to need to see your ID.”
CHAPTER 17
“You’re lucky your friends are covering for your punk asses,” the owner of the bar scolds us outside in the alley. His finger is pointed at my chest, inches away from poking me. He’s lucky he doesn’t. “You’re eighteen-goddamned-years old. You should be at home, in bed. You’re lucky I don’t call your parents.”
We stand there and take it, waiting for him to calm down so we can leave. I’ve only had one beer, and it’s been well over an hour, so I should be okay to drive us home.
“Get out of here.” The owner waves us away. “And take care of her. She’s drunk off her ass.”
He would be correct. Waverly is sloppy drunk from the three beers she chugged on an empty stomach. That, and it’s her first time drinking. She has zero tolerance. I should’ve kept a closer eye on her.
I slip her arm around my shoulder and wrap my arm around her back, leading her to my truck.
“Sorry I ruined our night,” she sighs.
“You didn’t ruin anything. You just happen to look young and they happened to notice you.”
“I had fun celebrating,” she says when we reach the truck. I fish for my keys as she leans against it, staring at me like she’s lost in thought. “Thanks for celebrating with me. It means a lot.”
I slip my key into the passenger door and yank it open for her like her own personal coachman. “Hop on in. Let’s get you home.”
She doesn’t move. “I mean it, Jensen. Sometimes I think you’re the only person who actually gives a darn about me.”
I smile. Even when she’s drunk, she can’t bring herself to swear. Her hand lifts to my face, her fingertips tracing my jaw as her eyes narrow and attempt to focus on my mouth.
“That’s not true.”
“The way you look at me.” She exhales her words. “It’s different. No one else looks at me the way you do.”
I shrug. Sure, I think the world of her. She’s pretty much the only person I’ve ever known that I don’t completely dislike. But we don’t talk about how we feel about each other anymore, not since that first week when we both made it clear we shared a mutual attraction. Shit got weird, and it’s been smooth sailing ever since we got past that.
“You’re imagining things. Get in.”
“Am I?” She still won’t move. “Am I imagin-in-ing-ing it, Jensen?”
She’s had too much to drink. Her filter is loose, if not missing altogether. She’s speaking whatever’s on her mind, and she’s going to regret it tomorrow. I opt not to engage in this drunken conversation in lieu of getting her home safely.
The second we pull up to the main house, I make sure the lights are out and Mark Miller’s not lurking in the shadows somewhere. She’s passed out beside me, her head pressed against the condensation-covered glass of the passenger window. The coast is clear, so I climb out, grab Waverly, hoist her over my shoulder like a rag doll. Inside, I quietly carry her upstairs, where I deposit her gently into her bed.
She stirs slightly, then makes a faint humming sound as she breathes. “Jensen?”
She’s awake.
“Yeah?” I whisper.
“Now will you kiss me?”
She’s drunk. She’s just saying that. She doesn’t mean it.
Fuck, do I want to kiss her.
But that ship has sailed.
Not that I haven’t thought about it every single day since I’ve lived here.
Besides, she won’t remember it in the morning, and I won’t forget, and that’ll be a problem for me.