Hard Fought (A Stepbrother Warriors Novel)(24)

"I don't want to!" I retort, planting my feet.

"Hey, chill out," the bearded man says, placing a calming hand on Carter's shoulder. "We were just dancing. I didn't know she was here with—"

"Get the fuck off me!" Carter spits back, his eyes flaring. The music changes to a faster song and the crowd surges behind him, sending a couple dancers stumbling against him. His head flies wildly around and his knees bend into a slight crouch. "Alexa, we have to go now!" he yells, his eyes darting around as though we're under attack.

"Carter..." I say, stepping toward him, hands outstretched. Around the edge of the dance floor, a cocktail waitress trips and sends glass flying and a stool toppling over.

Carter drops to the floor, his hands over his ears and his head bowed. I rush over to him, my concern cutting through my drunken state.

"I'm here. Hey, I'm here," I murmur, spreading my fingers over his hands and ducking my head beneath his so that he'll see me. "Everything's OK."

"Can't breathe," he gasps.

"I think it's a panic attack," I tell him. "You're hyperventilating. There's nothing actually bad happening, alright? You have to try to understand that." A couple dancing next to us jostles against us and I'm worried we're going to get stepped on. "Let's get out of here. We're going to stand up, and you just keep your arms around me and just look at the back of my head, alright? Just focus on me."

He nods, and we stand up together. I turn around and wrap his arms around my waist. I step forward with my right foot and he follows me, syncing up our walking motions as I make my way through the crowd with him behind me. I push the front door open and thankfully there are a couple taxis sitting at the curb, waiting for club-goers to come out.

I open the back door and tap on Carter's hand, signaling for him to come around me. I shuttle him into the back seat and then shut the door behind us and give the cabbie directions back to the house.

"Your car..." Carter groans, his head in his hands as he rests his elbows on his legs.

"Fuck my car," I tell him, rubbing his back. "I'll get it tomorrow."





Chapter Sixteen



We don't talk on the way back to the house. I just curl my body up to his and wrap my arm around his shoulders. The cab drops us off in front of the main house, but I guide Carter around the side to the boat house. We silently walk up the stairs and I lead him to the sliding doors to the right of my bed.

"This is where I go when I need to relax," I tell him, sitting him down on the couch on the back balcony. I cover his legs with the throw blanket I left draped over the back.

"Yeah? What else do you do?" he asks, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"Well, I—" I begin with a smile. "Actually, wait a second..." I open my clutch root around in the bottom of it. "Oh my god," I say as my fingers close around an old joint. "Do you know what this means?"

"You have more than one vice?"

"No, it means I'm a felon. I forgot this was in my purse and brought it back on the plane from France. Sorry, sorry, don't think about that." I dig around in my purse again and take out a lighter. "Here, just take a small hit."

"This will help?"

"It's very soothing, trust me." I light it up pass it to him. He takes a short drag and breathes the smoke in before releasing it and passing the joint back to me.

"My hands feel funny," he says, flexing them.

"That's from the panic attack, not the pot. Weed doesn't work that fast."

"You know a lot about panic attacks?"

I nod. "Used to get them in eighth grade. Had to see a psychologist for like a year. When you hyperventilate, your extremities stop getting enough oxygen and they start buzzing or going numb and stuff. Just keep breathing deeply and it will go away."

"I don't panic."

"OK," I reply, handing him the joint again. He takes another small hit.

"I'm trained not to."

"Great."

"Stop doing that."

"What do you want me to say? I know what I saw."

"You going to tell your dad?"

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't think he's going to want to employ someone who can't handle being in a fucking club," he says.

"You kidding? I love keeping secrets from my father, or trying to, anyway." I pause. "I owe you an apology."

He frowns. "What for?"

"Insisting on going there, and then insisting on staying. I thought you were just trying to control me...I didn't realize you wanted to leave for you."

"Well, I didn't realize that either, so it's fine." There's a long silence, and I stare at him. "What?"