She swallows hard and turns to flee. I follow her out into the lobby where they’re selling T-shirts and stickers and beer. “I need a shirt,” she says, unfolding a wad of cash she pulls out of her tight jeans.
“Okay,” I reply, my ears fuzzy now that we’re away from the amps. My hearing won’t ever be the same after the blasts and explosions I’ve been around. She buys an oversized black shirt with a simple logo and pulls it over her head, effectively cutting off my view of her tight stomach and outline of her tits. “Everything okay?”
“I will be. Let’s get another drink?” she asks, flitting over to the alcohol line before I can respond. This is Harper trying to do avoidance. “This is so great. Thank you, Ben. For tonight. It’s really…awesome.”
I’ll let her get away with it for now, so she feels like she has some control of her emotions, but when we’re alone tonight, in my bed, I’m going to call her the fuck out. “Happy Birthday, Harper. It needed to be something to remember. It is your twenty-first. Memorable?”
“Did you hear them? They’re so amazing in person. This is more than memorable. Maybe even the best birthday ever.” I can think of several awesome birthdays and there’s only one way this one will take the proverbial cake, and I need to make it happen. Fate is in my hands.
Harper orders a couple drinks, throws too much cash on the bar, and then pushes a drink into my hands. “I’m not sure more alcohol is the answer,” I tell her, sipping the top so it doesn’t spill any more than she already has. I grab the bill the bartender is trying to hand back to Harper and slide it into my pocket, shaking my head.
She takes a few long swallows. “The answer to what?” she asks, quirking a brow. A slight sheen of sweat glistens on her face and it reminds me of when she’s working out. That thought moves to other more inappropriate thoughts and by the time she asks me her question again, I’ve already mentally undressed her.
“Uh, do you want to get out of here now? I think they’re finished after this song.” I check my watch and glance up to meet her eyes. A little line appears between her eyes as she thinks and she stumbles back. I grab the solo cup from her hands and dump the remnants into my cup. She’s done.
“Yeah, if I’m going to get sick I’d rather be at home.” My chest puffs out. She called my placehome.Then I realize she mentioned getting sick. Her cell phone chimes and she fumbles to get it out of the top of her shirt. The iPhone falls to the cement floor. Face down. We all know how that ends.
I stoop down and pick it up. “Shit, it’s cracked,” I say, a second before I see the dozens of texts from some dude named Marcus. The stream of texts go a little like this:where are you? Text me back. Where are you? What are you doing? You better text me back right now. Call me. FUCKING CALL ME.
“Who the fuck is Marcus?” I ask, and the second I say his name, I know who it is. The guy she studies with. I gulp in a huge breath as the significance of this hits me full force. “Harper,” I say her name like a question. “Why is he texting you like this?” I flash the cracked screen at her face so she can see his obviously angry messages.
She looks away, to the right. “Do you think we can get it fixed tonight? I bet some place is open.” Taking the phone from my hand, she licks her lips and examines it closer.
Grinding my teeth, I take her hand in mine. “Let’s go.” I text a group message to let my friends know we’re taking off because Harper is drunk. A few inappropriate emoji messages flash up immediately. Even in a venue such as this loud, raucous theatre my brothers are tuned into their surroundings and their phones in case of emergency.
Clutching my arm in a death grip, Harper lets me guide her out into the street. I pull up my app and call for an Uber while seething in her direction. “What are you keeping from me?” I interrupt. Harper is talking to me about a club at school and how her mom gave her a bag of goodies we should eat when we get back. “Avoiding the subject isn’t going to fare well for you.”
Her head whips in my direction, hurt shining in her eyes. I open my mouth to apologize, but the white sedan squeals around the corner. Twenty-five security guards that pace the exterior of the theatre are automatically on alert at the quick, asshole maneuver. Their guns are drawn and gazes slide to our proximity. Even halfway in the bag I’m aware of everything around me. I hold up my hand to show the guards everything is okay. “Ubers. Time is money, right?” I call out. Security doesn’t look amused with my low-brow jab and continue to monitor our every step.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” a guard asks Harper as he approaches us.
“Me?” Harper looks alarmed at the attention. Her eyes flit to the gun in his hand. As do mine. For a different reason. “I’m fine. I drank too much, but it’s my birthday and the band was amazing. Are we in trouble? It’s all his fault if we are,” she says, hiking a thumb over her shoulder awkwardly. “Everything is always his fault. He never does anything he’s supposed to.”
I groan and lean over to talk to the Uber driver, who rolled down the window. To the guard I say, “I’m trying to get my friend home, sir.”
He nods and holsters his gun and then warns the driver to slow down. The guy looks scared, and if I was already concerned about putting Harper’s life in the hands of a strange driver, now I’m even more so. “Harper,” I say, guiding her into the backseat. My hand accidently brushes her bare stomach and she freezes at the touch.
She straightens and slides into the seat with a clumsy slump. I wish the officer good night and sit next to Harper in the back seat.
“You really could use some driving lessons. Didn’t you think about where you were picking us up? Guards crawl all over crowds. Use your head a little. You have one job.”
He looks abashed. I’m not sure if it’s because of my size, the fact I’m leaning into the front seat, or the threat behind my words, but it works. He drives the speed limit all the way to my place. Harper is asleep, draped across my lap when he puts the car in park. I pull her out of the car as gently as I can. She rouses and swallows, wiping the corner of her mouth with her forearm. “That was a quick trip,” she mutters, fidgeting with the phone she has tucked in her top.
The car pulls away slowly and I lead her up the cobblestones of my front walkway. It’s a cottage, a small house with one bedroom and few furnishings. Harper was impressed when we stopped here earlier to drop off her things. She said it reminded her of a hobbit house and skipped across the hardwood floor like a Disney princess. I pull my key out of my pocket and try to keep one arm on her as she leans against the door frame.
With her head against the dark, gray stone she lets it fall to the side. “You’re cute when you’re furious,” she says, slurring every other word.
I close my eyes, take in a calming breath, and push the door open. I hold out my arm like a good gentleman should and tamp down on the boiling rage I feel thinking about the text messages and her meek attempts to avoid the subject. “After you,” I say, prompting her when she doesn’t make a move.
Her eyes scan my face and her gaze falls to my lips. My heart hammers, and that uneasy, questionable feeling enters my bloodstream for the second time tonight. “I should stay at my parents’ house. Think that driver can come take me there?” Harper asks. After her question is out she begins humming a song from Cold War Kids.
I shake my head. “It’s late. I want to talk to you. Go in, Harper.”
Sighing, she flicks her gaze over my chest and midsection, and then walks through the door, ambling to the brown grocery sack on the counter in the kitchen. She pulls herself up on the barstool and dumps the bag with the grace of Ben-Hur. “Come eat some of this with me, Benny.”
My anger subsides a touch when she uses my old nickname, but I wonder if she’s doing it purposefully. I know her well enough to know how well she knows me. “Marcus,” I say. One word. “Start talking.”
She spins on the stool, a string of licorice in her hand, wielding it like a weapon. “He’s my boyfriend, Ben. What do you want to know?”
