"Maybe I'm just realizing what's been in front of me the whole time," I said.
"Horseshit," Jeff spat. "Besides, I don't want his leftovers."
Oh, ouch. I'm leftovers, now?
"What the fuck, Jeff? I'm not sloppy seconds, I'm your friend. And I'm just wondering what else it might be, or could be. I don't know."
I turned away to stomp to my car, only I wobbled on my heels. Jeff caught me and I shrugged him off. I was pissed off now, even though I knew Jeff was just pushing to protect himself.
"Fuck off, Jeff. I'm going home."
Jeff grunted in irritation and caught my arm again. "Not like this you're not. You can barely walk. You aren't driving anywhere." He was both irritated and feeling his alcohol.
"I'm fine."
"You're not." Jeff pulled out his wallet, tossed a bill on the bar and waved a goodbye to Darren. "I'll take you home. And Anna, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I was just pissed off."
I let him help me into the passenger seat of his Yukon. It smelled vaguely of pine-scented air freshener, and something that was indefinably Jeff-smell, clean and male. He leaned over me, buckled me in, dug in my purse for my keys and locked my car. His presence in front of me had me inhaling his scent, wondering what the skin by his jaw tasted like.
Things were spinning, the dashboard wavering in front of my eyes, and the floor beneath my feet seemed to jump and wiggle.
"Guess I'm worse off than I thought," I said, hearing the slur. "Don't know what's come over me. I've done more shots than this and been fine."
Jeff snorted a laugh as he slid into the driver's seat and started the van. "You haven't eaten today. Your stomach's been growling since nine o'clock. Plus, you don't usually drink whiskey."
"What about you?" I focused on breathing and keeping my head straight on my shoulders.
"I'm fine."
I couldn't summon any more arguments. Maybe he was be fine, maybe he wasn't. I tried to remember how much he'd had, how much I had, but I couldn't; everything blurred together.
"Don't take me home," I mumbled. "Don't want to be alone."
Jeff glanced sidelong at me. "You can crash at my place."
I realized I'd never been to Jeff's place, and I didn't know if he lived in a house or an apartment. He drove slowly and carefully, seeming none the worse for wear. I was having trouble keeping track of time, and it might have been five minutes or an hour before we pulled up in front of a tiny house on a corner lot, deep in a subdivision. It was a shack more than anything, maybe one bedroom, if that.
Jeff helped me out and gestured to the house. "It's not much, but...well, it's home."
I slumped against him, letting him support my weight. I was feeling better than when I'd gotten into the car, but still dizzy. Jeff's arm was around my shoulders, and I let my head tilt to the side and rest on his arm. It was comforting, somehow familiar. He held me easily, and I didn't resist the urge to burrow into him. He smirked down at me, a lift of one side of his mouth, just a tipping of his lip, but it was enough to tell me liked having his arm around me. It was a good start.
Inside, the house was tastefully decorated in light colors that made the tiny living room and galley kitchen seem bigger than I'd expected from the exterior. Jeff helped me lie down on the faded gray couch. It was deep, soft, and comfortable. I was tired all at once, my eyes heavy.
I was wearing a long skirt and boots, and the skirt was tangling between my legs and catching on my boot heels. I tugged at the boots, got one off but the other defied my efforts. The zipper of my skirt was in the back, and I knew it was hopeless.
"Jeff, I need my other boot off."
He was gentle as he pulled the boot off my foot and set it neatly with the other by the door. He moved to cover me with a blanket, but I stopped him.
"I need the skirt off too. It gets tangled."
Jeff's face contorted into something like panic. "I don't—your skirt? Can't you do that?"
I might have managed it if I stood up, but that wasn't happening. Plus, this was fun.
I twisted my hips to the side. "Please? I'll be more comfortable."
Jeff's jaw tightened, and one hand curled into a clenched fist before he uprooted himself and knelt beside me. His hand reached out, hovered over the zipper just above the swell of my backside. His eyes locked on mine; he wasn't afraid, or nervous, but I couldn't decipher the emotion in his eyes. Desire? Hesitation? Longing?
