After We Fell (30 page)

Robert smiles and slouches a little to better meet my eyes. “Remember when I said to stop to apologizing for everything?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small pad and pen. “I'm not expecting anything, but if someday you're bored and alone in Seattle, give me a call. Or not. It's up to you if you want to or not.” He writes something down, then hands it to me.

“Okay.” I don't want to make any promises that I can't keep, so I just smile and tuck the small paper into the top of my dress. “Sorry!” I squeak when I realize that I basically just fondled myself in front of him.

“Stop saying sorry!” He laughs. “And especially not for
that
!” He looks at the entrance to the bar, then out at the dark, dark night. “Well, I better go. It was nice to meet you; maybe we'll see one another again?”

I nod and smile as he walks down the sidewalk.

“It's cold out here,” Hardin's voice says behind me, scaring the shit out of me.

I huff and walk past him back into the bar. The table that I was sitting at is now taken by a bald man and his supersized mug of beer. I grab my purse off the stool next to him, and he just gives me a dead-eyed look. Or rather, gives my breasts one.

Hardin is behind me. Again. “Let's just go, please.”

I step over to the bar area. “Can I just get two feet of space? I don't even want to be around you right now. You said some pretty hateful things to me,” I remind him.

“You know I didn't mean them,” he answers, defending himself, attempting to make eye contact with me. I'm not falling for it.

“That doesn't mean you can say them.” I look over at the girl—Lillian's girlfriend—who's watching Hardin and me from the bar. “I don't want to talk about it right now. I was having a nice night, and you aren't ruining it.”

Hardin steps in between us. “So you don't want me here?” His eyes flash with hurt, and something in their green depths makes me backtrack.

“I'm not saying that, but if you're going to tell me that you don't love me or how you use me for sex again, then you need to go. Or I will.” I'm trying my hardest to keep my bubbly, giggly attitude instead of sinking down and letting the pain and frustration take over.

“You are the one who started all this shit when you came here with him—drunk, might I add . . .” he begins.

I sigh. “Here we go.” Hardin is the king of double standards. His latest one is walking toward us now.

“Jesus, would you two shut up. We're in a public place.” The beautiful girl that Hardin was sitting with interrupts us.

“Not now,” Hardin snaps at her.

“Come on, Hardin's obsession. Let's take a seat at the bar,” she says, ignoring him.

Sitting at a table toward the back of the bar and having a drink brought to me is one thing; sitting at the bar top and ordering my own is another. “I'm not old enough,” I inform her.

“Oh, please. With that dress on, you'll get a drink.” She stares at my chest, and I pull the front up slightly.

“If I get kicked out, it's your fault,” I tell her, and she tips her head back in laughter.

“I'll bail you out of jail.”
She winks, and Hardin stiffens next to me. He watches her with warning in his eyes, and I can't help but laugh. He tried to make me jealous with Lillian all night, and now he's jealous of Lillian's girlfriend winking at me.

All of this juvenile back-and-forth—he's jealous, I'm jealous, the old lady at the bar is jealous, everyone is jealous—it's annoying. Slightly entertaining, especially now, but still annoying.

“My name is Riley, by the way.” She takes a seat at the end of the bar. “I'm sure your rude-ass boyfriend isn't planning on introducing us.”

I glance back at Hardin, expecting him to cuss her out, but he only rolls his eyes, which is pretty restrained for him. He tries to sit at the stool between us, but I grab the back, then place my hand on his arm to help myself get up onto it. I know I shouldn't be touching him, but I want to sit here and enjoy my last night of this minivacation-turned-disaster. Hardin has scared away my new friend, and Landon is probably already asleep by now. I don't have any other options except sitting alone in the room back at the cabin. This seems better.

“What can I get you?” a copper-haired bartender in a jean jacket asks me.

“We'll have three shots of Jack. Chill them first,” Riley answers for me.

The woman scans my face for a few seconds, and my heart begins to race. “Coming up,” she says finally, and pulls three shot glasses from under the bar and places them in front of us.

“I wasn't going to drink. I only had one before you came,” Hardin leans over and says into my ear.

“Drink what you want; I am,” I say without looking at him. Still, I silently pray that he doesn't get too drunk. I never know how he'll act.

“I can see that,” he says by way of scolding me.

I look at him with scorn, but end up staring at his mouth instead.
Sometimes I just sit and stare at the slow movements of his lips when he talks; it's one of my favorite things to do.

Perhaps noticing I've softened somewhat, he asks, “Are you upset with me still?”

“Yes, very.”

“Then why are you acting like you aren't?” His lips move even slower. I really need to find out the name of that wine. It was really good.

“I already told you, I want to have fun,” I repeat. “Are
you
mad at me?”

“I always am,” he replies.

I laugh a little. “Isn't that the truth.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.” I smile innocently and watch him rub the back of his neck with his hand, pinching the top of his shoulders between his thumb and forefinger.

A shot of brown liquor is placed in front of me seconds later, and Riley raises her shot glass to Hardin and me. “Here's to dysfunctional, borderline-psychotic relationships.” She smirks and tilts her head back to take her shot.

Hardin followers her lead.

I take a deep breath before welcoming the cool burn of whiskey down my throat.

“ONE MORE!”
Riley cheers, sliding another shot in front of me.

“I dunno if I can,” I slur. “I've never b-been this drunk, never never.”

The whiskey has officially taken over my mind, set up camp, and doesn't appear to be leaving anytime soon. Hardin is up to five shots, I lost count of mine after three, and I'm pretty sure Riley should be heaving on the floor from alcohol poisoning by now.

“I feel like this whiskey tastes good,” I remark, dipping my tongue into the chilled shot.

Next to me, Hardin laughs, and I lean into his shoulder and put my hand on his thigh. His eyes immediately follow my hand, and I quickly pull it away. I shouldn't be acting like nothing happened earlier—I know I shouldn't, but it's easier said than done. Especially when I can barely think straight and Hardin looks so good in his white button-down shirt. I'll deal with our problems tomorrow.

“See, all you needed was a little whiskey to loosen up.” Riley slams her empty shot glass on the bar top, and I giggle.

“What?” she barks.

“You and Hardin are the same.” I cover my mouth to conceal my obnoxious giggles.

“No we aren't,” Hardin says, speaking at that slower pace he resorts to when he's intoxicated. So does Riley.

“Yes—you are! It's like a mirror.” I laugh. “Does Lillian know you're here?” I swing my head to the side and ask her.

“Nope. She's asleep for now.” She licks her lips. “But I fully intend on waking her up when I return.”

The music starts to increase in volume again, and I watch the copper-haired woman climb onto the bar for probably the fourth time tonight.

“Again?” Hardin scrunches his nose, and I laugh.

“I think it's funny.” I think everything is funny right now.

“I think it's lame, and it interrupts me every thirty minutes,” he gripes.

“You should go up there.” Riley nudges me.

“Up where?”

“The bar, you should dance on the bar.”

I shake my head and laugh. And blush. “No way!”

“Come on—you've been whining about being young and having
fun, or whatever the hell you were going on and on about. Now's your chance. Dance on the bar.”

“I can't dance.” It's true. I've only danced, excluding slow dancing, once, and that was at the nightclub in Seattle.

“No one will notice—they're all even more wasted than you.” She raises a brow, challenging me.

“No fucking way,” Hardin says.

Through my drunken haze I remember one thing: I'm sure as hell done letting him tell me what I can and can't do.

Without a word, I reach down and unfasten the horribly uncomfortable straps around my ankles and let my high heels drop to the floor.

Hardin's eyes are wide as I climb on top of the stool, then onto the bar. “What are you doing?” He stands and looks behind us as the few patrons left in the bar begin to cheer. “Tess . . .”

The song gets louder, and the woman who has been serving us drinks smiles wickedly at me and takes my hand. “Do you know any line dances, honey?” she yells

I shake my head, suddenly unsure of myself.

“I'll teach you!” she yells.

What the hell was I thinking? I just wanted to prove a point to Hardin, and look where it got me—on top of a bar getting ready to attempt a dance . . . of some kind. I'm not even sure what a line dance is, exactly. If I'd known I was going to be up here, I would have planned it out better and paid more attention to the women when they were dancing earlier.

R
iley's looking up at Tessa standing in front of her on the bar. “Damn, I didn't think she would actually do it!” she calls.

Neither did I, but then again, she seems determined to push my buttons tonight.

Riley looks at me, her face aglow. “She's quite the wild child.”

“No . . . she's not,” I quietly disagree. Tessa looks mortified, obviously second-guessing her impulsive decision. “I'm going to help her down.” I begin to lift my hand up, but Riley smacks it down.

“Let her do it, man.”

I look at Tessa again. The woman who made our drinks is speaking to her, but I can't make out what she's saying. This is absolute bullshit, her dancing on a bar in a short-ass dress. If I was to lean onto the bar, I could see up her dress, as can anyone else at the bar. It occurs to me that Riley probably already is. I glance down the bar both ways, take note that neither of the greasy men at the opposite end are eyeing her. Yet.

Tessa watches the woman next to her, her brows furrowed in concentration—completely the opposite of her sudden need to be “wild.” She follows the movements of the old gal and kicks out one of her legs, then the other, followed by a swift movement of her hips.

“Sit down and enjoy the show,” Riley says next to me, sliding over one of her backup drinks.

I'm drunk—too drunk—but my mind is clear as I watch Tessa begin
to move, really fucking move. Her hands go to her hips, and she finally smiles, no longer caring that she has the full attention of almost everyone in the bar. Her eyes meet mine, and she fumbles her dance moves momentarily before collecting herself and directing her eyes to the back of the room.

“Hot, isn't it?” Riley smiles next to me as she brings her glass to her lips.

Yes, obviously, watching Tessa on the bar is hot as hell, but it's also infuriating and unexpected. The first thought that comes to mind is:
Fuck, this is hot
. The second thought is that I shouldn't be so engrossed in it and should be irritated at her constant need to defy me. But I can't think straight because of that first thought and the fact that she's dancing right in front of me.

The way her dress is riding up her thighs, the way she's holding her hair back in one hand and laughing while trying to keep up with the woman next to her . . . I love to see her this way, so carefree. I don't see her laugh like that very often. A thin layer of sweat has coated her body, making her glow under the spotlights. I shift uncomfortably and pull the ridiculous dress shirt I'm wearing down in the front a little.

“Uh-oh,” Riley says.

“What?” I snap out of my trance and follow her eyes down the bar. Two men at the end of the bar are gawking at Tessa, and by gawking I mean their fucking eyes are bulging worse than my fucking dick right now.

I look back up at Tessa, and her dress is dangerously high on her thighs; each time she kicks her legs out in front of her, it goes a little higher.

That's enough of this shit.

“Easy, killer,” Riley says. “The song will be over in . . .” And then she raises her hand and waves it as the music fades.

H
ardin's hand reaches for mine to aid me, and I'm surprised. By the way he was scowling and pouting the entire time I was dancing, I thought he'd be yelling by now. Or worse, I was half expecting him to climb up and drag me off the bar, then start a brawl with all the customers.

“See, no one noticed that you're a shitty dancer!” Riley laughs, and I sit down on the cool bar top.

“That was actually so much fun!” I yell, and once again the music stops. I laugh and jump down from the bar, Hardin's arm wrapped protectively around me until I'm steady enough for him to retreat.

“You should get up there next time!” I say into Hardin's ear, and he shakes his head.

“No,” he says solemnly.

“Don't pout, it's not cute.” I reach out and touch his lips. It
is
cute, though, the way his bottom lip sticks out. His eyes shine at the contact, and my pulse quickens. I already feel high from the adrenaline that came from dancing on the bar top, something I never in my life thought I would do. As much fun as it was, I know I'll never do it again. Hardin sits down on the bar stool, and I stay standing between him and Riley, next to my empty stool.