Release (27 page)

I realize I don’t even know
where Brooklyn went with Kayla. Why the hell didn’t I ask Leo–

“Holy shit!” Gerard shouts.

I look at him, about four
feet ahead of me.

“Is that?” he says pointing
down the street, his pace picking up.

“What the fuck!”

Like bulls, the four of us
charge toward a sight that has me wondering if I drank myself into oblivion and
now I’m seeing shit. As I get closer I can’t even focus right, my vision is
fucked with confusion, which is abruptly replaced with rage.

It all happens in the blink
of an eye. I lift Brooklyn up from behind, with my arms around her waist, and
pull her away from a guy the size of the Incredible Hulk, who she’s screaming
at from the top of her voice. Leona and Kayla are screeching at him, too. Some
flimsy brunette, next to the dude, is hollering right back at Leona and Kayla,
who Gerard and Adam are now trying to cool down. The big-ass motherfucker is
looking at Brooklyn with fierce, narrow eyes, and I can’t even tell what the
fuck he’s saying.

Everything but the guy’s
face becomes nonexistent to me, but I’ve got Brooklyn in my hold, and she’s
wriggling around trying to get free. Joe steps to the guy, but I’m not happy
with the way he’s staring at Brooklyn. I release her and turn to the son of a
bitch and the next thing I know a stiletto flies past me and straight into the
dude’s head.

Brooklyn attempts to charge
at him. I block her, lift her, and hoist her over my shoulder and move down the
street away from the scene. I ignore the hands grasping at the back of my
jacket and her demands to be set free.

When I’m satisfied with the
distance between us and them, I set Brooklyn down. The moment her feet hit the
ground and she’s upright, she’s ready to go at him again. I pin her to me.
“Brooklyn, what the fuck are you doing?”

“He’s scum, let me go,” she
yells, pushing against my chest.

I tighten my hold on her.
“Go and what? Are you trying to beat the motherfucker?”

She’s struggling against me
like crazy. I glance back there and I can see Joe and Adam are talking to the
guy. Gerard’s between the three girls who look like they want to kill each
other.

“You need to calm down,
Brooklyn. Stop. Now.” 

She stills and looks up at
me. “You can’t tell me what to do,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Right now I can. Stop
wriggling and stay still.” Fuck, she’s putting everything into her bid for freedom
again. I grip her arms at the tops and ease her back a little. “Stop this shit
right now,” I tell her keeping my voice low, but firm.

She holds my gaze, her lips
pressed tightly together and her chest moving rapidly with her heavy breathing.
Who’d have thought Ms. Dancer had a temper like this. Her stare flits between
me and down the street where the others are. She yanks herself out of my grip.

“You don’t have to hold me
so hard,” she says to me with a solid tone, at the same time pulling off her
remaining pump.

“If I was holding you hard
you wouldn’t have gotten free. Don’t even think about it,” I warn, as she
flinches like she’s weighing up her chances of getting past me. “I’ll pin you
to the ground if I have to. Why are you so determined to get at that guy? What
did he do to you?” I’ll fuck him up myself if he’s touched her in anyway. I
scan her quickly, and all she looks is drunk and angry.

“Nothing. He thinks it’s
okay to hit women, though. Someone needs to defend his girlfriend if she can’t
do it herself.”

“Hey, man,” I hear Gerard
say. He approaches with a silver stiletto in his hand and passes it to
Brooklyn, who looks at it like she doesn’t know who it belongs to.

“Thank you,” she mutters, as
she takes it. She drops both shoes on the floor.

Gerard’s gaze comes back to
me. “Joe’s escorting Leona and Kayla back to their boyfriends. Apparently
they’re inside that club. We figured Brooklyn’s staying with you now–”

“I’m going back with them,”
Brooklyn interjects.

“No you’re not,” I tell her.

She challenges me with her
eye contact. “Yes, I am.”

“The only place you’re going
is with me.”

“Uh, I’m gonna head back to
… yeah, whatever.” Gerard moves away.

Brooklyn’s brows draw tight.
“Since when do you tell me what to do? You don’t own me.”

“Tonight, sweetheart, I do
tell you what to do.”

We stand glaring at each
other. She’s damn serious and way too fucking rebellious for my liking. I’ll be
fucked if I’m letting her go back in that club.

Brooklyn’s gaze shifts to
her left and a small, hesitant curve touches her lips. The tap tapping of high
heels tells me it’s a female approaching, so I don’t move my focus from
Brooklyn. She’s totally fucking wasted. I definitely feel sober now.

“Babe, here’s your stuff,”
Leona says, giving her a black coat and purse.

“Where’d that guy go?” I ask
Leona.

“Joe and Adam made him get a
cab.” She looks at Brooklyn, who’s staring at the ground. “He made us sound
like proper psycho bitches,” she says.

“I bet he did.” Their eyes
meet and then they hug.  

“I’ll call you tomorrow,”
Leona says. She glances at me. “Sorry about all this.” Turning away, she starts
walking back down the street to Xavier. It looks as though they’re leaving now.

Brooklyn grasps her purse
between her knees and starts to slide an arm into her coat. I go behind her and
take over. Once it’s on, I move around to the front and button her up.

She grabs her purse and
hooks the strap over her shoulder. Glancing down at her pumps, she frowns like
she doesn’t know what to with them.

“Let me help you with
those.” I crouch down and raise her right foot, ready to slip the first shoe
on. I feel the light press of her hand on my shoulder, as she supports herself.
Once both stilettos are on, I stand and take her by the hand. As we go to walk,
she stumbles into me.

“Sorry,” she mutters. I
scoop her up and hold her in my arms. “I can walk, I just need a– I think I’m
gonna be sick,” she says placing her hand over her mouth.

Fuck me, this just gets
better.

With me draped pathetically in his arms, Dane enters
his apartment and shoves the door closed with his foot. Setting me on my feet,
he stands me up and steadies me by holding my shoulders. When he’s certain I
won’t topple over, he lets go, turns on the light, and unbuttons my coat and
takes it off.

Whilst he starts to remove
his leather jacket, I slip out of my heels and bend to retrieve my handbag from
the floor. Bad move. The world spins and a rush of nausea grips my stomach like
a tightly clenched fist.  “Oh, fuck,” I mumble with all the clarity of a
six-month old baby.

With my hand over my mouth,
I upright myself and rush through the bedroom to the bathroom. I slam into the
doorjamb as I enter. It’s barely lit from the moonlight shining through the
small window, but there’s enough gray illumination to find the toilet.

Dropping to my knees, I
raise the lid with my free hand and proceed to hurl what feels like my entire
stomach contents into the bowl; champagne, champagne, onion rings, champagne,
chicken burger, oh and tequila – waaay too much info.

I’m not quite sure when the
lights came on, but during my fit of puking, Dane came in and he’s now sitting
on his haunches, right fucking next to me. I had a close shave on the street,
but managed to avoid this humiliation.

The sting in my throat makes
me cough before I can speak. I drag my hand over my mouth to wipe away the
wetness. “No, no, no,” I grumble lamely, with my voice rebounding off the
porcelain hole. “You cannot watch me toilet hugging. Go away.” I try to push his
shoulder, to get him to move away, but he’s solid in place and doesn’t budge.

“You should’ve thought about
that before you got yourself into this state,” he replies.

As he tucks some strands of
hair, which came loose from my chignon, behind my ear the act carries a
tenderness that makes me want to cry.

But his tone couldn’t have
been more unsympathetic. Cold.

Whilst contemplating my
reply I also measure the potential for another round of toilet hugging. I think
it’s safe. “It stinks, how can you bear it?”

“That’s not really my
concern right now.”

That flat voice. It’s not
one I’m familiar with.

I look at Dane. And
properly, for the first time tonight.

Reaching forward, I pull the
lid down and press the flusher. Folding my arms on top of the lid, I rest my
head sideways on my forearms and look at Dane again. “You’re angry with me,” I
whisper.

“I’m all kinds of pissed at
you right now, Brooklyn.”

I can see it, right there in
his eyes. The golden brown with lovely flashes of green look as hard as granite,
not a trace of the caring warmth I’m familiar with is present. Yet, he’s so
controlled. With the rigid hold of his body, the tone of his voice, and those
eyes, I can tell he’s furious. Yet, he’s completely controlled.

Why can’t those other
thuggish, bastard men do that?

Rather than scared, I just
feel disappointed that I’ve caused this.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what? Getting wasted?
Getting involved in a situation that had nothing to do with you and putting
yourself in danger? Throwing your damn pump at a guy built like a brick shit
house? A guy who clearly has no problem with hitting a woman? What exactly are
you sorry for?”

“I’m not sorry for
intervening or for throwing my shoe at him. I hate men like him.”

His brows draw tight, jaw
muscles flexing. “Fuck you, Brooklyn. Who do you think you are? What precisely
do you think you can do to a son of a bitch like that? Why not ask one of the
other men on the roadside to help? Why not call the cops? Do you have any idea
what I would’ve done to him if he’d put his hands on you?”

Absolutely inappropriate,
given Dane’s anger, but I just tingled with pride at that protective statement
of his.

“I wasn’t really thinking
like that.”

Now he just stares at me, no
more impressed than he was a moment ago. I feel like I need to explain, so I
raise my head and do just that.

“They were in the club with
some friends, sitting in the booth next to ours. When Leona heard their accents
she started talking to them. They’re from a place called Leeds in the UK. They
ended up on our table, and I had a chat with the girlfriend, Amelia. At one
point I noticed her boyfriend having a go at her. I didn’t think much of it,
all couples fall out. Then I saw him pressuring her to drink alcohol when she
didn’t want to. I don’t think anyone else noticed – I only did because she was
sitting beside me. I did try to ignore it. Then we were all up dancing and then
had more champagne and some tequila. Leona wanted some air and Xavier was gonna
go with her, but Kayla and me said we would because we needed to cool down a
bit.

“When we got outside we
walked down the street, so we weren’t stood in the crowd, and then I spotted
the prick holding Amelia’s arm and talking right in her face, so aggressive.
She looked so scared. Before I knew what I was doing I was trying to push him
away from her. Then it just got messy. He started shouting and so did I, and
because he was yelling at me, Leona and Kayla started on him.”

“I don’t know if you’re
aware of this, but Amelia was screaming at you and your girls. You got involved
to save her ass and she took
his
side. What was the point? She was
always gonna go home with him and stay in that relationship for however long
she chooses to. You’re not a super-fucking-hero; you can’t run around saving
people and going up against assholes like that. Pilates doesn’t exactly make
for good self-defense, does it?”

I chuckle at that before I
can stop myself.

Dane’s expression hardens
further. I didn’t think he could get any angrier.

“I didn’t consciously make a
decision to intervene, Dane. I really didn’t, I swear. It was like someone
suddenly changed the channel on a TV. One minute I’m standing there, the next
I’m in front of him. I wasn’t trying to be anyone’s hero, but I switched and …”
I shrug.

“Are you planning on doing
anymore
toilet hugging?
”

“I don’t think I have
anymore to give.” Please, God, no dry heaving in front of my man.

Dane stands and holds his
hands out to me. I clasp them and he pulls me up. When I’m upright on both
feet, he lets go and turns for the cupboard.

I stop in front of the sink
and look into the mirror above it, my eyes widening at the sight of myself.
“Oh, fuck,” I mutter. “Panda eyes.” And pasty skin. And hair that looks like
rats tails desperately trying to remain bound in my chignon.

If I was told I look like
shit right now I’d take it as a compliment.

I grab my electric
toothbrush from the holder and run water over the bristles. After adding an
extra-large blob of minty paste, I start to clean my teeth. Dane steps into
view, beside me, holding a black facecloth. The reflection of him is in
profile.

Tipping forward, I
thoroughly rinse my mouth and toothbrush. When I’m upright, Dane locks gazes
with me through the mirror. I am an absolute mess, and he is absolutely
gorgeous. Beautiful. Male. Perfection.

As I put things back where
they belong, I tell him, “You look nice.”

A crisp snow-white T-shirt,
with a gray design that I can’t focus too much on, hugs his spectacular
physique. Gray Jeans with that narrow fit and low hung waistband and the sexy
sag at the crotch. His hair. His nose piercing. Him. Simply him.

He doesn’t respond to what I
said. He’s massively unimpressed with me.

Somehow, I’ve pushed
boundaries with him tonight.

Coming up beside me, he
turns on the tap and lowers the facecloth underneath. After squeezing out the
excess water, he turns to face me, and I do him. One hand snakes around the
back of my neck, keeping me in place, and the other wipes my face with firm,
careful strokes; both eyes, my forehead, down my nose, across my cheeks, over
my mouth, along my jaw, and down my neck.

I hate the silence
surrounding us and between us. I don’t know how to change it, but I’m desperate
to.

Dane dumps the cloth in the
sink. Setting free my hair from its confines, he ruffles my rats’ tails with
his hands and leaves them hanging down. He cups the sides of my jaw firmly
enough to tilt my head back, until our eyes meet. “You can’t do stupid shit
like that, Brooklyn.” His tone is hard. It carries no threat, but likewise
there isn’t a trace of kindness in there.

I almost give into the urge
to scream at him –
you can’t tell me what to do
– but I know he cares,
and as angry as he is, he isn’t trying to control or own me. He cares and for
some reason his concern runs deep.

“You need to be wise about
your decisions and the positions you put yourself in,” he says.

“I didn’t do it on purpose.
I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, just be
wise. I don’t like men like him either, the motherfucker could do with getting
his ass kicked, but that has nothing to do with you. You can’t make other
people’s problems yours. I’m all for you having a good time, but if drinking so
much makes you that reckless, don’t do it.”

I open my mouth to speak.
Then close it. Open again. Close again. What do I say to that? The messages are
mixed. In effect, he’s telling me what to do.

“You can’t … I don’t always
drink like that. It’s only the second time I’ve ever drank that much, and once
was rebelling. I’m not a drunk and I’m not a slag and I don’t go out getting
drunk and making a fool of myself or slagging about with strangers–” he puts
his forefinger over my lips.

“Stop raising your voice and
stop being so defensive,” he says calmly. “I know you’re not a drunk and I know
you don’t put it about – damn it, Brooklyn, you’ve got a temper, what’s wrong
with you tonight?”

“Nothing, it …”

“It what?” he prompts.

“It just sounded like an
accusation, and like you’re telling me what to do,” I mumble, lowering my gaze
to his chest. Oh, boy, do I want to cry. No fucking way is that happening.
   

“You’re reading this all
wrong,” he says with a firmer tone. “Drink if you want, but not to the degree
that you can’t control your reaction to things. If drinking the way you have
tonight means you confront a prick like that guy with no thought of the
consequences, then yes I
am
telling you what to do. I’m not trying to
own you, you’re your own woman, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you do shit
like that, or anything else that can get you hurt. If you have a problem with
that, then
we
have a problem, but don’t blur the lines.”

“I –” whoa, shit. I press my
lips together and hold his gaze. Not going there.

“What?” he says with the
softest voice he’s used all night.

The way he’s looking at me
it would be so easy to believe he loves me, and that would make what I almost
just said so easy to say. It’s not the first time I’ve felt this when he’s
looked at me, and it’s not the first time I’ve come close to saying it.

The biggest lesson I’ve
learnt in my life is how wrong you can get things and what you can make
yourself believe if you want it enough.

“I’m sorry,” is the most I
can say. I wrap my arms around his waist and nestle my face against his chest.
He encases me in his hold. A tight hold that’s almost too much, but I don’t
care at this point. I breathe him in, taking comfort from his scent, his
presence.

“I’m sorry if I was hard on
you,” he says, talking into my hair, “and for cursing at you, but, baby, I need
you to take care of yourself when I’m not with you, and I’m not just talking
about bullshit situations like tonight.”

“Okay.”

I can’t say I’m not slightly
confused here. I’ve never considered myself irresponsible before. Well, maybe
once or twice before, but not in the time Dane’s known me. I don’t get his
level of concern, but after tonight I haven’t got much to use in my defense.

Pulling out of his hold, I
reach for my hair brush and start combing through my limp strands. My face
looks better, but only marginally. On the plus side, I’m certain there’ll be no
more getting sick for me. I’m gonna be seriously hanging when I wake up though.
 

As I continue the strokes
through my tresses, which are now much better looking down the front left side,
I feel it necessary to regain any respect I may have lost from Dane tonight.

“I know my limits with
alcohol. I don’t usually have as much as I did tonight.”

“I do know that,
sweetheart.” We make eye contact through our reflections. He tucks his hands
into the front pockets of his jeans. Even in his relaxed stance his posture
remains perfect. “You said the first time you were rebelling. Was that with
your parents?”

That’s a logical assumption.
I hesitate with my response. I hate lying to Dane, maybe just this once a
snippet of truth won’t hurt. My gaze moves from his beautiful eyes, which are
once again warm, and I follow the movement of my brush. Having this activity to
focus on somehow makes this little truth easier to give.