“What’s the bartender’s name?”
“Louie,” I sniffled, the tears coming out harder.
“Louie,” Mr. Easton called out, not yelling, but with authority of a man who was used to getting his way. “I need her card back. Do not charge it, I’ll give you cash, and if you do it in the next thirty seconds, I’ll give you a hefty tip.”
My shoulders trembled. I tried to keep my tears at bay, but those fuckers were not in a listening mood. Maybe if I had Mr. Easton tell them to stop, they’d listen.
“I don’t think any part of your body has the capability of listening to me.” Mr. Easton picked me up like a child.
I wrapped my legs around him, burying my face in his neck, and allowed the tears what they wanted. Escape. Escape on Mr. Easton’s very expensive shirt.
Without pushing me off him, Mr. Easton maneuvered me around, fishing out his wallet and tossing money on the bar.
Mr. Easton carried me out like I weighed nothing. I whimpered into his neck, the alcohol not appreciating the movement. Although I was oddly comforted by the gruff asshole holding me. When he settled me into the passenger seat, going so far as to buckle me in, I cried even harder.
“Please stop crying. You’ve already ruined my shirt. I don’t want you ruining my upholstery.”
I hiccupped, “You aren’t really an asshole.”
“Oh, no. I am the biggest asshole there is. Do not mistake what I’m doing for kindness. Cole has a letter opener I’ve been wanting from him for a long time, and with this babysitting duty it will finally be mine.”
I shook my head.
Why was it so heavy?
“I don’t believe you.” My neck no longer wanted to hold up my gigantic head.
Maybe I had an allergic reaction where it caused my head to inflate.
I rested my newly gigantic head on the seat, giving my poor neck a break.
“You should, it belonged to the Pirate Queen. Legend has it that she drew blood from the notorious Pirate Hades with it. I want that letter opener. So be a good girl until Jules can take over.”
“Okay, that’s kinda cool,” I admitted. “I did a project on the Pirate Queen in elementary school.”
“So, you’ll behave?” he asked with a tinge of hope in his voice.
I nodded my overly large head, too drunk to speak.
“Good girl.”
The shiver that rippled down my spine had nothing to do with the alcohol coursing through my system.
Note to self, being called a good girl does it for you.
Sweat beaded across my forehead. Heat boiled my blood, and everything I had at the bar must have been scared of the dark because it wanted to see the light.
“Do not puke in my car,” Mr. Easton warned, rolling down my window. “You can puke, but please wait until I get you home.” His pleading made me smile.
Unable to answer him, I put my head out the window and realized why dogs did it.
It is delightful.
The sweat dried, leaving my face feeling grainy, but at least I didn’t feel as if the contents of my stomach were revolting with the wind keeping me company. My heavy head pressed against my forearm, the cold air slapping my gritty face.
This is my new low.
“Do you need help getting into your house?” Mr. Easton’s words crashed into me. I had drifted off, something I’d done twice now in his car.