Page 38 of The Long Way Home
My fist curls, and I have to force it open. “I am the guy who’s gonna break your hand if you keep touching her chair.”
His hand disappears instantly.
Rachel rolls her eyes and gives me an unimpressed look. “Rhett, come on. I’m not a child. He was just talking to me.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I saw how he was talking, Rach.”
Her eyebrows pull together, and out of defiance, she tries to reach for the shot again, but I slide it away from her.
She glares at me. “That’s mine.”
“Not anymore.”
She huffs while standing up. “You can’t boss me around just because you’re older.”
“I’m bossing you around because you’re drunk,” I say. “And because every guy in this room, including whatever the fuck his name is, is staring at you like they’re waiting for you to fall over.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but she doesn’t get the chance.
“Dude, she wants to stay. Maybe you should be the one to leave.”
I turn my head slowly until I’m looking right at him.
“Listen, I was being nice earlier. Real nice. Gave you the whole speech about breaking your hand and everything. That was your out, Buddy. Because here’s the problem—I’m tired, I’m sober, and now you’re really pissing me off.”
He swallows before I can continue.
“So let me make this simple, whatever-your-name-is.” I take a step forward, and he steps back. “Rachel has zero interest in you. Not a little. Not maybe. Not even in an alternate universe where you don’t dress like a tax refund. You never had a shot with her.”
His jaw twitches, and I think he is considering saying something else.
“And if you open your mouth one more time,” I continue, as a smile dances across my face, “I promise you, I will grab you bythat ugly-ass shirt you’re wearing and put you through this wall so fast you’ll be begging me—not Rachel, me—to let her leave.”
His face drains of color. He shuts up instantly and walks in the other direction.
I turn back to her.
“Now, let’s go,” I tell her. “I think we’re done here.”
“I’m not—”
“Rachel.” I lean closer. “I will toss your ass over my shoulder and carry you out of here, if I have to.”
She blinks at me, stunned. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
She is drunk enough that she considers it as she stares at me with her lips parted. Then she sighs the way she always does right before she surrenders.
“Fine,” she grumbles. “But I’m only leaving because this party sucks.”
“Finally, something we can agree on.” I slide my hand to her waist, pulling her in close as I guide her through the crowd—partly to steady her, mostly so no one else gets any ideas.
Her steps are uneven, and twice she nearly trips. I catch her easily, each time earning a quiet huff of annoyance.
“Stop hovering,” she mutters.
“Stop tripping.”
