Eric roars, so loudly I pull the phone even farther from my ear.
Which is when A.J. takes it from my hand.
“You have two seconds to calm your shit down, brother, before I make Chloe give me your address so I can come and calm it down for you.”
His voice is low and dangerous. A thrill of pure fear zings through me. On the other end of the line, there’s crackling silence, until Eric finds his tongue.
“Whoever you are, you just threatened an officer of the law. You’d better hope we don’t meet face to face. Brother .”
“I have a feeling we will,” says A.J., looking at me. He hangs up.
He sets my phone into my shaking hand. “Your boyfriend’s a cop?”
I nod.
His eyes are black. His mouth is set into a hard line, harder even than the muscles in his jaw. “He have a temper?”
“He’s never hit me, if that’s what you mean.”
He growls, “Plenty of ways to mistreat a woman that don’t involve putting your fists on her.”
My head is pounding. I decide this day has gone on long enough; it’s time to leave. I try to stand, but stagger as my foot catches on the leg of the stool I’ve been sitting on. A.J. is out of his seat, righting me with his hand under my elbow, faster than my eyes can track the movement.
“Easy, Princess.” He chuckles. “We don’t want you to fall and bang up that pretty face.”
I stare up at him. Though his face is shadowed beneath the hood of the sweatshirt, I can tell he’s wishing he could take that back. I’m not going to let him.
“You think I’m pretty?”
His lips thin. He looks away, motioning for the waiter to bring the check. He mutters, “Never said I didn’t.”
“Oh, right.” Tipsy, I laugh. “You only said you hated me. And that I was stuck-up. And frigid. By the way, I’d like to take this opportunity to correct you about something: I would know a dick if it hit me in the face. I can’t claim to ever have had that experience, but I can say with all confidence that if a dick suddenly flew out of nowhere and whacked me across the nose, I would absolutely know it was a dick.” I hiccup. “One thousand percent sure. The hairy balls alone would be a dead giveaway.”
Apparently deciding not to wait for the check, A.J. reaches into his pocket, produces his wallet, and throws a wad of cash on the table, all without releasing my arm. I’m impressed. I remind myself he must have perfected the art of handling women in various stages of inebriation. Picturing a chorus line of half-drunk prostitutes kicking their legs in the air as A.J. rushes to keep them all from falling, I giggle.
“How much did you have to drink before you got here?”
His voice is stern. He gazes down at me as if he’s very disappointed in my behavior. I sheepishly admit I had two or three glasses of red wine with dinner.
“So. Two or three glasses of wine, two glasses of champagne, and two glasses of whiskey. You’ve had at least six, possibly seven drinks in the past few hours. Four of them in the last thirty minutes. Two of those double whiskeys. That about right?”
I close one eye because the room has, just slightly, begun to spin. “I have many talents, Mr. Edwards, but I’m not all that great with math.” Another hiccup. “I’ll have to take your word on this one.”
“Let’s go, Princess.” Without waiting for a reply, A.J. half drags, half carries me to the door.
“Where are we going?” I cry, alarmed. I’m even more alarmed by what he says next.
“Home. You need to go to bed.”
A .J.’s car is nothing like what I expected. Because it’s not a car. It’s a motorcycle. He informs me he doesn’t own a car.
Item number four thousand seven hundred eighty-two on the list of things normal people own that A.J. Edwards doesn’t.
“I can’t ride on that!” I stare at the ginormous black Harley parked in the back lot. It glitters with chrome and menace. Under the flickering fluorescent lamplight of the parking lot, it seems to leer at
Which is when A.J. takes it from my hand.
“You have two seconds to calm your shit down, brother, before I make Chloe give me your address so I can come and calm it down for you.”
His voice is low and dangerous. A thrill of pure fear zings through me. On the other end of the line, there’s crackling silence, until Eric finds his tongue.
“Whoever you are, you just threatened an officer of the law. You’d better hope we don’t meet face to face. Brother .”
“I have a feeling we will,” says A.J., looking at me. He hangs up.
He sets my phone into my shaking hand. “Your boyfriend’s a cop?”
I nod.
His eyes are black. His mouth is set into a hard line, harder even than the muscles in his jaw. “He have a temper?”
“He’s never hit me, if that’s what you mean.”
He growls, “Plenty of ways to mistreat a woman that don’t involve putting your fists on her.”
My head is pounding. I decide this day has gone on long enough; it’s time to leave. I try to stand, but stagger as my foot catches on the leg of the stool I’ve been sitting on. A.J. is out of his seat, righting me with his hand under my elbow, faster than my eyes can track the movement.
“Easy, Princess.” He chuckles. “We don’t want you to fall and bang up that pretty face.”
I stare up at him. Though his face is shadowed beneath the hood of the sweatshirt, I can tell he’s wishing he could take that back. I’m not going to let him.
“You think I’m pretty?”
His lips thin. He looks away, motioning for the waiter to bring the check. He mutters, “Never said I didn’t.”
“Oh, right.” Tipsy, I laugh. “You only said you hated me. And that I was stuck-up. And frigid. By the way, I’d like to take this opportunity to correct you about something: I would know a dick if it hit me in the face. I can’t claim to ever have had that experience, but I can say with all confidence that if a dick suddenly flew out of nowhere and whacked me across the nose, I would absolutely know it was a dick.” I hiccup. “One thousand percent sure. The hairy balls alone would be a dead giveaway.”
Apparently deciding not to wait for the check, A.J. reaches into his pocket, produces his wallet, and throws a wad of cash on the table, all without releasing my arm. I’m impressed. I remind myself he must have perfected the art of handling women in various stages of inebriation. Picturing a chorus line of half-drunk prostitutes kicking their legs in the air as A.J. rushes to keep them all from falling, I giggle.
“How much did you have to drink before you got here?”
His voice is stern. He gazes down at me as if he’s very disappointed in my behavior. I sheepishly admit I had two or three glasses of red wine with dinner.
“So. Two or three glasses of wine, two glasses of champagne, and two glasses of whiskey. You’ve had at least six, possibly seven drinks in the past few hours. Four of them in the last thirty minutes. Two of those double whiskeys. That about right?”
I close one eye because the room has, just slightly, begun to spin. “I have many talents, Mr. Edwards, but I’m not all that great with math.” Another hiccup. “I’ll have to take your word on this one.”
“Let’s go, Princess.” Without waiting for a reply, A.J. half drags, half carries me to the door.
“Where are we going?” I cry, alarmed. I’m even more alarmed by what he says next.
“Home. You need to go to bed.”
A .J.’s car is nothing like what I expected. Because it’s not a car. It’s a motorcycle. He informs me he doesn’t own a car.
Item number four thousand seven hundred eighty-two on the list of things normal people own that A.J. Edwards doesn’t.
“I can’t ride on that!” I stare at the ginormous black Harley parked in the back lot. It glitters with chrome and menace. Under the flickering fluorescent lamplight of the parking lot, it seems to leer at
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