Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(93)

“Hey, I just wanted to stop by this place. A few of the guys invited us. We won’t stay long. That okay?” He’s asking, but not really. I nod and smile, and he leaves his glare on me a little longer than comfortable.

“So how well do you know that Andrew guy?” he asks. My guard goes up, and inside, I start to rewind everything I said tonight. Andrew has been the only thing on my mind—his letters, what he whispered when I left my apartment, the last week I’ve experienced with him. I’ve been checking my phone obsessively to see if Lindsey’s texted me about their talk, but so far she hasn’t. I’m pretty sure I haven’t said anything about him aloud.

“I don’t know. That’s hard to say. I mean, we were friends in high school,” I say, my answer purposely vague, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to divulge. Graham keeps his stare on me, the same look as before—it makes me shiver. His lip quirks up on one side, and he pulls a cigarette from a silver case he slides out of his back pocket.

I watch him light it, then glance to the windows around us, all of them up. I roll mine down for the sheer need of fresh air. The driver does the same.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I say. I work hard to keep my face from souring. I get the sense Graham has had his fill of disapproval for tonight—I think maybe that’s what his brashness is about.

He takes a long drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in for a second or two, letting it swirl out around his teeth, rushing around his beard and filling most of the cab. That beard seemed so sexy when I first saw it, but now…I don’t know.

“You know he has a record?” Graham asks me, his eyes back on mine, studying me and watching carefully for me to give something more away. I shrug and look out the window, wishing I were headed home rather than somewhere deep into the city.

“I heard something about that. He was a kid, though, so that stuff doesn’t stay on your permanent record or anything,” I say, still averting my eyes. I can feel him looking at me, and several seconds pass before he reacts to my response.

“Guess so. But shit like that still gets out…” he trails off.

I shut my eyes, but keep my face toward the window, not indulging him any more in this topic. I’m saved when the cab pulls abruptly next to some club named Primal. There’s a line out the door, and the light strobing from the open doorways makes me dizzy. I dig my heels in as we step from the car, not wanting to go inside, but Graham simply tugs my arm a little harder.

My head rattles with the thumping of the music, and it takes us several minutes to slide through the packed bodies grinding along the main floor. We finally make it to a small tabletop against the wall in the back where two guys raise their hands and bump fists with Graham, half hugging him as he steps up close enough. They eye me over his shoulder, and the one closest to me smiles.

“I’m Brody,” he says, reaching out his hand. “I sort of met you a couple weeks ago. I went with Graham to that dinner for his mom.”

He looks familiar, and I’m honestly just thankful that he’s kind. It’s going to make however long I have to be here bearable.

“Nice to see you again. Emma,” I shout into his ear. He nods and gives me a thumbs up, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t hear a word I said.

“Whatcha drinking?” he asks.

“Water’s fine,” I say, looking around at the table loaded with drinks. Graham already seems to have one in his hand, and he glances at me, the same suspicious look he was giving me in the car.

When the waitress comes, my new friend Brody orders me a water, but Graham steps in, putting his hand on his friend’s chest, his fingers splayed as he pushes Brody a little off balance.

“She’ll have one of those vanilla pineapple things,” he says. The waitress darts her eyes to me, and Graham morphs into his suave self, sliding his arm around me affectionately and leaning his head down to look me in the eyes. “It’s sweet. You’ll like it, I promise.”

I nod okay, even though I don’t really want it, and my inside self screams at me. Graham leaves his arm around me as he begins talking with his friends, and I do my best to ignore the possessive feel of it. It’s nothing like the way Andrew’s touch feels—nothing gentle or seductive or special. It’s barbaric feeling, his arm heavy and hot, and even though I haven’t tried to step out of his grasp, I can tell he wouldn’t let me.

A guy brings our drinks over on a platter, and when he hands Graham his, I notice that Graham spends several long seconds looking at it while the waiter hands out everyone else’s. I take mine, and after a tiny sip, slide it onto the table in front of me. I’m going to do my best to turn it into something that’s forgotten.

Just as the waiter turns to leave, Graham grabs hold of his forearm, stopping him from leaving. The waiter regards his hand, then looks over Graham, I think trying to decide who would hit the other harder in a stand-off.

“I ordered a full drink, and you brought me this,” Graham says, a slight slur to his drunken speech. He’s still very confident sounding, but sloppy around the edges.

The waiter looks down at the drink in Graham’s hand. It’s maybe an inch and a half from being full, a sip short at the most.

“I’m not sure what you want me to do,” the waiter says. I notice Graham’s jaw twitch and his neck tense as he shoves the drink into the waiter’s hand.