Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(94)

“I want you to go get me the right f*cking drink!” he seethes. The waiter stares at him, blinking, I think a little stunned and waiting for everyone to laugh like this is a big joke. Only nobody does. I notice Graham’s friends have all moved on and are talking with each other, ignoring this display, which makes me think this is probably normal behavior. “I mean…am I wrong?”

He looks to me for support, and I shake my head slightly, my palms instantly sweating. I want to leave. I want to leave right now.

He turns to one of his friends, nudging him on the arm and motioning to the drink, now held out between them by the waiter.

“Dude, that’s crap, right? I ordered a full f*cking drink, and this * brings me this. I’m not paying for that. Am I wrong?” His voice is carrying over most of our corner of the bar now, and several people are looking at us. I notice the waiter straighten his posture, rolling his back muscles, gearing up for whatever’s next.

Graham’s friend chuckles and laughs out yeah in response before returning to the conversation he was in before.

“I’ll bring you a new one,” the waiter finally says, muttering to himself as he turns away.

Graham’s eyes drift hazily over to me, and his stare is intense and instantly causes my body to heat up and my back to sweat.

“Did that embarrass you?” he asks.

It takes me a moment to catch up to what he said; I’m too busy wondering if it’s a joke, or if he’s teasing. His mouth never cracks a smile, though.

“A little,” I admit.

He holds his stare on me, then lets his eyes trail down my body in a way that makes me clench my knees together and flex my leg muscles, ready to kick and scream and run.

“It shouldn’t embarrass you,” he says.

I don’t make eye contact. As I step closer to the table and run my finger along my drink as a distraction, I shrug and whisper “Maybe.”

I can feel his stare on me, and it makes me mindful of every movement I make. I pull my small purse up to the tabletop and take out my compact, looking in the mirror even though I have no need. I clip it shut again, then move my phone to a place I can view it inside my purse. I slide the screen on and check the time, not quite midnight. I groan inwardly at the thought that I might be stuck here for a while.

My finger is poised over the contacts button when I feel Graham’s breath at my neck.

“You calling that Harper dick?” he questions. There’s a bite to his tone.

“I was checking the time and just making sure my roommate didn’t need anything,” I smile.

I pretend.

His heavy stare lands on me again, and somehow he feels bigger. His shirt is opened at the top, his tie now loose on both sides. It’s funny how this look can be both sexy and repulsive—depending on who and when.

“You know I’m going to fight him?” he asks.

I pinch my brow, wondering what he means. Is he seriously challenging Andrew to a duel? I’m not sure who I’d bet on if he was. I know who my heart would pick.

“I was the Sigma national champ, last year. I’m trying to stay in fighting shape. It’s my hobby, and when I found out Harper liked to box, I thought…well…” he says, his lips slightly curled into a grin.

“I don’t really care for boxing,” I say, wishing the liquid in my glass were water so I could drink it.

Graham’s stare lingers a moment or two longer, then he steps past me to join his circle of friends at the next table, putting an arm around one of the guys. I turn so my back is to him, and I breathe out slowly, clutching my purse in my hands again, convincing them not to tremble. I glance around the bar, to the dozens of plush seating areas with well-dressed couples nestled close to each other, groups of women taking shots and laughing loudly, men running fingers up girls’ legs, teasing them, flirting—fondling.

My head feels fuller with every beat of the music, and it’s making it hard to see. I trace the walls of the interior, searching for anything that might get me through the next thirty minutes, my gut sinking, knowing it will probably be an hour. When I finally spot an open sofa, I move to it, my purse in my hands, my drink on the table behind me. I tuck myself into the corner cushions, then look over the other women sitting near me so I can emulate their behavior. All I want to do is fit in long enough to leave.

I settle on curling one leg under the other, then I pull my purse close, next to me and remove my phone, opening the text box. I think about texting Lindsey for a rescue, but then I remember Andrew—he’s telling her.

I can’t call Lindsey. She might not even come after he tells her everything.

My eyes fall to my lap and I slip my phone back into my purse. Graham finds me a few minutes later, and my stomach sinks when I see him hold a finger up to a friend and weave through the people to get closer to me. The heat of him next to me as he sits down close on the sofa repulses me.

“You want me to take you home?” he asks.

Yes! Yes, this is what I want. He’s not a bad guy, and he gets it. Oh thank god.

I nod and apologize. “I’m just not feeling very well,” I say.

He smiles, but briefly, knocking back the rest of his drink—the new one brought to him a few seconds ago from the waiter he badgered and bullied—then plunks his glass down on the small metal table in front of us.