Fumbled (Playbook #2)(10)

Worth a try.





Four




As it turns out, Phil finds desertion to be the worst offense a person can commit. I guess he was in ROTC in high school or something. And even though he decided to defend our country by providing a high-quality night out instead of joining the military, he still stands strong behind these convictions.

I just hope he gets over this quickly because I’ve been here for three hours and I’ve made half of what I normally make in one. And without the perk of good tips, I’m about 1.26 seconds away from throwing my stilettos at him and quitting.

I’m also stuck with the most obnoxious bachelor party in the history of bachelor parties. Who has a flipping bachelor party on a Tuesday?

Bachelor parties on any given day mean drunk, dumb assholes. Tonight you can add loud and too handsy—which I do not handle well—to the list. But considering I almost lost my job yesterday, it’s in my best interest not to cause a scene tonight, something Jacob, who I have not-so-lovingly dubbed Best Man Douchebag, is making very difficult.

“Hey, baby,” he slurs. “Why don’t you show us some of your moves?”

“I’m not a performer.” I take a small step backward and point to the stage only ten feet away. “I think there are a few chairs open if you’d like me to go hold one for you.”

“I know where the stage is. I’m drunk, not blind, woman.” Jacob tries to wiggle his eyebrows at me, but it looks like he might be having a stroke. “Which is why I wanna see yooouuu dance.”

“Sorry, I just deliver drinks.” I also suffer from an ailment of zero rhythm, but that’s really not the point at all. I turn to head back to the bar to get the order of tequila shots Groom Douchebag called for.

These jerks better tip well.

I manage to take only two steps before a sweaty hand wraps around my arm and pulls me back.

“Don’t be like that.” His hot breath burns my skin and turns my stomach. “Just one little dance, maybe in the back room.”

Disgusting.

I pull away, but before I can make my escape, his arm is around my midsection, pulling me back until his erection is pressing against my back.

Don’t get fired. Don’t get fired. Don’t get fired.

I remind myself of all of Ace’s activities and the back-to-school shopping I’ll have to do soon as I search the room for Dane or Jerome or any of the flipping bouncers we have scattered throughout the club.

Of course, when I actually need one of them, they’re nowhere to be found.

Who’s deserting who now, Phil?

Dick.

Best Man Douchebag moves his hand up my arm and to my neck and I’m almost positive he’s leaving a snail’s trail of slime in his path. “Your skin is so soft,” he yells, like his mouth isn’t mere inches from my ear. “And I like your hair.”

Then he does it. He buries his fingers in my hair and asks, “Is it yours?”

Oh no.

Hell no.

I raise my foot up while at the same time twisting sideways, bringing my elbow forward, preparing to break his foot and hopefully injure an internal organ or two.

But before I can strike, commotion in front of us causes him to drop his grip on me.

“No fucking way!” the one guy in the group who’s managed to keep a semblance of self-respect yells. “TK Fucking Moore.”

Oh, give me a break!

My eyes snap to him, giving him the dirtiest look I can manage.

I hold his eye contact, not wanting to be the one who looks away first, but while I’m being stubborn, I notice a few unwanted details. Details like how, God help me, he really is the perfect male specimen. His long hair is pulled back into a bun—which, over the years, has become my panty kryptonite—and his beard, though still thick, looks like it’s been trimmed since last night. His tight black sweater outlines every hard ridge on his chest and his jeans are snug enough to showcase his muscular legs but loose enough to seem as if he’s not trying to look like sex on a stick.

Ugh!

Since when do quads turn me on?

Why? Why couldn’t he be balding with a beer belly from a drinking problem?

But even looking so damn fine, why the hell is he here? To screw with me . . . again? I drop a hand to my thigh and pinch it as hard as I can to remind myself not to shove my heel right up his ass.

“Are you shitting me?” Jacob, who seconds before wouldn’t leave me alone, stiff-arms me out of his way. “You’re the man! The Mustangs gonna bring it home this year?”

“That’s the plan,” TK mutters, his stupid, gorgeous eyes never leaving mine. “Mind if I steal your waitress for a second?”

“Not a problem, man. Don’t blame you, she’s hot as fuck.” Jacob grabs my arm—again!—and guides me toward TK, but this time his fingers bite into my skin a little deeper. It’s not that the pain is excruciating, but it does surprise me, which makes me flinch. And when I flinch, Jacob’s alcohol-glazed eyes narrow in on his grip and a smile starts to form on his psychotic lips.

Best Man’s not looking at my face, so he misses it when I try to murder him with a look and the way my lips pull back, revealing all my teeth, like a dog about to attack. TK, however, does not.

With a speed and strength I didn’t know he was capable of, TK moves me to his side and then his warm, not sweaty, and—begrudgingly—comforting hand is wrapped around mine.